They were gone no more than fifteen minutes. Steam was now rising from the water-filled garbage cans, and the then they had left were sloshing carbines around in it. It would be a long and dirty job using boiling water, McCoy thought, but there was no other way for these guys to do it. Doing it with gasoline was something only old Marines could handle safely; these kids, and that included their sergeant, would just blow themselves up using gas.
It did not occur to him that both the sergeant and the corporal, and at least two of the Raiders, were as old as, or older than, he was. He and Zimmerman had done a hitch with the 4th Marines. They were Marines, China Marines, and the others were kids.
As McCoy walked down the line of steaming garbage cans, Zimmerman went to the 6 x 6, pulled out a large flat cardboard carton, and took from it two large two-hundred-yard bull's-eye targets. Then he looked around and saw a tall, good-looking kid who didn't seem to have much to do.
He snapped his fingers, and when he had the kid's attention, beckoned to him with his finger.
"You might as well learn how to do this," Zimmerman said, and demonstrated the technique of making glue from flour and water in a No. 10 can.
When the glue had been mixed, Zimmerman led the kid to the one-hundred-yard line. There, target frames, constructed of two-by-fours with cotton "target cloth" stretched over them, were placed on the ground. He showed the kid how to brush the flour-and-water paste onto the target cloth, and then how to rub the targets smooth against it. Then they hoisted the target frames erect, put their legs into terra cotta pipes in the ground, and walked back to the firing line.
Zimmerman saw that a red (firing in progress) pennant had been hoisted on the flagpole, and that McCoy, with the sergeant, the corporal, and several kids watching him, had found the carbine magazines and other missing parts, and was trying to finish the assembly process.
"Gunny," Lieutenant McCoy said sternly, "do you know how to put the sling on this piece?"
"Yes, sir," Gunnery Sergeant Zimmerman said, confidently, even though he had absolutely no idea how to do it.
The carbine sling was a piece of canvas. Unlike the Springfield and Garand rifles, which had sling swivels top and bottom, however, the carbine sling fitted into a sling swivel mounted on the front side of the weapon with a "lift-the-dot" fastener. McCoy had figured out that much for himself.
He was having a problem fastening the rear end of the sling. Zimmerman took the carbine from McCoy. The right side of the stock of the carbine had, near the butt, a three-inch-long slot cut into it. In the center of the slot, mere was a hole cut all the way through the stock. The left side of the stock had been inlet, the cut obviously designed to accommodate the sling.
There was a metal tube intended to fit into the slot of the right side of the stock. And the sling was intended to go through the stock from the left side, loop around the metal tube, and then pass through the stock again, holding the sling in place.
The problem Lieutenant McCoy was having, Gunnery Sergeant Zimmerman saw, was that when he looped the sling around the tube, it wouldn't fit it in the hole. And it obviously had to, for otherwise the metal tube would fall off.
Zimmerman took the metal tube in his hands. _ "This, sir," he announced, "is the sling keeper."
At that moment, he noticed that one end of the tube was knurled. He unscrewed it. There was a piece of wire, flattened at one end, under the cap.
"Which, as you can see," Zimmerman said, "also contains the oiler."
He screwed the cap back in place, and wondered what the hell he was going to do now. And then inspiration struck. He knew how the goddamned thing worked.
"To insert the sling, sir," he pontificated, "first you insert the sling keeper/oiler-I'm not exactly sure of the nomenclature, sir-into the stock, and then you feed the sling around it."
It was only a theory, but it was all he had to go on; so he tried it, and it worked. The metal tube was securely inside the slot in the stock, and the sling was in place.
"In that manner, sir," Gunnery Sergeant Zimmerman said.
"Very good, Gunny," Lieutenant McCoy said.
"It's really very simple, sir," Gunnery Sergeant Zimmerman said.
"Sergeant," McCoy said, "the gunny and I are going to test-fire these weapons. Pass the word to your men, and make sure they keep well back of the firing line."
"Aye, aye, sir," the sergeant said. "Sir, are we going to get to fire them?"
"You'll be the first to fire when the company shows up," McCoy said.
Zimmerman opened an ammunition can and took from it an olive drab cotton bandolier. It had six pockets, each of which held two ten-round stripper clips separated by a strip of paperboard. He freed one of the small, shiny cartridges and
looked at the base. It was stamped PC 42.
He showed it to McCoy.
"Brand- new, sir," he said, obviously impressed.
"That's the first brand-new ammo I've ever seen," McCoy said.
Zimmerman examined a stripper clip and a carbine magazine carefully, and he saw where one end of the stripper clip was obviously designed to fit over the lips of the magazine. He put it in place and shoved down with his thumb. The cartridges slipped into the magazine.
He looked at McCoy and saw that McCoy had been watching him. McCoy loaded a stripper clip into each of two magazines.
Then they walked to the firing line. McCoy sat down, and Zimmerman followed his example. He made as much of a sling as he could from the canvas strap, then shifted himself around until he was in what he considered to be a satisfactory shooting position.
Then he looked over his shoulder and around the range to make sure none of the kids had wandered into a dangerous position. Just to be sure, he counted heads. They were all in sight. He raised his voice.
"Ready on the right, ready on the left. Ready on the firing line. The flag is up, the flag is waving, the flag is down, commence firing!"
He lined up the sights on the bull's-eye and let off a round as well as he could. The trigger was stiff, heavy as hell, he thought. Probably because it was brand new. There was very little recoil; and the muzzle blast, while sharp, was less than he expected.
They fired slowly and carefully. Zimmerman was finished before McCoy took the carbine from his shoulder.
"Both clips?" Zimmerman asked.
"Might as well," McCoy said, and exchanged clips and resumed firing.
When they had finished, and McCoy had issued the formal commands to clear all weapons and leave the firing line, they handed the carbines to the sergeant and walked to the targets at the one-hundred-yard line.
There were twenty holes in each target. Zimmerman's were scattered around the bull's-eye, and McCoy's were at the lower left of the target. What counted, however, was not the location of the holes, but the size of the group. Sight adjustment would move the group.
"Piece of shit," Zimmerman said, disgustedly, reaching up and laying his extended hand with the thumb on one hole and the little finger on another. "That's eight fucking inches, for Christ sake, at a hundred yards."
"Some of them were fliers," McCoy said. "And some were from a fouled barrel, and the triggers are stiff because they're new."
"Bullshit, McCoy," Zimmerman said. "It's a piece of shit, and you know it."
"Get some rounds through them," McCoy insisted. "Let the sears wear in a little and you can cut those groups in half."
"Down to five inches?" Zimmerman said, sarcastically.
"Ernie, this thing is not supposed to be a rifle. It's to replace the pistol," McCoy said. "I don't know about you, but I can't put ten rounds from a forty-five into five inches at a hundred yards rapid fire."
Zimmerman looked at him.
"I'm not sure I could do it with a Thompson, either," McCoy insisted. "This thing fires fifteen rounds, and with the recoil, you're right back on the target as fast as you call pull the trigger. It's not a piece of shit, Ernie."