He had told Pleasant to go fuck himself. Which is why he would be sanding the deck.

McCoy didn't believe he was ever going to get a gold bar to put on his shoulder. Not really. Not inside. But he was going to take the one chance he saw: Sometimes the elimination board wouldn't bust people out, but would instead "drop them back," which meant that you went through part of the course again with a class that started later. That happened when somebody bilged academics. He had never heard of somebody being dropped back for "attitude" or "unsuitability," which is what they called it when they sent you before the elimination board for fucking up.

But that's what he was going to ask for. He had come this far, and he wasn't just going to belly up for the bastards. He probably wouldn't get it, and next Monday he would probably be on his way as Pvt McCoy to Camp LeJeune, or maybe Diego, as a machine-gunner.

And it was a real pain in the ass to get all shined up for a retreat parade knowing that they were going to read your name off on two lists, one for "extra training" which is what they called the deck sanding, and the other to go before the elimination board. And when they had done that, knowing that while everybody else was off getting beered up at the slop chute, he would be on his fucking hands and knees sanding the deck.

"If I helped you with the deck," Pick Pickering said, as if he was reading his mind, "maybe we could get done quicker."

"Pleasant would get you your own deck," McCoy said. "But thanks, Pick."

"Let's give it a shot," Pickering said.

"When they hold formation," McCoy said, "they're going to read off names of people going before the elimination board. Mine is on it."

"You don't believe that," Pickering said, loyally.

"I know," McCoy said. "It's not scuttlebutt."

"That's not right," Pickering said. "Christ, it's goddamned unfair.''

"It's an unfair world," McCoy said. "This is the Marine Corps."

"There ought to be some way to register a complaint," Pickering said.

McCoy laughed at him, but then, touched by Pickering's loyalty, punched him affectionately on the arm.

Pickering was a good guy. Dumb, but a good guy. Even after McCoy had told him that he was on everybody's shit list, and that if he kept hanging around, some of the shit they were throwing was bound to splatter on him, he'd hung around anyway. Pickering was going to be a good officer.

"Turn around, asshole," McCoy said. "Let me check you out."

There was nothing wrong with Pickering's uniform or equipment. But a pin on one of McCoy's collar point "oxes" (Platoon Leader Candidates wore brass insignia, the letters OC (hence "Ox"), standing for Officer Candidate, on shirt collar points and fore-and-aft hats in lieu of insignia of rank) had come off, and the ox was hanging loose. Pickering fixed it.

What the fuck difference does it make? McCoy thought bitterly. This is the last time I'll wear it anyway. I'll go before the elimination board in dungarees.

Corporal Pleasant blew his whistle and all the freshly bathed and shaved young gentlemen rushed out onto the company street, where they formed ranks. Corporal Pleasant then issued the appropriate order causing the young gentlemen to open ranks so that he could more conveniently inspect their shaves, the press of their green uniforms, and the cleanliness of their Garand rifles.

They would be inspected again, a few minutes later, by the company commander and gunnery sergeant, but Corporal Pleasant wanted to make sure they were all shipshape before that happened.

To McCoy's surprise, Pleasant not only found nothing wrong with his appearance, shave, or shine, he didn't even inspect his rifle when he stepped in front of him. He probably figures he doesn't have to bother anymore. The company commander and the gunnery sergeant made their appearance at the end of the company street, and one by one, the drill instructors of the four platoons of platoon leader candidates called their troops to order.

McCoy's company commander, a lieutenant, spoke to him as he inspected his rifle.

"I understand you had some trouble with this today, McCoy?" "Yes, sir."

"And I also understand the stoppage has been cleared?"

What the fuck is he talking about? Stoppage?

"Yes, sir."

The company commander moved on. The sergeant-major looked right into McCoy's face, but said nothing, and there was no particular expression on his face.

When the four platoons had been inspected, the officers took their positions, and the gunny read the orders of the day.

The next day was Thanksgiving (Until December 1941, Thanksgiving was celebrated on the third Thursday of November), the Gunny announced, as if no one had figured that out for himself. Liberty for all hands, with the exception of those individuals requiring extra training, would commence when the formation was dismissed. The next duty day, Friday, would be given over to the purchase of uniforms. Those individuals who were to appear before the elimination board would not, repeat, not, order any officer-type uniforms until the decisions of the elimination board were announced. Liberty would begin on Friday, until 0330 hours the following Monday, as soon as the platoon leader candidates had arranged for the purchase of officer-type uniforms. There would be no, repeat, no, liberty for anyone called before the elimination board.

The gunny then read the list of those who required extra training, and then the list of those to face the elimination board.

And then he did an about-face and saluted the company commander, who returned the salute, ordered him to dismiss the formation, and walked off.

The gunny barked, "Dis-miss!"

Pick Pickering punched McCoy's arm.

"See? I told you you weren't gonna get boarded!"

And neither, McCoy thought, did I hear my name called for extra training. And they didn't say anything about refiring for record, either.

What the fuck is going on?

He thought it was entirely likely that the gunny had "forgotten" to read his name, so that when he failed to show up to sand the deck, or to refire for record, or for the elimination board itself, they could add AWOL to everything else.

He saw Pleasant going behind the building to get into his Ford. He ran after him. Pleasant rolled down the window. "Something I can do for you, Mr. McCoy?" "What the fuck is going on, Pleasant? Why wasn't my name called for extra training and for the elimination board?" "Because you're not on extra training, Mr. McCoy, and because you're not going before the elimination board. You are on liberty, Mr. McCoy.

"You going to tell me what's going on?" "Very well, Mr. McCoy. It's very simple. In ten days they are going to pin a gold bar on your shoulder. Between now and then, the gunny and I will do whatever we can to make things as painless as possible for you."

"I thought you wanted to bust me out of here." "Oh, we do," Pleasant said. "Nothing would give us greater pleasure. But then, we know better than to fuck with a rabbi."

"What rabbi?"

"Is there anything else, Mr. McCoy?" Pleasant said. "If not, with your permission, sir, I would like to start my Thanksgiving liberty."

"Fuck you, Pleasant," McCoy said. Pleasant rolled up the window and drove off. Pick Pickering was waiting for McCoy in the barracks. "Well?"

"I'm on liberty like everybody else," McCoy said. "And no elimination board."

"Great!" Pickering said, and punched his arm. "Let's go find a cab and get the hell out of here." "Out of here, where?"

"In compliance with orders from the United States Marine Corps, I am going to buy some officer-type uniforms."

"What the hell are you talking about? We're not supposed to buy uniforms until Friday." "Right," Pickering said. "Well?"

"I'm learning," Pickering said. "You will recall that they didn't say anything about where we were to buy the uniforms. Just that we buy them on Friday." "So?"