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

Rocky quickly realized that telling the personnel clerk that he could type had been a mistake. He had joined the Corps to kill Japanese, to pay the buckteethed bastards back for Pearl Harbor and Wake Island, not to sit at a fucking typewriter in a fucking office, filling out fucking requisition forms.

At the reveille formation one day, there had been a call for volunteers to serve in something called the 2nd Separate Battalion. The first sergeant told them the 2nd Separate Battalion was going overseas as soon as they finished their training. So Rocky volunteered. That was what he wanted, getting overseas, and out from behind the typewriter.

"Well, lad," the first sergeant of Baker Company said, smiling at him the day he reported aboard, "I'm damned glad to see you. You can really type forty-five words a minute?"

A minute after that, not smiling, the first sergeant of Baker Company pointed out to PFC Rockham that he was in the Marine Corps, and the Marine Corps didn't give a flying fuck what he wanted to do. He would do what the Corps told him to do, and if he was smart, he would do it wearing a fucking smile. He was now Baker Company's company clerk, and that was fucking if.

When Rocky wrote home that he had been made a corporal, he didn't add that he was the company clerk of Baker Company, 2nd Raider Battalion, USMC; just that he was in the Raiders and hoped to soon be killing Japs.

Rocky stopped the jeep, and walked over to the lieutenant who was taking the march for the Old Man. He saluted and delivered his message.

"Go get him, Gunny," the lieutenant ordered.

Gunny Esposito turned around.

"McCoy!" he bellowed. "Up here! On the double!"

PFC Thomas M. McCoy, still breathing heavily, still red-faced, pushed himself off the ground and trotted to where Gunny Esposito stood with the lieutenant and Rocky Rock-ham.

"Throw your gear in the vee-hicle," Gunny Esposito said, "and go with Corporal Rockham."

"Where'm I going, Gunny?"

"In the vee-hicle with Corporal Rockham," Gunny Esposito explained.

When they were bouncing back down the hill, McCoy asked Rockham where he was going.

"Able Company," Rockham said. "You been transferred."

"What the fuck for?"

"Who the fuck knows?" Rockham asked rhetorically. "First sergeant give me your service record, told me to collect you and your gear and take you over to Able Company."

PFC McCoy naturally concluded that Zimmerman, that fat, mean cocksucker, was responsible. He had seen Zimmerman three, four times since the night Zimmerman had taken him from the Slop Chute and worked him over. And it was always the same thing. Zimmerman would motion for him to come over to wherever he was standing.

"I hear you been keeping your mouth shut and your nose clean," Zimmerman had said. "Maybe you aren't as dumb as you look, brig bunny."

When Rockham dropped him off at the Able Company orderly room, with his sea bag, his records, and all his gear, McCoy put the bag and his field gear by the side of the door, and then he complied with the order painted on the door to "KNOCK, REMOVE HEADGEAR, WAIT FOR PERMISSION TO ENTER."

"Come!" a voice called.

McCoy stepped inside.

"You're McCoy," the company clerk announced. The company clerk was a little fucker with glasses.

"I was told to report here," McCoy said.

The first sergeant looked up from his desk. He was a mean-looking sonofabitch, a tall, skinny Texan.

"You got your gear, I hope?" the first sergeant asked. When McCoy nodded, he motioned to McCoy to hand him his service record.

He opened the envelope, took out all the records it contained, and picked out the service record itself, leaving the clothing forms and the shot records and all the other documents on the table. Then he stood up and walked through a door under a sign reading "MERWYN C. PLUMLEY, 1ST Lt, USMC, COMMANDING," carrying the service record with him.

He was inside maybe two minutes before he opened the door and stuck his head out.

"McCoy, report to the commanding officer."

McCoy walked to the open door and followed the protocol. He rapped twice on the doorjamb with his knuckles, waited until he was told to come in, and then he marched in. He stopped eighteen inches from Lieutenant Plumley's desk, coming to attention; and then, looking six inches over the officer's head, he barked, "Sir, PFC McCoy reporting to the company commander as ordered, sir."

"Stand at ease, McCoy," Lieutenant Plumley said. McCoy spread his feet and put his hands in the small of his back. Now he could look at Lieutenant Plumley. When he did, he saw that Plumley was examining him very carefully.

"Gunnery Sergeant Zimmerman has been talking to me and to First Sergeant Lowery about you, McCoy," Lieutenant Plumley said.

Well, that fucking figures!

"When the lieutenant talks to you, McCoy, you say 'Yes, sir,'" First Sergeant Lowery snapped.

"Sorry, sir," PFC McCoy said.

"Tell me, McCoy," Lieutenant Plumley said, "why you did so badly with the BAR in Baker Company?"

What the fuck is that all about?

"Sir, I qualified with the BAR," McCoy said.

"Marksman," Lieutenant Plumley said. "Only Marksman."

Record firing scores qualified a marine as Marksman, Sharpshooter, or Expert. Marksman was the lowest qualifying score, and extra pay was given those qualifying as Expert.

"Sir," McCoy blurted, "the BAR I had was a piece of shit, one of them worn-out ones we got from the Army."

"And you think you could do better if you had a better weapon?"

"Yes, sir," McCoy said.

"So does Gunnery Sergeant Zimmerman," Lieutenant Plumley said.

"He's sure big enough," First Sergeant Lowery said. There was a faint hint of approval in his voice. McCoy looked at him in surprise.

"Gunnery Sergeant Zimmerman, as you know, McCoy," Lieutenant Plumley said, "has been temporarily assigned other duties. But when we deploy, he will come back to the company. He is naturally interested in what he will find here when he comes back."

"Yes, sir," McCoy said.

"We're short a couple of squad leaders," Lieutenant Plumley said. "And when the first sergeant and I discussed this with Gunnery Sergeant Zimmerman, he recommended that you be transferred from Baker Company and be given one of those billets."

"Sir?" McCoy was now completely baffled. He was sure he hadn't heard right.

"Gunny Zimmerman has recommended that you be given one of the squad-leader billets. It carries with it a promotion to corporal," Lieutenant Plumley said. "That's why I was curious when I saw that you'd only made Marksman when you fired for record."

"Yes, sir," McCoy said.

"If the first sergeant could arrange for you to requalify, with a weapon in first-class condition, do you think you could do better than Marksman?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, then, we'll do it this way. We will assign you temporarily as a BAR fire-team leader," Lieutenant Plumley said. "Sergeant Lowery will arrange for you to requalify. If you make Sharpshooter-I would hope Expert-I'll give you your corporal's stripes. Fair enough?"

"Yes, sir."

"Do you have anything else, First Sergeant?"

"No, sir."

"Then that will be all for now, Sergeant," Lieutenant Plumley said. "I would like a word with McCoy alone."

"Aye, aye, sir," First Sergeant Lowery said, and walked out of the office, closing the door behind him.

Plumley looked at McCoy.

"There's something about me I think I should tell you, McCoy," he said. "I don't listen to scuttlebutt. I don't like scuttlebutt."

'Yes, sir."

"If someone comes to me with a clean service record, so far as I am concerned, he has a clean record. So far as I am concerned, you have reported aboard with a clean record. Do you take my point?"

"Yes, sir," McCoy said.

Lieutenant Plumley smiled and reached across the desk with his hand extended.