W.e.b. Griffin - The Corps II - CALL TO ARMS

Zimmerman lit a Camel with his Zippo, and then took a deep pull at his beer mug.

"What do you mean, real poop?"

"He really kill a bunch of Italian Marines with that little knife of his?"

"Two Italians," Zimmerman said. "He killed two Italians. Stories get bigger and better every time they get told."

"You was there?"

"I was there," Zimmerman said.

"Mean little fucker, isn't he?" Gunnery Sergeant Esposito said, approvingly. "I heard fifteen, twenty Italians. I knew that was bullshit."

"It was twenty Chinamen," Zimmerman said. "Not Italians, Chinamen."

"No shit?"

"Okay, we're out of school, right?" Zimmerman said. He waited for Esposito to nod his agreement and then went on. "McCoy and I were buddies in the Fourth. We had a pretty good rice bowl going. We ran truck supply convoys from Shanghai to Peking. We got pretty close. One time the convoy got ambushed. Chinese bandits, supposed to be. Actually the Japs were behind it. McCoy killed a bunch of them-twenty, anyway, maybe more-with a Thompson." "No shit?" Esposito said, much impressed. "You don't want to get him mad at you, Esposito," Zimmerman said. "You was asking about the boat-"

"Yacht, is what the brother says," Esposito said. "And the rich broad who lets him drive her LaSalle convertible."

"One thing at a time… Christ, what do you guys do, spend all your time gossiping about your officers like a bunch of fucking women?"

Esposito gave Zimmerman a dirty look, but didn't say anything.

"First of all," Zimmerman went on, "the LaSalle is McCoy's. He come home from China with a bunch of money-"

"Where'd he get it?"

"He's a goddamned good poker player," Zimmerman said. "And on top of that, he was lucky, real lucky, a couple of times."

Esposito nodded his acceptance of that. "So he bought the LaSalle; that's his," Zimmerman said. "And so we both wound up here. And like I said, we were buddies. But he's now an officer, so he can't come in here, and I can't go to the officers' club. So he has a girl friend. A real nice girl, Esposito, you understand? I personally don't like it when you say 'shack job.' And she lives on a boat, not a yacht, a boat. And McCoy tells her about me and his kid brother, and she says bring us to dinner. So we go. And that's it. We had dinner and drank some beer, and then McCoy drove us back out here."

"I figured it was probably something like that," Esposito said. "His brother's got a real big mouth." "I saw that myself," Zimmerman agreed. "And he's a mean sonofabitch, too," Esposito said. "I told you; he really beat the shit out of a couple of my kids." "I don't want to put my nose in where it ain't welcome,"

Zimmerman said. "But, maybe, if you would like, I could talk to the brother."

"I don't know," Esposito said, doubtfully. "You think he'd listen to you? He sure as shit don't listen to me when I try to talk to him."

"You start beating up on him, you're liable to lose your stripes," Zimmerman said.

"Well, shit, Zimmerman, if you think you could do any good," Esposito said.

"It couldn't hurt none to try," Zimmerman said.

"What the hell," Esposito said. "Why not? And what about the Thompson?"

"You take the old one to the armory, tomorrow," Zimmerman said. "And tell the armorer I said to swap it for you."

"You want to split another pitcher of beer?'

"Naw, hell, I got to get up in the wee hours. But thanks anyway."

Ten minutes later, Gunnery Sergeant Ernst Zimmerman was outside the enlisted beer hall, known as the Slop Chute.

There was a cedar pole ten feet from the entrance. Seventy-five or so knives were stuck into it. Zimmerman had heard about the cedar pole, but it was the first time he had seen it. There was a regulation that the Raiders could not enter the Slop Chute with their knives. So rather than going to his barrack or tent to leave his knife there, some ferocious Raider had stuck it in the cedar pole and reclaimed it when he left the Slop Chute. The idea had quickly caught on.

"Dodge fucking City," Zimmerman muttered under his breath, disgustedly.

He pushed the door open and walked inside, grimacing at the smell of sour beer, a dense cloud of cigarette smoke, and the acrid fumes of beer-laden urine.

"Hey, Mac, no knives," a voice behind him said. Zimmerman turned and saw there was a corporal on duty at the entrance. Zimmerman didn't reply. Finally, the corporal recognized him. "Sorry, Gunny," the corporal added. "Didn't recognize you at first."

Zimmerman looked around the crowded room until he spotted PFC Thomas McCoy, who was sitting with half a dozen others at a crude table drinking beer out of a canteen cup.

He walked across the room to him.

"Hey, whaddasay, Gunny!" one of the others greeted him, cheerfully. "You want a beer?"

"I want to see McCoy for a minute, thanks anyway," Zimmerman said.

"What the hell for?" PFC McCoy replied. He was a little drunk, Zimmerman saw.

Zimmerman, on the edge of snapping, "Because I said so, asshole! On your feet!", stopped himself in time and smiled. "Colonel Carlson's got a little problem he wants you to solve for him."

The others laughed, and a faint smile appeared on McCoy's face. He got to his feet.

"This going to take long?" he asked.

"I don't think so," Zimmerman said.

He motioned for McCoy to go ahead of him, and then followed him across the room and out of the building. McCoy went to the cedar post, jerked one of the knives from it, and slipped it into the sheath on his belt.

"Where we going?" he asked.

"Right over this way," Zimmerman said, "it's not far."

Behind the Slop Chute building was a mixed collection of other buildings, some frame with tar-paper roofs, some Quonsets, and some tents. Here and there a dim bulb provided a little light.

Zimmerman went to the door of one of the small frame buildings, took off his dungaree jacket and his hat, and hung them on the doorknob.

"What's this, Gunny?" McCoy asked, suspiciously.

"You know what it means, you fucking brig bunny," Zimmerman said. "It means that right now you can call me 'Zimmerman,' 'cause right now, I ain't a gunny. I just hung my chevrons on the doorknob."

"What the hell is wrong with you?" McCoy asked.

"Nothing's wrong with me," Zimmerman said. "What's wrong is wrong with you, asshole."

"I don't know what the fuck you're talking about, Gunny, but if you think I'm going to get in it with you and wind up back in the brig, you have another think coming."

"You're not going back to the brig," Zimmerman said, moving close to him. "Having his brother in the brig would embarrass Lieutenant McCoy, and you've embarrassed him enough already, brig bunny."

"I wish I believed that," McCoy said. "I would like nothing better than to shove your teeth down your throat."

"Have a shot," Zimmerman said. "Look around, there's nobody here. And your brother's an officer. He wouldn't let them put you in the brig on a bum rap."

"Fuck you," McCoy said.

"I thought that you were supposed to be a tough guy," Zimmerman said. "I guess that's only when you're picking on kids, right?"

McCoy balled his fists, but kept them at his side.

"Come on, tough guy," Zimmerman said. "What's the matter, no balls?"

McCoy threw a punch, a right, with all his weight behind it.

Zimmerman deflected the punch with his left arm and kicked McCoy in the crotch.

McCoy made an animal sound, half scream and half moan, and fell to the ground with his hands at his crotch and his knees pulled up.

"You cocksucker," he said indignantly, a moment later. "You kicked me."

Zimmerman kicked him again, in the stomach.

"That's for calling your brother's lady friend a 'shack job,'" Zimmerman said, conversationally. He kicked him again. "And that's for calling me a 'cocksucker.' You got to learn to watch your mouth, brig bunny."