lightning flashes on their sleeves, huh?”
“They call them ‘sparks.’”
“Yeah, I’d like that. But Christ, I’d never pass the test.”
“Rub your nuts for luck.”
A voice boomed from the next tent.
“Hey, you guys, knock off the crap! Let’s get some fart sack drill.”
“Yeah,” another added. “Ain’t you crapheads heard we’re shooting for record tomorrow?”
“I guess they mean us,” Danny said.
“Blow it,” Ski called back as he crawled deeper into his sack and drew the blankets over his ears.
Then there was quiet.
“Jesus H. Christ,” L.Q. cried.
“What’s the matter now?”
“I got to piss again.”
It came to pass that the platoon belied Beller’s prediction that none of them would ever learn to shoot straight. On record day, the goddamyankees qualified with an astounding total of eighty-six per cent. Of these, six entered the golden circle of Experts; O’Hearne and Forrester were among them. Even L.Q. managed to get his stomach low enough to fire a Marksman and receive a badge on his basic medal.
The basic medal worn by Marines told the deadly qualifications of each man: BAR, pistol, bayonet, chemical warfare, and the almighty rifle.
Firing on the last relay, the whole platoon gathered around to support the professor. Ideals and all, Norton saw not much more than Maggie’s Drawers. Several of his shots went into the target next to his.
Happy and reeking with the cockiness of a platoon in its last week, they left Matthews for the Marine Corps Base sporting an inch or more of hair.
Exams filled the final week. Openings for the few specialists schools. Some ventured to take the tests; others merely waited for the axe of fate to fall. Yet others, like Milton Norton, volunteered into the newly forming Pioneer Battalion.
Nervous, bursting with excitement, the sharply pressed and shined men scampered about putting on the final touches for the graduation.
“Christ, wonder where I’m going from here?”
“You’ll find out soon.”
“Come on, fellows, no pooping on the poop deck. We got to fall out in a couple of minutes.”
“Just think, tomorrow I wake up, the sun is shining. I look at myself and say…hey Jones, what are you? And I answer, why pardner, I’m a yonited states gyrene. This ole fat boy ain’t no craphead.”
“Sure will be sorry to leave all this.”
“You can say that again.”
“Danny,” Norton asked quietly, “will you square away my field scarf? Never could get these knots right.”
“Sure, professor.” Danny worked with the earnestness of a French hairdresser, until he was satisfied the knot was perfect. They sat on the edge of his bunk and lit up, nervously. “Sure feel shaky, professor. Gosh, I never thought this day was coming. Suppose we’ve changed any?”
“An understatement, Danny.” He smiled.
“Wonder where we’re going?”
“Oh, I wouldn’t worry. I think you passed your radio test.”
“Not so much me. I’d like to see Ski and L.Q. make it. At least I hope we all flunk out together.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know really. Just that you make a buddy—and, well, I think it’s more important we stick together than we make it alone.”
Norton thought carefully. “Funny, Danny, how people from different worlds, different lives, people who wouldn’t much bother to talk to each other before the war, are drawn together in such fine friendships in such a short time.”
“Yeah. I think that myself sometimes, how you get attached to a guy.”
“I suppose the word ‘buddy’ is something far removed from anything we ever knew before. Say, I’m off on a tangent.”
“I wish you were going with us, professor.”
“I sort of hate leaving the gang, myself.”
“Why did you volunteer into the Pioneers? It’s a rough outfit.”
“I want to go home, Danny. I want to be where I can do the most to get me home the quickest.”
“I understand, professor.”
Whitlock’s whistle blew them to assembly
“They call them ‘sparks.’”
“Yeah, I’d like that. But Christ, I’d never pass the test.”
“Rub your nuts for luck.”
A voice boomed from the next tent.
“Hey, you guys, knock off the crap! Let’s get some fart sack drill.”
“Yeah,” another added. “Ain’t you crapheads heard we’re shooting for record tomorrow?”
“I guess they mean us,” Danny said.
“Blow it,” Ski called back as he crawled deeper into his sack and drew the blankets over his ears.
Then there was quiet.
“Jesus H. Christ,” L.Q. cried.
“What’s the matter now?”
“I got to piss again.”
It came to pass that the platoon belied Beller’s prediction that none of them would ever learn to shoot straight. On record day, the goddamyankees qualified with an astounding total of eighty-six per cent. Of these, six entered the golden circle of Experts; O’Hearne and Forrester were among them. Even L.Q. managed to get his stomach low enough to fire a Marksman and receive a badge on his basic medal.
The basic medal worn by Marines told the deadly qualifications of each man: BAR, pistol, bayonet, chemical warfare, and the almighty rifle.
Firing on the last relay, the whole platoon gathered around to support the professor. Ideals and all, Norton saw not much more than Maggie’s Drawers. Several of his shots went into the target next to his.
Happy and reeking with the cockiness of a platoon in its last week, they left Matthews for the Marine Corps Base sporting an inch or more of hair.
Exams filled the final week. Openings for the few specialists schools. Some ventured to take the tests; others merely waited for the axe of fate to fall. Yet others, like Milton Norton, volunteered into the newly forming Pioneer Battalion.
Nervous, bursting with excitement, the sharply pressed and shined men scampered about putting on the final touches for the graduation.
“Christ, wonder where I’m going from here?”
“You’ll find out soon.”
“Come on, fellows, no pooping on the poop deck. We got to fall out in a couple of minutes.”
“Just think, tomorrow I wake up, the sun is shining. I look at myself and say…hey Jones, what are you? And I answer, why pardner, I’m a yonited states gyrene. This ole fat boy ain’t no craphead.”
“Sure will be sorry to leave all this.”
“You can say that again.”
“Danny,” Norton asked quietly, “will you square away my field scarf? Never could get these knots right.”
“Sure, professor.” Danny worked with the earnestness of a French hairdresser, until he was satisfied the knot was perfect. They sat on the edge of his bunk and lit up, nervously. “Sure feel shaky, professor. Gosh, I never thought this day was coming. Suppose we’ve changed any?”
“An understatement, Danny.” He smiled.
“Wonder where we’re going?”
“Oh, I wouldn’t worry. I think you passed your radio test.”
“Not so much me. I’d like to see Ski and L.Q. make it. At least I hope we all flunk out together.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know really. Just that you make a buddy—and, well, I think it’s more important we stick together than we make it alone.”
Norton thought carefully. “Funny, Danny, how people from different worlds, different lives, people who wouldn’t much bother to talk to each other before the war, are drawn together in such fine friendships in such a short time.”
“Yeah. I think that myself sometimes, how you get attached to a guy.”
“I suppose the word ‘buddy’ is something far removed from anything we ever knew before. Say, I’m off on a tangent.”
“I wish you were going with us, professor.”
“I sort of hate leaving the gang, myself.”
“Why did you volunteer into the Pioneers? It’s a rough outfit.”
“I want to go home, Danny. I want to be where I can do the most to get me home the quickest.”
“I understand, professor.”
Whitlock’s whistle blew them to assembly
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