W.E.B. Griffin - The Corps 03 - Counterattack

That’s bullshit,Howard thought.

"How are you doing?" Joe asked.

"Well, I seem to be getting used to it," Stecker said. "At least I don’t salute lieutenants anymore."

Joe chuckled, as he knew he was expected to. And he knew that Jack NMI Stecker had purposefully misunderstood him, in order to change the subject from the death of his son.

It doesn’t matter,Howard thought. I had to ask, and I asked, and he knows I’m sorry as hell about his kid. That’s enough.

"How was the flight? Aside from the coffee?" Stecker asked.

"It was a fancied-up Mariner. Real nice. They put a lieutenant colonel off it to put me on."

"Is that so?"

"What’s going on?"

"That airplane used to belong to the Rear Admiral at Guantanamo," Stecker said. "They took it away from him to use it as a courier plane between here and Pearl."

"That’s not what I was asking," Howard said.

"I know," Stecker chuckled. "Well, here we are. Home sweet home."

Howard saw that they were pulling into a dirt parking lot beside three newly built frame two-story buildings. There was a plywood sign reading,bachelor officers’ quarters.

It was the first time Joe Howard had ever been in Officers’ Country for any purpose. For what he understood was good reason, these were off limits to enlisted men. If it had been anyone but Captain Jack NMI Stecker, he would have asked what he was doing here now.

Stecker’s quarters inside were not fancy-the opposite, in fact. The studs in the wall were exposed. There were no doors on the closets, but just a piece of cloth hung on a wire. There was a bed, an upholstered chair, a folding metal chair, and a chest of drawers. In a small alcove there was a desk and another folding metal chair.

Only a few things in the room had not been issued. There were graduation pictures of Stecker’s sons: one of Jack Junior in his brand-new ensign’s uniform, taken at Annapolis; and another of Second Lieutenant Richard S. Stecker, USMC, his dress blue uniform making him stand out from his fellow graduates at the Military Academy at West Point. There was also a picture of Stecker and Elly and the boys when they were just kids. It was taken on a beach somewhere, and everybody was in bathing suits.

There was a radio, a hot plate with a coffeepot, and a small refrigerator. And that was it.

"You better take a shower," Stecker said. "You got a towel?"

"Yeah."

"And your other greens?" Stecker asked. "They going to be pressed?" He nodded toward Howard’s bag.

"They should be all right," Joe said.

"I’ve got an iron if they’re mussed."

Howard took his carefully folded greens from the bag. They would be all right, even up to Jack NMI Stecker’s high standards.

"You going to tell me what’s going on?" Howard asked.

‘Take a shower and a shave," Stecker said. "Right now, you’re probably the sloppiest sergeant on the base."

"In other words, you’re not going to tell me."

"When you’re shipshape," Stecker replied.

When Joe Howard came out of the shower, a tin-lined cubicle shared with the next BOQ room, Stecker was sitting slumped in the one upholstered chair, holding a beer in his hands.

Joe’s eyebrows rose.

"You can have one later," Stecker said. "First let me tell you about Colonel Lewis T. Harris."

"Lucky Lew? He’s here? I thought he was in Iceland."

"He’s here. Scuttlebutt-I believe it-says he’s about to make general. But right now he’s Chief of Staff of the 2ndJoint Training Force."

"What’s that got to do with me?"

"Well, among other things, he’s the president of the Officer Selection Board for the West Coast."

"I don’t even know what that is," Howard confessed.

"The Corps is pretty hard up for officers. We don’t have enough right now, and the way they’re building the Corps up, that situation will get worse."

"So?"

"When you’re finished dressing-you better take a brush to your shoes, while you’re at it-you’re going to go up before him. We’re desperately short of officers who know anything about small arms beyond what we taught them in Basic School at Quantico. I’ve recommended you for a direct commission as a first lieutenant."

"Jesus Christ!"

"You may not get it. You may have to settle for being a second lieutenant, but that’s not so bad. Scuttlebutt has it again that from here on in, promotion will be automatic after six months."

How the hell can I be an officer? You can’t be a Marine officer if you get hysterical and hide behind a counter when you see somebody get killed.

"I don’t know what to say," Howard said.

"When you’re in there with Colonel Harris, what you say is ‘Yes, Sir,’ ‘No, Sir,’ ‘Thank you, Sir,’ and ‘Aye, aye, Sir.’"

"I meant about becoming an officer."

"Don’t you, of all people, start handing me that crap," Stecker said.

"What crap?"

"Why do you think I had you brought here from Hawaii, for Christ’s sake, so that you could go work in a battalion small-arms locker someplace? Goddamn you, don’t you dare tell me, "Thanks, but no thanks.’"

"A year ago, I was a corporal. I don’t how to be an officer. Captain, I just don’t think I could handle it."

"If I handed you a list with the names of every officer you know on it, you could go down it and say, ‘This one is a good Marine officer,’ and "That one is a feather merchant.’ Do what you’ve seen the good officers do."

"And what if I fuck up? What if I can’t?"

"Then we’ll give you your stripes back," Stecker said. "For Christ’s sake, do you think I would have recommended you if I didn’t think you could pass muster? And anyway, you’ll be an ordnance officer; you won’t have to worry about running a platoon."

"It just never entered my mind, is all... ." He stopped, then started to tell Stecker about what had happened at Pearl, but realized he couldn’t. He added lamely, "I almost said ‘Gunny.’ "

"I get into something sometimes and answer the phone that way," Stecker said. "Usually with some real asshole calling." He laughed. "You know those indelible pens with the soft tip you use to write on celluloid overlays?" Howard nodded.

"Harris came in my office when I first got here, told me to give him my hand, and when I did he wrote C-A-P-T on the palm. Then he said, ‘Every time you answer your phone, Captain Stecker, read your hand before you speak.’ He said he was getting tired of explaining to people that I was retarded."

"Really?"

"Yeah. Harris is one of the good guys. We were in France together. In Domingo, too. Nicaragua. We go back a long way. I had a hell of a time getting that stuff off my hand. It’s really indelible."

"You sure you’re doing this because you think I’d make a passable officer?"

"Or what?"

"Because we’re friends."

"Thatpisses me off," Stecker snapped.

"Sorry, I didn’t mean it that way. But, Jesus, this came right out of the goddamned blue!"

"You’ll be able to handle it, Joe," Stecker said. Maybe as an ordnance officer. Just maybe. Maybe they’ll assign me here, or at Quantico. Someplace in the States, some rear area. I know weapons, at least. I could earn my keep that way.

"When is all this going to happen?"

"We’ll go back to the office. You’ll see Harris. If you don’t fuck that up, you’ll go into ‘Diego to the Navy Hospital and take what they call a ‘pre-commissioning physical.’ That’ll take the rest of the day. In the meantime, we’ll get all the paperwork typed up, there’s a lot of it. Jesus... you do have your records?"

"In the bag."

"OK. Come back to the office tomorrow morning, we’ll get you discharged. And then you go over to the Officers’ Sales Store and get your uniforms. Colonel Harris can swear you in after lunch."