W Griffin - The Corps I - Semper Fi

"What did you do. Corporal, fuck up in China?" he said, when McCoy gave him his orders.

"Not as far as I know. Gunny," McCoy said. "I'm being transferred in grade."

"Well, we got sixteen sailors headed for Portsmouth," he said. "Mostly repeat ship-jumpers, one deserter, one assault upon a commissioned officer, one thief, and three fags. You, plus a second lieutenant, a staff sergeant, and two other corporals are going to take them there. And all the time you thought the Corps didn't love you, right?"

"There's no way I can get out of this?"

"You're fucked, Corporal," the Gunny said. "You just lucked out.''

In addition to the other corporals, the sergeant, and the lieutenant, the guard detail consisted of seven privates and PFCs. The other corporals and the sergeant were at least ten years older than McCoy. The lieutenant was McCoy's age, a muscular, crew-cut, tanned man who-to prove his own importance, McCoy thought-went right after McCoy.

"You're a little young to be a corporal, aren't you? Have you had any experience with a detail like this?"

"No, sir."

"You've qualified with the shotgun?"

"No, sir."

"Why not?"

"I don't know, sir."

"What's your skill?"

"Motor transport, sir."

"They must be pretty generous with motor transport promotions in China," the lieutenant said.

"I guess so, sir."

"Frankly, I'd hoped to have a more experienced noncom," the lieutenant said. "One at least who has qualified with the shotgun."

"I'm an Expert with the Springfield and the.45, sir. I think I can handle a shotgun."

"You can't handle a shotgun, Corporal, until you're qualified with the shotgun," the lieutenant said, as if explaining something to a backward and unpleasant child. "I'll have the gunnery sergeant arrange for you to be qualified."

"Aye, aye, sir."

A corporal drove McCoy to the range in a pickup truck. The same corporal watched him fire ten brass-cased rounds of OO-buckshot from a Winchester Model 1897 12-gauge trench gun at a silhouette target at fifteen yards. He then drove him back to the brig and told McCoy it was SOP to clean a riot gun whenever it had been fired. That meant it had to be detail stripped… McCoy couldn't just run a brass brush and then a couple of patches though the bore.

As careful as McCoy was, he managed to spot his shirt, tie, and trousers with bore cleaner, which meant that he might as well use them for rags or throw them away, because no matter how many times you washed them, you couldn't get bore cleaner out of khakis.

When he reported back to the lieutenant, the lieutenant told him that he had a soiled uniform.

"Aye, aye, sir, I'll change it."

"When you do change it, Corporal, make sure you have a shirt with regulation chevrons."

"Sir?"

"Get rid of those Tijuana stripes, Corporal."

McCoy decided to take a chance; he had nothing to lose anyway.

"Sir, embroidered-to-the-garment chevrons are regulation in China."

"You're no longer in China, Corporal," the lieutenant said. "And I don't want to debate this with you. I expect to see you here at 0730 tomorrow in the correct uniform."

"Aye, aye, sir."

"And, Corporal, I've inquired; and regulations state that at my discretion the noncoms may be armed with the pistol. Since you say you are an Expert with the pistol, I think you had better draw one rather than arm yourself with a trench gun."

"Aye, aye, sir," McCoy said.

The 47th Motor Transport Company at Philadelphia, McCoy thought, had to be an improvement over what he was doing now. Otherwise he was going to belt some chickenshit sonofabitch like this before his discharge came and get dragged to Portsmouth with a trench gun pointed at his back.

He went to the clothing store and bought three shirts and had regulation chevrons sewn to their sleeves. And then he fought down the temptation to get a hotel room in Diego. The way his luck was running lately, he'd get in a fight or something and get his ass in a crack.

The duty NCO at the brig found a cot for him, and he slept there.

In the morning, the lieutenant gave everybody detailed instructions and a little pep talk, then they went to the brig gate to take over the prisoners. The prisoners were in blue denim, with a foot-high "P" stenciled on the knee of the trousers and on the back of the jacket. They each carried a small cotton bag, which contained a change of underwear and socks, another set of "P"-marked denims, a toilet kit, less razor (since attempted suicide was a possibility, especially among the 'deviates,' they would shave themselves under the supervision of their guards), and their choice of either New Testament or Roman Catholic missal.

They were handcuffed: the right wrist of one man to the left wrist of the man beside him. And their ankles were chained, which made them walk in a shuffle.

On the brig bus, the lieutenant informed the guard detail that if a prisoner escaped, Marine Corps regulations stated that the guard responsible for that prisoner would be confined in his place.

McCoy knew that was bullshit. But he wondered if the lieutenant really believed it or whether it was just one more instance of an officer believing the troops in line were so stupid he could tell them anything he wanted.

The brig bus delivered them to the San Diego railroad station.

A U.S. Army Troop Car had been made available to the Marine Corps for the trip. It was attached to the train immediately behind the locomotive.

McCoy marched his guard detail-their riot guns at port arms-and the fourteen handcuffed and shackled prisoners through the crowded concourse and down the platform to the Army Troop Car.

He tried to tell himself that all he was doing was his duty, that these guys had fucked themselves up, that they had no one to blame but themselves for the mess they were in. But it didn't work. None of the fourteen prisoners was old enough to vote. Most of them looked not only frightened and humiliated but insignificant-like little boys. And so did most of their guards.

He was going to have to have a quiet word with the guards on his shift to make sure that one of the little boys didn't without goddamned good reason turn his shotgun on another of the little boys.

McCoy was relieved when they were all inside the Army car. He could not ever remember being so uncomfortable-so ashamed of himself was more like it-than when he had marched this pathetic little band through the station.

The sergeant showed up just before the train pulled out to show McCoy and the other corporals where he and the lieutenant would be sleeping and to explain the arrangements the lieutenant had come to with the conductor regarding chow. The dining car would make available "sandwich meals" for the prisoners, which would have to be picked up by the guard detail.

"When things settle down, maybe you corporals can get a meal in the dining car, but for now the lieutenant says he doesn't want you to leave the car."

The lieutenant made four ritual appearances every day, at 0600, 1200, 1800, and 2400 hours. He stayed about ten minutes, making sure that every prisoner had eaten, washed, and shaved, and had washed his previous day's uniform and underclothing.

McCoy managed to eat in the dining car only once. The waiters made it perfectly clear by lousy service and exaggerated courtesy what kind of shit they considered the guards to be. He didn't need any more reminding.

He took every other meal in the U.S. Army Troop Car, which meant that he ate nothing but sandwiches and coffee all the way across the North American continent.

It wasn't what he had dreamed about on the Pacific: a plush seat in a Pullman car and meals and drinks in the club car, as America the Beautiful rolls past the windows.

But that, of course, was fantasy. This was reality. This was the fucking United States Marine Corps.