W Griffin - The Corps I - Semper Fi

When the target appeared, the marker was black, just outside the bull's-eye.

"That's a little better," Stecker said.

"I should have split the peg with that one," McCoy said, furiously.

By that he meant that he was confident of his shot, knew where it had gone.

That's either bravado, or he means it. And there's only one way to find out.

"Get out of your sling," Stecker ordered. "And hand me the rifle."

As McCoy pulled the leather sling off his arm, Stecker turned to the training NCO and signaled that he wanted a clip of ammunition. When McCoy handed him the Garand, Stecker put the strap on his own arm and squirmed into the correct position.

"Call my shot," he said to McCoy. "I'm going to take out your two-hundred-yard target number."

McCoy looked at him in surprise. So there would be no confusion about which was the correct target, there were markers at each distance with four-inch-high numbers painted on short, flat pieces of wood. They were not designed as targets.

Stecker himself wondered why he was going to fire at the target number, then realized that he thought somebody might be fucking around with McCoy's target in the pits. If that was the case, which now seemed likely, he would have the ass of the pit officer.

You just don't fuck around in the pits. The Marine Corps does not think rifle marksmanship is an area for practical jokes.

Stecker lined up his sights and squeezed one off.

"You took a chip out of the upper-right corner, Captain," McCoy reported.

Maggie's Drawers flew in front of McCoy's target.

Stecker fired again.

"You blew it away, Captain," McCoy reported. Stecker snapped the safety in front of the trigger guard on, then slipped out of the sling.

"The piece is loaded," he said. "Be careful. Have a shot at the target marker. Number eighteen."

"Aye, aye, sir," McCoy said.

The target number disappeared with McCoy's first shot.

"Nineteen," Stecker ordered.

McCoy fired again. Half of the target number disappeared when the bullet split it.

"Do you think you can hit what's left?" Stecker asked.

He saw Maggie's Drawers being waved furiously in front of the target.

McCoy fired again, and the narrow half remaining of the target number disappeared.

"At targets of opportunity, fire at will," Stecker ordered, softly.

McCoy fired the remaining two rounds in the eight-round en bloc clip at other target numbers. He did not miss.

"Insure that your weapon is empty, and leave the firing line, bringing your weapon with you," Stecker said calmly, reciting the prescribed litany.

By the time they were both on their feet, the range officer and the range NCO were standing beside the training NCO. Having witnessed not only a captain blowing away the target numbers, but apparently encouraging a trainee to do likewise, they were more than a little uneasy.

"This young man has a faulty weapon," Captain Stecker announced. "I think he should be given the opportunity to refire for record."

"Aye, aye, sir," the range officer said.

The range sergeant took the Garand from McCoy and started to examine it.

"Don't you think I know a faulty weapon when I see one, Gunny?" Captain Stecker asked.

"Yes, sir, no offense, sir."

"I realize that tomorrow is the first day of Thanksgiving liberty," Captain Stecker said, "but as we want to give this young man every opportunity to make a decent score, I think we should have the pit officer back, too. Who is he?"

Stecker had decided that the pit officer, whoever he might be, would never forget that Marines don't fuck around the pits after he had spent the first day of Thanksgiving liberty personally hauling, marking, and pasting targets for a Platoon Leader Candidate. That made more sense than in writing him an official letter of reprimand, or even turning him in to the battalion commander.

"Lieutenant Macklin, sir," the range officer said.

"I don't think I know him," Stecker said.

"He's the mess officer, Sir. He volunteered to help out in the pits," the range officer said.

And then Stecker saw understanding and then bitterness in McCoy's eyes.

"Do you know Lieutenant Macklin, McCoy?" Stecker asked.

"Yes, sir, I know him."

Stecker made a come-on motion of his hands.

"We were in the Fourth Marines together, sir," McCoy said.

"I see," Stecker said. I'll find out what the hell that is all about. "I think you can get on with the firing, Lieutenant." Stecker said.

"Aye, aye, sir," the lieutenant said. And then when Stecker was obviously going to walk away, he called attention and saluted.

Stecker went back to his jeep and was driven off.

Since there was no point in his firing anymore with a faulty weapon, Platoon Leader Candidate McCoy and Platoon Leader Candidate Pickering were put to work policing brass from the firing line until that relay had finished. Then Platoon Leader Candidate McCoy served as coach for Platoon Leader Candidate Pickering while he fired for record. Platoon Leader Candidate Pickering qualified as "Expert."

(Two)

After leaving McCoy, Captain Stecker went to Battalion Headquarters, where he examined the personal record jacket of First Lieutenant John R. Macklin, USMC. The personnel sergeant was a little uneasy about that-personal records were supposed to be personal-but he wouldn't have dreamed of telling Master Gunnery Sergeant Stecker to mind his own business, and Gunny Stecker was now wearing the silver railroad tracks of a captain.

Then Captain Stecker got back in the jeep and had himself carried to the Platoon Leader Course orderly room.

Word had already gotten back that Captain Stecker had been out on the range, and that he had ordered the re-firing for record of one of the candidates. And that the pit officer be in the pits when he did so. The sergeant-major had been sort of a pal before Stecker took a commission, and he knew there was more to it than he had been told.

He came to his feet and stood at attention when Stecker walked in.

"Good morning, sir," he said.

"As you were," Stecker said.

"How may I help the captain, sir?" the sergeant-major said.

"You wouldn't happen to have a cup of coffee, Sergeant-Major?"

"Yes, sir," the sergeant-major said.

"And if you have a minute, Sergeant-Major, I'd like a word with you in private."

"We can use the commanding officer's office, sir," the sergeant-major said. "He went out to check on the range, sir."

A corporal followed the two of them into the commanding officer's office with two china mugs of coffee, and then left, closing the door behind him.

"Tell me about a kid named McCoy, Charley," Stecker said.

"That's the one was a China Marine?" Stecker nodded. "What do you want to know, Jack?"

"How come he's been sanding decks?"

"I don't know," the sergeant-major said. "He fucked up, I guess."

"What do you know about Lieutenant Macklin?"

"Not much, Jack," the sergeant-major said, after thinking it over. "The cooks hate his ass. But that always happens when there's a new broom. And he's an eager sonofabitch. The scuttlebutt is he's got a lousy efficiency report and is trying to make up for it."

"So he volunteered to be pit officer?"

"And he takes Saturday inspections for the officers. That kind of stuff."

"I want a look at McCoy's records," Stecker said.

"Anything in particular?"

"Just say I'm nosy," Stecker said.

The sergeant-major went into the outer office and returned with a handful of manila files.

"He's more of a fuck-up than I thought," the sergeant-major said. "Jesus, he's been on report at every fucking inspection. He's given lip to the DIs. Even Macklin wrote him up twice for failure to salute. He'll be scrubbing decks again over the Thanksgiving liberty. He's right on the edge of getting his ass shipped out of here. He's going before the elimination board (A board of officers charged with determining whether or not a platoon leader candidate has proved himself unfit or unworthy of being commissioned) on Friday."