Griffin W.E.B. - The Corps 09 - Under Fire

"Captain? You in there, sir?"

Hart recognized the IandI's voice.

"Come in, Peterson," Hart called.

"Good evening, sir," First Lieutenant Paul T. Peterson, USMC, USNA `46, a slim, good-looking twenty-five-year-old, said as he came through the door.

Hart could see that the platoon sergeants were forming the men on the glossy varnished floor.

"How goes it, Paul?" Hart asked.

"I don't know," Peterson said, turning from closing the door. "This Korea thing..."

"Yeah," Hart said.

"What do you think?" Peterson asked.

"I think we're going to get involved over there," Hart said.

"You hear anything, sir?"

Hart shook his head, "no."

But the White House-Jesus Christ, The White House!! !- was looking for Killer McCoy, and the Killer hadn't come by St. Louis with his wife as he said he was going to.

The Killer, the last I heard before he called and said he was coming to St. Louis, was stationed in Tokyo. As an in-telligence officer.

And now the White House is looking for him!

Korea is right next door to Japan, and if anything is go-ing to happen over there, the Killer will have a damned good idea of what and when. And probably why.

Hart was a cop, a good cop, a good detective, and he had heard from his father, also a cop, and now believed that good cops developed a special kind of intuition.

He intuited that there was going to be a war in Korea, despite what the President had said about it being a "police action," and that meant that Company B, 55th Marines, was going to be called to active duty.

"Neither have I," Peterson said. He looked at Hart. "Do you think there's anything we should be doing?"

Jesus Christ, you're supposed to be the professional Ma-rine. Why ask me?

"I've been giving it some thought, Paul," Hart said. "Yeah, there is. And I'm not sure you're going to like what I've decided to do."

"Sir?" Peterson asked, at exactly the same moment as there was another knock on the glass of the door.

"We're ready, skipper," First Sergeant Andrew Mulligan called.

"Right," Hart called, and started toward the door.

The moment he came through the door, Mulligan bel-lowed, `Ten-hut on deck," and Company B, 55th Marines, lined up by platoons, popped to attention. Lieutenant Pe-terson stood in the open door.

Hart, trailed by Mulligan, marched across the varnished floor until he was in the center of the formation. He did a left face, so that he was facing the executive officer, First Lieutenant William J. Barnes, who had been a technical sergeant in World War II, and commissioned after he had joined the organized reserve.

Hart barked: "Report!"

Lieutenant Barnes did an about-face and barked, "Re-port!"

The platoon leaders, standing in front of their platoons, did an about-face and barked, "Report!"

The platoon sergeants saluted their platoon leaders, and reported, in unison, "All present or accounted for, sir!"

The platoon leaders did another about-face, saluted Lieutenant Barnes, and announced, in unison, "All present or accounted for, sir."

Lieutenant Barnes did an about-face and saluted Captain Hart.

"Sir, the company is formed. All present or accounted for, sir."

Hart returned the salute.

"Parade Rest!" he ordered.

The company assumed the position of Parade Rest, standing erectly, feet twelve inches apart, their hands folded stiffly in the small of their backs.

The entire little ballet, Captain Hart judged, had been performed perfectly, even by the kids who hadn't earned the right to wear the Marine Corps globe and anchor by go-ing through boot camp.

Hart looked at his men, starting at the left and working his way slowly across the ranks and files.

Oh, to hell with it!

"Stand at ease," he ordered.

That was not the next step in the prescribed ballet, and he saw questioning looks on a lot of faces.

"You did that pretty well," he said. "Only two of you looked like cows on ice, and you know who you were."

Fifty men decided the skipper had detected a sloppy movement on their part, and vowed to do better the next time.

"There will be a change from the published training schedule," Hart announced. "Based on my belief that there are several things always true about the Marine Corps, first that there is always a change in the training schedule, usu-ally unexplained."

He got the laughter he expected.

"The second truth is that every Marine is a rifleman."

His tone was serious, and he knew he had their attention. "The third truth, and you may find this hard to believe, is that company commanders are sometimes wrong. I really hope I'm wrong now, and I want to tell you that I don't know a thing more about the possible mobilization of the Marine Reserve-of Baker Company-than you do."

There was absolute silence in the room as they waited for him to go on.

"But I have the feeling we're going to be called. I don't know where we'll go, or what we'll do, but we're the Ma-rine Corps reserve, and the reserve gets called in time of war. I hope we're not in a war in Korea, but we may be, and it is clearly our duty to prepare for that." He paused.

"Every Marine is a rifleman. My drill instructor taught me that when I went through boot camp at Parris Island. And during the war, I saw how right he was, how important it is to the Corps. So the one thing 1 know we can do to prepare for being mobilized is to make sure that every Ma-rine in Baker Company is not only a rifleman, but the best rifleman he can be." He paused again.

"The training schedule is therefore changed to rifle marksmanship. In the first hour of training tonight, you will draw your piece from the armory, clean it, inspect it, make sure it's as right as it can be. The following three hours will be devoted to dry firing, et cetera. I have arranged for us to use the St. Louis Police Department fir-ing range. It's only a hundred yards, but it'll have to do. There will be a special drill next Saturday. You will report here, draw your weapons, and be taken by truck to the range. Those who will be working at your civilian jobs on Saturday, give your name to your platoon sergeant, and ei-ther your platoon leader will, or I will, call your employer and explain the importance of this." He looked again at the faces of his men. Well, I've done it. Peterson will shit a brick. There will be no deviations from the prescribed training schedule without prior permission from battalion.

Special drill sessions will not be held without prior per-mission from battalion.

Ammunition will not be drawn from sealed armory stocks without prior permission from battalion.

The use of civilian and/or local governmental firing ranges is forbidden unless specifically directed by HQ USMC.

"Company, ten-hut!"

Baker Company snapped to attention.

"I will see the officers and senior noncoms in my office immediately following the formation," Captain Hart or-dered his executive officer. "Dismiss the company for training."

"Aye, aye, sir," Lieutenant Barnes said, and saluted.

Captain Hart returned the salute, did an about-face movement, and marched across the varnished wood to his office.

Lieutenant Peterson was standing just inside the office.

"Questions, Lieutenant?"

"The colonel's going to shit a brick," Lieutenant Peter-son said.

"I suppose he will," Captain Hart said. "Sometimes you have to do what you think is right even if it gives the entire Marine Corps diarrhea."

"Yes, sir," Lieutenant Peterson said. "Sir, permission to speak?"

"Granted."

"You didn't specify a time for the special drill on Satur-day. May I suggest the company report at 0430? That will give us time to get to the range by first light."

"Make it so, Lieutenant."

"Aye, aye, sir."

[THREE]

SUITE 401