"If there's nothing else, Killer," Carlson said, "you may return to your duties."
McCoy saluted.
"Aye, aye, sir."
"I'd really like to see your knife, Killer," Captain Roosevelt said.
(Two)
Camp Elliott, California
7 March 1942
Second Lieutenant Kenneth J. McCoy, Gunnery Sergeant Ernst Zimmerman, and a detail of twelve Marines from Able Company had come to the range in two Chevrolet half-ton pickups and a GMC 6x6 (A two-and-one-half-ton-capacity, canvas-bodied track, called "6x6" (pronounced "six-by-six") because ail of its six wheels could be driven. Six-by-six was something of a misnomer, because the double axles at the rear usually held eight wheels.
) at dawn.
The 6x6 dragged a water trailer, and all the trucks were heavily laden and full. There were stacks of fifty-five-gallon garbage cans; stacks of buckets; bundles of rags; stacks of oblong wooden crates with rope handles; stacks of olive drab oblong ammunition cans; five-gallon water cans; five-gallon gasoline cans; and an assortment of other equipment, including eight gasoline-powered water heaters.
The detail from Able Company had come under a sergeant and a corporal; and Gunnery Sergeant Zimmerman-with a confidence that surprised McCoy, who remembered Zimmerman as a mild-mannered motor sergeant in the 4th Marines- quickly and efficiently put them to work.
All but one of the garbage cans were filled with water from the trailer and then placed twenty yards apart in a line.
Zimmerman watched as the sergeant set up one of the water heaters in one of the garbage cans and then fired it off. Satisfied that he could do the same thing with the other heaters (these were normally used to boil water in garbage cans set up at field kitchens to sterilize mess kits), he turned to what else had to be done.
He ordered the cans of ammunition removed from the Chevrolet pickup that had brought McCoy to the range and stacked inside the range house. On each olive drab can was lettered, in yellow:
CALIBER.30 US CARBINE
He next ordered that one of the garbage cans, four of the five-gallon cans of gasoline, and a bundle of rags be loaded in the back of the pickup.
Then he went to one of the heavy oblong wooden crates with rope handles removed from the 6 X 6. These crates were also stenciled in yellow:
There was a good deal of container integrity. The cases were wrapped with stout wire. When Zimmerman had cut the wire loose, he saw the lid to the case was held down by eight thumbscrews. When these were off, he looked around and borrowed a ferocious-looking hunting knife from the nearest Raider, who looked about eighteen years old and as ferocious as a Boy Scout.
When he pried the lid of the case loose, there was a piece of heavy, tarred paper over the contents. Zimmerman cut it free. Inside the case were ten heavy paper-and-metal envelopes. Zimmerman took two of them out and handed them to the Raider from whom he had borrowed the hunting knife.
"Put these in the back of the lieutenant's pickup," he ordered.
Zimmerman then sought out the detail sergeant. "Twenty-four cases," he said. "Ten carbines per case. Two hundred forty carbines, less two the lieutenant has. I want to see two hundred and thirty-eight carbines out of their cases when I get back here. And I want to see twelve people busy boiling the Cosmoline off twelve carbines."
"Where you going, Gunny?" the buck sergeant asked. "To inspect the range with the lieutenant," Zimmerman said, gesturing down range.
He then walked to the pickup, got behind the wheel, and drove the truck past the one-hundred, two-hundred, and three-hundred-yard ranges to a dip in the ground fifty yards from the five-hundred-yard target line. When the pickup went into the dip, it was invisible to the people on the firing line. McCoy and Zimmerman got out of the cab of the truck. "How are we going to do this?" Zimmerman asked. "Carefully," McCoy said.
He climbed into the bed of the truck, picked up the garbage can, and lowered it to the ground. Zimmerman took one of the five-gallon cans of gasoline, opened it, and poured it into the garbage can. And then, as McCoy picked up one of the metal-foil envelopes from the bed of the truck and carefully tore the top off, Zimmerman poured the gas from the other three cans into the garbage can.
Inside the envelope was a very small rifle, not more than three feet long, with its stock curved into a pistol grip behind the trigger. It was covered with a dark brown sticky substance. McCoy delicately lowered the small rifle into the gasoline in the garbage can, and then repeated the process with the second metal foil envelope.
Then the two of them began, carefully, to slosh the weapons around in the gasoline.
The removal of Cosmoline from weapons by the use of gasoline or other volatile substance was strictly forbidden by USMC regulations. It was also the most effective way to get the Cosmoline off-far more effective than boiling water.
The sharp outlines of the small rifle began to appear as the Cosmoline began to dissolve.
"Don't breath the fumes," McCoy cautioned.
Zimmerman passed the barrel of the carbine he was holding to McCoy.
"I got a can," he said.
He went to the truck and took from it an empty No. 10 can. He took a beer-can opener from his pocket and punched small drain holes around the bottom rim. Then he set the can down, unfolded a piece of scrap canvas on the bed of the truck, and then took one of the small rifles from McCoy.
He disassembled the small rifle into the stock and action, handed the stock and the forestock (a smaller piece of wood, which sat atop the barrel) to McCoy, sloshed the now-exposed action in the gasoline again, and then took it to the piece of canvas, where he took it down into small pieces and put them into the No. 10 can.
McCoy, meanwhile, using a rag and a toothbrush, stripped the stock and forestock of Cosmoline. When he was satisfied, he took the wooden pieces to the truck and laid them down. Zimmerman sloshed the parts in the No. 10 can around, then wiped them with a rag and scrubbed them with a toothbrush.
They worked quickly, but without haste. Soon, both of the rifles were on the scrap of canvas, free of Cosmoline. Except for the trigger group, they were stripped down to their smallest part.
"You think we have to take these down?" McCoy asked, looking doubtfully at the complex arrangement of small parts and springs.
Zimmerman picked up the second trigger group assembly and studied it carefully. "No," he said, issuing a professional judgment, "I don't think so."
"I don't suppose you've got a book?" McCoy asked. "So we can figure out how to put it back together?"
Zimmerman produced a small, paperbound manual, the U.S. Army Technical Manual for the U.S. Carbine, Caliber.30, Ml, from the breast pocket of his dungarees, and displayed it triumphantly.
"You may turn into a passable gunny yet," McCoy said.
"Fuck you, McCoy," Zimmerman said, as he thumbed through the book looking for the disassembly instructions. When he found it, he opened the small book wide, breaking its spine so that it would lay flat.
Then, after carefully oiling each part and consulting the drawings in the book, they put the small rifles back together.
They worked the actions and dry-fired the weapons to make sure they were operable.
"What do we do about the gas?" Zimmerman asked.
"Dump it out, leave the can here until later," McCoy ordered. He took Zimmerman's carbine from him and climbed back into the pickup. Zimmerman tipped the garbage can on its side, watched for a moment as the sandy soil soaked up the gasoline, and then got behind the wheel.