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

"And that's necessary? His following you around?"

"That was the general's idea, Colonel," Rickabee said, and stood up. "Shall we have our lunch? He won't be long, and I've got a busy afternoon."

From Colonel Wesley's silence during lunch, Lieutenant Colonel Rickabee decided that Wesley was displeased with him. He had probably been a little too flip for the colonel, failed to display the proper respect for a senior member of the Palace Guard. But there was nothing that could be done about that now.

He was wrong. When Colonel Wesley returned to Headquarters, USMC, and to the office of Major General Lesterby, he told Lesterby that Rickabee might just be the answer to "the Carlson problem."

"He had a specific suggestion?"

"Yes, sir, that he arrange to have Carlson run over with a truck."

"You think he was serious?"

"Sir, I don't know."

"It may come down to that, Tom."

(Three)

The Brooklyn Navy Yard

Brooklyn, New York

0400 Hours, 6 January 1942

Two noncommissioned officers of the United States Marine Corps, Staff Sergeant C. (for Casimir) J. Koznowski and Sergeant Ernst W. "Ernie" Zimmerman, stood on the cobblestone street before an old brick barracks, shifting their feet and slapping their gloved hands against the cold. Koznowski was twenty-seven, tall, and slim. Zimmerman was stocky, muscular, round faced, and twenty-three. There were two "hash marks"-red embroidered diagonal bars each signifying the satisfactory completion of four years' service-on the sleeve of Koznowski's overcoat, and one hash mark on Zimmerman's.

Sergeant Zimmerman's face was pale, and his uniform seemed just a hair too large for him. Sergeant Zimmerman had two days before been released from the St. Albans Naval Hospital where he had been treated for malaria. He had been certified as fit for limited service and was being transferred to Parris Island for duty in his military specialty of motor transport sergeant.

Two corporals came around the corner of the brick barracks building, and when they saw Koznowski and Zimmerman, broke into a trot to join them.

"Where the fuck have you two been?" Staff Sergeant Koznowski demanded. It was not really a question, but rather an expression of disapproval, and no answer was expected or given.

"Go get 'em," Staff Sergeant Koznowski said to one of the corporals, and threw a clipboard at the other.

Both corporals ran into the building. There was the blast of a whistle, and lights were on, and the sound of muffled shouts.

Less than a minute later, encouraged by curt shouts of "Move it! Move it! Move it!" the first of 106 young then began to pour out of the building. They were in civilian clothing. The day before, or two days before, they had been civilians. They were now recruits of the United States Marine Corps. And they were about to be transported, under the command of Staff Sergeant Koznowski, Sergeant Zimmerman, and the two corporals, to the United States Marine Corps Recruit Depot, Parris Island, South Carolina, for basic training.

One of the corporals stood on the street. He grabbed the first four then to reach him by the shoulders and placed them one behind the other. Then he got the others to form ranks on them, sometimes by pointing, sometimes by shoving them into place.

Finally, they were all lined up in four ranks.

"Ah- ten-hut!" the corporal with the clipboard barked.

One hundred and five of the 106 young then stood as stiff as they knew how. The 106th young man continued to try to tie the laces of his right shoe.

Staff Sergeant Koznowski walked quickly to him, standing before him until the shoe was tied and the young man stood erect..

"Got it all tied now?" Koznowski asked.

"Uh- huh," the young man replied. He was now wearing a nervous smile.

"When you are in ranks, and someone calls 'ah-ten-hut,' you come to attention right then," Koznowski said. "Not when it's convenient for you. You think you can remember that?"

"My shoe- "

"I asked, can you remember that?" Koznowski snapped.

"Yeah, sure."

"And you never, never, never say 'yeah, sure' to a sergeant," Koznowski said.

The young man was clever enough to sense that whatever he said next was going to be the wrong thing, so he said nothing.

"Take off the shoe," Koznowski said, conversationally.

The young man looked at him in disbelief.

"Take off the fucking shoe!" Koznowski shouted, his face two inches from the young man's face, spraying him with spittle.

The young man did as he was ordered, and finally stood up again, holding the shoe in his hand.

"Call the roll, Corporal," Staff Sergeant Koznowski ordered.

"Listen up, you people," the corporal with the clipboard said. "I will call off your last name, and you will respond with your first."

The roll was called.

The corporal turned and saluted. "The recruit draft is formed, sir," he reported.

Koznowski returned the salute, and then barked, "At ease."

Next he delivered a short speech. He told them that there was clear proof that God did not love him, for he had been assigned the unpleasant task of moving their miserable asses from the Brooklyn Navy Yard to Parris Island, South Carolina, where an attempt would be made to turn their miserable asses into something resembling Marines.

Before they could leave the Navy Yard, Staff Sergeant Koznowski announced, four things had to be done. First, they would be fed. After which they would run, not walk, back to the barracks. Second, their blankets, sheets, pillow cases, and mattress covers would have to be turned in. Third, the barracks and the head which they had managed to turn into a fucking pig sty in a remarkably short time would have to be returned to the immaculate state in which they had found it. Finally, they would have to wash and shave and do whatever else they could to make themselves as presentable as possible for the walk between the buses at the entrance to Pennsylvania Station and the train itself.

It was going to be humiliating enough, Staff Sergeant Koznowski said, for himself and Sergeant Zimmerman and Corporals Hayworth and Conn to be seen shepherding so many assholes around without the assholes looking like they had just crawled out of the fucking sewer.

They had, he informed them, precisely twenty-eight minutes and twenty seconds to accomplish breakfast and get back here.

"Are there any questions?" Staff Sergeant Koznowski asked.

A tall, rather thin young man in the rear rank had raised his hand above his shoulders.

Koznowski looked at him. "Anyone tell you to put your hand up? You want permission to leave the room so you can take a piss?"

"Sergeant," the tall thin young man said, nervously, "you asked if there were questions."

"I didn't mean it," Staff Sergeant Koznowski said, pleased with himself. "Sergeant Zimmerman, take over."

With that, Staff Sergeant Koznowski marched off in the direction of the mess hall, leaving Sergeant Zimmerman in charge.

Like many-perhaps most-Marines, Zimmerman was ambivalent about the hoary Marine Corps tradition of shitting all over recruits until they had passed through either the Parris Island or San Diego Recruit Depots. He understood the philosophy, which was to break a man down and then rebuild him as a Marine; and he knew that it worked. It had turned him into a Marine. But he was personally uncomfortable with shitting on people; he could not have been a drill instructor himself, and he had been made uncomfortable when he had learned that he would be taking a draft of recruits to Parris Island.

When Koznowski had turned the corner, Zimmerman said, "Finish buttoning your clothes."

The young man holding his shoe in his hand looked at him questioningly. Zimmerman shook his head no.

When they had time to tuck their trousers in their pants and button their jackets and overcoats, Zimmerman called them to attention and marched them to the mess hall.