The sergeant-major looked at Banning in surprise.
"It will therefore be necessary for you, Sergeant-Major, to prepare-suitably back-dated-the application to marry, and whatever other documentation is necessary. That includes, I believe, a letter to the Assistant Chief of Staff for Intelligence, Headquarters, USMC, explaining my reasons for not pulling Captain Banning's security clearance once it came to my attention that he is emotionally involved with a foreign national."
"Aye, aye, sir," the sergeant-major said.
"My reasons are that I believe the Corps cannot at this time afford to lose Captain Banning's services, despite his actions in this matter, and that I believe the disciplinary action I have taken closes the matter."
"The disciplinary action, sir?" the sergeant-major asked.
"You will prepare a letter of reprimand as follows," the colonel said. "Quote. It has come to my attention that you have married without due attention to the applicable regulations. You will consider yourself reprimanded. Unquote."
"Aye, aye, sir," the sergeant-major said.
"Thank you, sir," Banning said.
"If that's all you have on your mind, Captain Banning," the colonel said, "I'm sure you have a number of things to do before you board the aircraft."
Despite the sergeant-major's claims about his busting his butt to get the Consulate to issue Milla a "non-quota, married to an American citizen'' visa, when Banning turned over the keys to his Pontiac to her, he had a strange feeling that he would never see her again.
They both pretended, though, that everything was now coming up roses: She would promptly get her visa. His (now their) furniture and other belongings (including, ultimately, the Pontiac) would be turned in for shipment to the Philippines. If it proved impossible for Milla to get her visa in time for her to ship to the Philippines with the other dependents, she would travel on the first available transportation once the visa was issued.
What was more likely to happen was that his car and household goods were going to be placed in a godown (warehouse) on the docks and more than likely disappear forever. And that when the dependents sailed, Milla would be left behind with no visa.
And he could tell from the look in her eyes that she knew.
On the Catalina he forced Milla and the future from his mind. There was no sense bleeding to death over something he had no control over.
It occurred to him that nice guys, indeed, do finish last.
Macklin, that despicable sonofabitch, had had three weeks to arrange for the shipment of his car and household goods. They had gone on the ship with him. And he was in the States, not headed for the Philippines.
He was, he realized, of two minds about Macklin. On one hand, it was goddamned unfair that the sonofabitch should be safe in the States. On the other hand, if there was to be war, it was better that the sonofabitch should be someplace else.
There was no question in Banning's mind that the officer corps of the United States Marine Corps was about to start earning its pay, and in that case, a slimy sonofabitch like Macklin would do more harm than good.
And finally, before the roar of the engine put him to sleep, his thoughts turned to Corporal "Killer" McCoy. Poor McCoy, hating every minute of it, was probably greasing trucks and keeping his nose clean in Philadelphia, waiting for him to come home from China and arrange for his transfer. McCoy, the poor sonofabitch, was going to have a long wait.
Chapter Eleven
(One)
Known Distance Range #2
U.S. Marine Corps Schools
Quantico, Virginia
19 November 1941
Because he'd participated, back in '38, in the troop test of the Garand rifle at Fort Benning, Captain Jack NMI Stecker, USMCR, Assistant S-3 of the School Battalion, U.S. Marine Corps Schools, Quantico, did not share the generally held opinion that the Garand was a piece of shit. The Corps had sent to the Army's infantry school a platoon of Marines, under Master Gunnery Sergeant Jack NMI Stecker, to find out for themselves what this new rifle was all about.
He hadn't liked it at first. It was bulky and heavy, and didn't have the lean lines of the Springfield. And he had found it difficult to accept that as soon as the slam of the butt into the socket of the shoulder was over, the fired cartridge was ejected, another cartridge was chambered, the action was cocked, and the Garand was prepared to fire again.
As a young Marine, Stecker had spent long hours endlessly working his Springfield until the action was as smooth as butter. And he had learned to fire and work the bolt so fast and so smoothly that the Springfield seemed like a machine gun with a slow rate of fire.
He and the other Marines involved in the troop test had been proud of that skill. Most of them. So that the test would not be conducted by forty expert marksmen, the Corps had detailed a dozen kids fresh from Parris Island to the platoon. They weren't experts. It took years to really become an expert with a Springfield.
Stecker went to the infantry school at Benning prepared to dislike the Garand.
But that changed. For one thing, even if this came close to heresy, there was no question that the sights on the Garand were better than the sights on the Springfield. On the other hand, the trigger pull started out really godawful, must have been ten pounds when they gave him the new Garand. But he was able to fix that with a little careful stoning of the sear. And the action was stiff as hell too, but that wore itself in after a couple of hundred rounds. And it actually got pretty slick once he learned, by trial and error, just how much of the yellow lubricant to use, and where.
And then the Doggie armorer loaned him his own Garand. What the hell, even if he was a Doggie, they had things in common. The Doggie armorer was a master sergeant, the same rank as Stecker, and he'd done a hitch with the 15th "Can Do" U.S. Infantry in Tientsin, 1935-38. And they knew about rifles. Stecker and the Doggie armorer had more in common with each other than Stecker had with the kids fresh from Parris Island involved in the troop test.
So first they had a couple of beers together at the NCO Club, and then the Doggie invited him to his quarters for supper, and the next morning, the Doggie armorer handed him a Garand and told him he'd "done a little work on it." What he'd done was a really good job on the trigger, and the action was really smooth, and he'd taken chisels to the stock and cut away all the wood, so the barrel was free floating, and (he wasn't sure if Stecker would like this) he'd replaced the rear sight with one he'd rigged up with an aperture about half as big as issue.
The first time Stecker fired the Doggie's Garand-at two hundred yards-when they marked the target and hauled it up again, there was only one spotter (Bullet holes in rifle targets are marked with circular cardboard disks, white if the hole is in the black of the bull’s-eye, and black for holes elsewhere on the target. A peg in the center of the disk is inserted in the bullet hole. A bullet strike is thus visible from the firing line) on it, a white one, but only one.
"Have them re-mark that goddamned target!" Stecker demanded, angry and embarrassed. He had fired two loose rounds and an eight-round clip at that target, and apparently hit it only once.
The Doggie corporal on the field phone to the pits ordered the target re-marked, and it disappeared into the pits. It came back up a minute later with just the one white spotter, and Stecker felt humiliation sweep through him. "Two and a quarter," the Doggie corporal sang out. "What the hell does that mean?" Stecker asked. There was no such terminology in the Corps.
"That means, Sarge," the corporal said tolerantly, "that you put them all into just over two inches. Not bad!"
Stecker was so pleased (and to tell the truth of it, so relieved) that he'd put ten rounds into an area smaller than a spotter-which was damned near minute of angle (One inch at 100 yards. Two inches at 200 yards, etc)-that he didn't even jump the Doggie corporal's ass for calling him "Sarge."