He watched as McCoy single-loaded another round. At least he knows enough not to mess with the sights, Stecker thought. That was probably a flier.

He watched as McCoy slapped the stock of the Garand into the socket of his arm and wiggled his feet to get in the correct position. And he thought he could detect the expelling of half a breath just before the Garand went off again.

The target dropped from sight. When it appeared again, there was another black marker, this time low and left-in other words on the opposite side of the target from the last spotter disk.

"Oh, bullshit!" McCoy said, furious.

His coach, another young gentleman, jabbed him with his elbow to remind him that he was being watched by an officer.

Stecker gave in to the impulse. He reached out and kicked the sole of the coach's boot. When the coach looked up at him in surprise, he gestured for him to get up.

Stecker lay down beside McCoy.

When McCoy looked at him, there was recognition in his eyes.

"All sorts of people get to be officers these days," Stecker said softly. "What seems to be your trouble?"

"Beats the shit out of me," McCoy said, still so angry- and perhaps surprised to see Stecker-that it was a moment before he appended, "Sir."

Stecker reached up and tried to wiggle the rear sight. Sometimes they came loose. But not there. And neither was the front sight when he tried it.

"Try it again," Stecker ordered, turning and holding his hand out for another loose round.

When McCoy reached for it, Stecker saw his hands. They were unhealthy white, and covered with open blisters.

"What did you do to your hands?"

"I've sanded a couple of decks (Sanding decks (cleaning them with sand and a brick) went back to the days of wooden-decked sailing ships. Now it was used as a punishment) lately, Captain," McCoy said.

Stecker wondered what McCoy had done to deserve punishment. The boy probably had an automatic mouth.

Stecker watched carefully as McCoy fired another round. There was nothing in his firing technique that he could fault. And while they were waiting for the target to be marked, he saw that McCoy had wads of chewed-up paper in his ears. It wasn't as good as Haiti earplugs, but it was a hell of a lot better than nothing. And it reminded Stecker that this boy had been around a rifle range enough to know what he was doing. There was no explanation for his shooting all over the target, much less missing it completely, except that there was something really wrong with the rifle.

When the target appeared, the marker was black, just outside the bull's-eye.

"That's a little better," Stecker said.

"I should have split the peg with that one," McCoy said, furiously.

By that he meant that he was confident of his shot, knew where it had gone.

That's either bravado, or he means it. And there's only one way to find out.

"Get out of your sling," Stecker ordered. "And hand me the rifle."

As McCoy pulled the leather sling off his arm, Stecker turned to the training NCO and signaled that he wanted a clip of ammunition. When McCoy handed him the Garand, Stecker put the strap on his own arm and squirmed into the correct position.

"Call my shot," he said to McCoy. "I'm going to take out your two-hundred-yard target number."

McCoy looked at him in surprise. So there would be no confusion about which was the correct target, there were markers at each distance with four-inch-high numbers painted on short, flat pieces of wood. They were not designed as targets.

Stecker himself wondered why he was going to fire at the target number, then realized that he thought somebody might be fucking around with McCoy's target in the pits. If that was the case, which now seemed likely, he would have the ass of the pit officer.

You just don't fuck around in the pits. The Marine Corps does not think rifle marksmanship is an area for practical jokes.

Stecker lined up his sights and squeezed one off.

"You took a chip out of the upper-right corner, Captain," McCoy reported.

Maggie's Drawers flew in front of McCoy's target.

Stecker fired again.

"You blew it away, Captain," McCoy reported. Stecker snapped the safety in front of the trigger guard on, then slipped out of the sling.

"The piece is loaded," he said. "Be careful. Have a shot at the target marker. Number eighteen."

"Aye, aye, sir," McCoy said.

The target number disappeared with McCoy's first shot.

"Nineteen," Stecker ordered.

McCoy fired again. Half of the target number disappeared when the bullet split it.

"Do you think you can hit what's left?" Stecker asked.

He saw Maggie's Drawers being waved furiously in front of the target.

McCoy fired again, and the narrow half remaining of the target number disappeared.

"At targets of opportunity, fire at will," Stecker ordered, softly.

McCoy fired the remaining two rounds in the eight-round en bloc clip at other target numbers. He did not miss.

"Insure that your weapon is empty, and leave the firing line, bringing your weapon with you," Stecker said calmly, reciting the prescribed litany.

By the time they were both on their feet, the range officer and the range NCO were standing beside the training NCO. Having witnessed not only a captain blowing away the target numbers, but apparently encouraging a trainee to do likewise, they were more than a little uneasy.

"This young man has a faulty weapon," Captain Stecker announced. "I think he should be given the opportunity to refire for record."

"Aye, aye, sir," the range officer said.

The range sergeant took the Garand from McCoy and started to examine it.

"Don't you think I know a faulty weapon when I see one, Gunny?" Captain Stecker asked.

"Yes, sir, no offense, sir."

"I realize that tomorrow is the first day of Thanksgiving liberty," Captain Stecker said, "but as we want to give this young man every opportunity to make a decent score, I think we should have the pit officer back, too. Who is he?"

Stecker had decided that the pit officer, whoever he might be, would never forget that Marines don't fuck around the pits after he had spent the first day of Thanksgiving liberty personally hauling, marking, and pasting targets for a Platoon Leader Candidate. That made more sense than in writing him an official letter of reprimand, or even turning him in to the battalion commander.

"Lieutenant Macklin, sir," the range officer said.

"I don't think I know him," Stecker said.

"He's the mess officer, Sir. He volunteered to help out in the pits," the range officer said.

And then Stecker saw understanding and then bitterness in McCoy's eyes.

"Do you know Lieutenant Macklin, McCoy?" Stecker asked.

"Yes, sir, I know him."

Stecker made a come-on motion of his hands.

"We were in the Fourth Marines together, sir," McCoy said.

"I see," Stecker said. I'll find out what the hell that is all about. "I think you can get on with the firing, Lieutenant." Stecker said.

"Aye, aye, sir," the lieutenant said. And then when Stecker was obviously going to walk away, he called attention and saluted.

Stecker went back to his jeep and was driven off.

Since there was no point in his firing anymore with a faulty weapon, Platoon Leader Candidate McCoy and Platoon Leader Candidate Pickering were put to work policing brass from the firing line until that relay had finished. Then Platoon Leader Candidate McCoy served as coach for Platoon Leader Candidate Pickering while he fired for record. Platoon Leader Candidate Pickering qualified as "Expert."

(Two)

After leaving McCoy, Captain Stecker went to Battalion Headquarters, where he examined the personal record jacket of First Lieutenant John R. Macklin, USMC. The personnel sergeant was a little uneasy about that-personal records were supposed to be personal-but he wouldn't have dreamed of telling Master Gunnery Sergeant Stecker to mind his own business, and Gunny Stecker was now wearing the silver railroad tracks of a captain.