McCoy chuckled. "That's what I mean about being a Marine, and not a college boy. I know about second lieutenants. Would you want to be second lieutenant. Gunny?" McCoy challenged.

Stecker thought, No, I wouldn't want to be a second lieutenant. I really don't want to be an officer, period.

"Then you shouldn't have applied," Stecker said.

"The ways were greased," McCoy said.

"What do you mean by that?"

"I mean that an officer I knew in China asked me at nine o'clock one morning if I had ever heard of the Platoon Leader Program. I was through with the selection board before lunch three days later," McCoy said.

"But if you don't want to be an officer, then I guess you've wasted his effort, and the Corps' money and time coming here at all," Stecker said.

"Don't get me wrong, Gunny," McCoy said. "I'm going to go through that course. The minute I report in, I'm going to be the eagerest sonofabitch to get a commission they ever saw."

"Why?"

"Well, I thought that over, driving down here," McCoy said. "Asked myself what the fuck I was doing, why I hadn't told them what they could do with a gold bar in Philly. The answer is, why not? I'm a good Marine. I'll probably make as good a temporary officer as most of the college kids, and probably better than some of them. And since they greased the ways like they have-at least a couple of officers think I would make a good second lieutenant-who the hell am I to argue with them?"

"You seem pretty sure you won't bilge out of the course," Stecker said.

"Gunny, I'm a good Marine. I'll get through that course. My problem is what do I do with my car when I'm over there being eager as hell?"

"Where you from?"

"Pennsylvania, Norristown."

"If you left now, you could drive there, leave the car, catch a train, and be back here by midnight tomorrow. If you were a little late, so long as it was before reveille on the second, I could take care of that."

"I got no place to leave it."

"I thought you said your home was in Norristown."

"I said I’m from Norristown,' " McCoy said. "My home is the Corps."

"Then I guess you'll have to park it outside the gate," Stecker said.

"Yeah, and have it either stolen or fucked up, the roof cut."

"Hey, you're a Marine corporal, wants to be a Marine officer, you don't know a regulation's a regulation?"

McCoy looked at him, and Stecker saw anger, regret, and resignation in his eyes. But he didn't say anything, and he didn't beg.

"Thanks for the coffee, Gunny," McCoy said. "And your time."

He got up and walked toward the door.

"McCoy," Stecker called, and McCoy stopped and turned around.

"Forget what I said about getting a campaign hat. That was before I knew you were going to be a student. Students wear cunt caps like that (a soft cap, sometimes called an "overseas" cap]. Makes them easy to tell from Marines."

"Thanks," McCoy said.

"Doan!" Stecker called, raising his voice. "Send in the sergeant from Post Housing."

The sergeant came into the office with all the paperwork involved in turning in one set of government quarters and their furnishings so as to draw another set of quarters and furnishings. Stecker was moving-moving up. Though he thought about that pretty much the way McCoy did. Stecker took his Parker pen from his shirt pocket and began to write his signature, in a neat: round hand, where the forms were marked with small penciled xs.

Then he suddenly sat up straight in his chair and spun it around so that he could look out the window. He saw Corporal McCoy unlocking the door of the pretty LaSalle convertible that sure as Christ made little apples was going to get all fucked up if he had to leave it parked outside the gate.

Master Gunnery Sergeant Stecker leaned out the window.

"Corporal McCoy!" he bellowed.

McCoy looked around for him.

"Hold it right there. Corporal McCoy!"

He sat down again and, as quickly as he could, signed the rest of the forms. Then he stood up and went in the outer office.

"I'm going," he said.

"You going to see the colonel first?" Doan asked.

"I have an appointment with the colonel at oh-eight-thirty the day after tomorrow. Whatever's on his mind will have to wait until then."

"You coming back?" Doan asked.

"No. Have the motor pool fetch the truck," Stecker ordered.

"Is there anything else I can do for you?" Doan asked.

"Not a goddamned thing, Corporal Doan," Stecker snapped. "Not a goddamned thing."

He glowered at him a moment, and then added: "But I'll tell you this, Doan. I told the colonel that it was possible that under all your baby fat, there just might be a Marine, and that he could probably do worse than making you a sergeant. You're on orders as of 1 September. Try, at least, to act like a sergeant, Doan."

Now why the hell did I tell him? It was supposed to be a surprise.

"What do I tell anybody who calls?" Doan asked.

The fat little fucker is so surprised at the promotion that he looks like he might bawl. Hell of a thing for a Marine sergeant to be doing.

"Tell them to take a flying fuck at a rolling doughnut," Stecker said and, pleased with himself, marched out of the office."

He walked up to Corporal McCoy, where he was waiting by his LaSalle.

"I have a black Packard Phaeton machine. Corporal McCoy." he said, and pointed to it. "You will get in your machine and follow me."

"Where we going?"

"Wherever the hell I decide to take you," Stecker said.

McCoy followed him six blocks, ending up at the rear of the red-brick single-story building that housed the provost marshal's office. Next to it was an area enclosed by an eight-foot-high cyclone fence, topped with barbed wire. Every ten feet along its length was a red sign reading. MILITARY POLICE IMPOUNDING AREA OFF LIMITS. Inside a fence were a dozen vehicles, mostly civilian, but with several Marine Corps trucks mingled among them.

There was no one near the gate to the fenced-in area, so Stecker blew his horn, a steady ten-second blast, and then another. He saw that he had attracted the attention of the people in the provost marshal's building. His Packard was as well known as his pickup truck.

He motioned for Corporal McCoy to get out of his LaSalle and come to the Packard.

A minute later, the provost sergeant came out of the building and walked quickly over to him.

"What can I do for you, Gunny?" he asked.

"This is Corporal McCoy," Stecker said. "After you register his car and issue him a sticker for it, he will place his vehicle in the Impound Yard. From time to time, he will require access to his vehicle, to run the engine, for example. Therefore, you will put him on the list of people who are authorized access to the Impound Yard. Any questions?"

"Whatever you say, Gunny," the provost sergeant said. "Can he take the car out if wants?"

"It's his car," Stecker said. He turned to McCoy. "I think that's all the business we have, McCoy," he said.

"Thanks, Gunny," McCoy said.

"In the future, McCoy, be very careful when you tell somebody you don't think much of officers or that you have doubts about being one yourself. You just might run into some chickenshit sonofabitch with bars on his collar who will take offense."

"I will," McCoy said. "Thanks again, Gunny."

"It would be a damned shame to have a good-looking machine like your LaSalle fucked up," Stecker said, and got behind the wheel of his Packard and drove home.

(Three)

Elly was home. Her Ford was in the drive. He wondered why she asked him to come home early. Probably because she knew him well enough to worry that otherwise he would head for the NCO Club, establish himself at the bar reserved for senior noncoms, and start drinking hard liquor. She knew him well enough, too, not to call the office and order him home, or call the office and start whining and begging for him to come home. What she'd said was that "if he could come that would be nice."