W Griffin - The Corps I - Semper Fi

There was nothing wrong with Pickering's uniform or equipment. But a pin on one of McCoy's collar point "oxes" (Platoon Leader Candidates wore brass insignia, the letters OC (hence "Ox"), standing for Officer Candidate, on shirt collar points and fore-and-aft hats in lieu of insignia of rank) had come off, and the ox was hanging loose. Pickering fixed it.

What the fuck difference does it make? McCoy thought bitterly. This is the last time I'll wear it anyway. I'll go before the elimination board in dungarees.

Corporal Pleasant blew his whistle and all the freshly bathed and shaved young gentlemen rushed out onto the company street, where they formed ranks. Corporal Pleasant then issued the appropriate order causing the young gentlemen to open ranks so that he could more conveniently inspect their shaves, the press of their green uniforms, and the cleanliness of their Garand rifles.

They would be inspected again, a few minutes later, by the company commander and gunnery sergeant, but Corporal Pleasant wanted to make sure they were all shipshape before that happened.

To McCoy's surprise, Pleasant not only found nothing wrong with his appearance, shave, or shine, he didn't even inspect his rifle when he stepped in front of him. He probably figures he doesn't have to bother anymore. The company commander and the gunnery sergeant made their appearance at the end of the company street, and one by one, the drill instructors of the four platoons of platoon leader candidates called their troops to order.

McCoy's company commander, a lieutenant, spoke to him as he inspected his rifle.

"I understand you had some trouble with this today, McCoy?" "Yes, sir."

"And I also understand the stoppage has been cleared?"

What the fuck is he talking about? Stoppage?

"Yes, sir."

The company commander moved on. The sergeant-major looked right into McCoy's face, but said nothing, and there was no particular expression on his face.

When the four platoons had been inspected, the officers took their positions, and the gunny read the orders of the day.

The next day was Thanksgiving (Until December 1941, Thanksgiving was celebrated on the third Thursday of November), the Gunny announced, as if no one had figured that out for himself. Liberty for all hands, with the exception of those individuals requiring extra training, would commence when the formation was dismissed. The next duty day, Friday, would be given over to the purchase of uniforms. Those individuals who were to appear before the elimination board would not, repeat, not, order any officer-type uniforms until the decisions of the elimination board were announced. Liberty would begin on Friday, until 0330 hours the following Monday, as soon as the platoon leader candidates had arranged for the purchase of officer-type uniforms. There would be no, repeat, no, liberty for anyone called before the elimination board.

The gunny then read the list of those who required extra training, and then the list of those to face the elimination board.

And then he did an about-face and saluted the company commander, who returned the salute, ordered him to dismiss the formation, and walked off.

The gunny barked, "Dis-miss!"

Pick Pickering punched McCoy's arm.

"See? I told you you weren't gonna get boarded!"

And neither, McCoy thought, did I hear my name called for extra training. And they didn't say anything about refiring for record, either.

What the fuck is going on?

He thought it was entirely likely that the gunny had "forgotten" to read his name, so that when he failed to show up to sand the deck, or to refire for record, or for the elimination board itself, they could add AWOL to everything else.

He saw Pleasant going behind the building to get into his Ford. He ran after him. Pleasant rolled down the window. "Something I can do for you, Mr. McCoy?" "What the fuck is going on, Pleasant? Why wasn't my name called for extra training and for the elimination board?" "Because you're not on extra training, Mr. McCoy, and because you're not going before the elimination board. You are on liberty, Mr. McCoy.

"You going to tell me what's going on?" "Very well, Mr. McCoy. It's very simple. In ten days they are going to pin a gold bar on your shoulder. Between now and then, the gunny and I will do whatever we can to make things as painless as possible for you."

"I thought you wanted to bust me out of here." "Oh, we do," Pleasant said. "Nothing would give us greater pleasure. But then, we know better than to fuck with a rabbi."

"What rabbi?"

"Is there anything else, Mr. McCoy?" Pleasant said. "If not, with your permission, sir, I would like to start my Thanksgiving liberty."

"Fuck you, Pleasant," McCoy said. Pleasant rolled up the window and drove off. Pick Pickering was waiting for McCoy in the barracks. "Well?"

"I'm on liberty like everybody else," McCoy said. "And no elimination board."

"Great!" Pickering said, and punched his arm. "Let's go find a cab and get the hell out of here." "Out of here, where?"

"In compliance with orders from the United States Marine Corps, I am going to buy some officer-type uniforms."

"What the hell are you talking about? We're not supposed to buy uniforms until Friday." "Right," Pickering said. "Well?"

"I'm learning," Pickering said. "You will recall that they didn't say anything about where we were to buy the uniforms. Just that we buy them on Friday." "So?"

"On Friday, I am going to buy uniforms. In Brooks Brothers in New York."

"What's Brooks Brothers?"

"It's a place where they sell clothing, including uniforms."

"Jesus!" McCoy said.

"And when we're not buying our uniforms, we can be lifting some skirts," Pickering said. "The only problem is finding a cab to get us off this fucking base to someplace we can catch a train to New York."

"We don't need a cab," McCoy said. "I've got a car."

"You have a car? Here?" Pickering asked, surprised.

McCoy nodded.

"Mr. McCoy," Pickering said. "The first time I laid eyes on you, I said, 'Now, there is a man of many talents, the sort of chap it would be wise to cultivate in the furtherance of my military career.' "

McCoy smiled.

"And will this car of yours make it to New York? Without what I have recently learned to call 'mechanical breakdown'?"

"It's a LaSalle," McCoy said.

"In that case, if you pay for the gas," Pickering said, "I will take care of the room. Fair?"

"Fair," McCoy agreed.

(One)

The Foster Park Hotel

Central Park South

New York City, New York

2320 Hours 19 November 1941

Pick Pickering was at the wheel of the LaSalle when it pulled up in front of the marquee of the Foster Park Hotel. They had gassed up just past Baltimore and changed places

there.

McCoy had gone to sleep thinking about Ellen Feller, about her probably being somewhere in Baltimore, and about what had happened between them in China-memories that reminded him of the very long time since he'd had his ashes

hauled.

The doorman stepped off the curb, walked out to the driver's side, opened the door, and said, "Welcome to the Foster Park Hotel, sir," before he realized that the driver was some kind of a soldier, a Marine, and an enlisted man, not even an officer.

"May I help you, sir?"

Pickering got out of the car.

"Take care of the car, please," he said. "We'll need it sometime Sunday afternoon."

"You'll be checking in, sir?"

The question seemed to amuse the Marine.

"I hope so," he said. "The luggage is in the trunk."

He turned back to the car.

"Off your ass and on your feet, McCoy," he said. "We're here."

McCoy sat up, startled, looked around, and as almost a reflex action, opened his door and got out.