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straight, palm down.
The salute had been returned.
Private Moore cut his left hand smartly back to his right side, fingers extended
and together, so that his thumb touched the seam of his utility trousers. He then
looked six inches above Major Humphrey, in the prescribed position of attention.
Order arms, Major Humphrey ordered, and then followed this command im-
mediately with, stand at ease.
Private Moore moved the Springfield so that it cut diagonally across his body,
the center of the rifle just below his chin, held at the point of balance by the left
hand. He moved his right hand from the butt on the rifle to a point one-third down
from the muzzle, and then moved the rifle beside his right leg, checking the
movement with his left hand. When the butt touched the floor, he moved his left
hand so that its thumb touched the seam of his utility trousers. Then he leaned the
Springfield forward, put twelve inches between the heels of his boots, and set his
left hand in the small of his back. He was now At Ease.
He s all yours, Captain, Major Humphrey said.
Good afternoon, Moore. How are you today? the Captain asked.
His tone was conversational, even friendly, which was almost astonishing, but
what was genuinely astonishing was that the Captain had asked the question in
Japanese.
Very well, thank you, Sir, Private Moore said.
Could you reply, please, in Japanese? the Captain asked.
Moore did so.
Do you read and write Japanese with equal fluency?
Yes, Sir.
Battleground / 37
Major, the Captain said, switching to English, I wonder if there s some place
I could talk to Private Moore privately?
You can use my office, of course, Major Humphrey said.
Very kind of you, Sir. Thank you, Sir, the Captain said, and then waited for
Major Humphrey to get up and leave.
It was not lost on Private Moore that no matter what their ranks, the captain was
giving orders, however politely, to the major, and that the major didn t much like
it.
Sessions waited until Major Humphrey had left the office, closing the door behind,
and then turned to Moore. He opened his mouth, as if to speak, then chuckled.
In English, he said, I was about to ask you how you find boot camp, but I suppose
when you open your eyes in the morning, there it is, right?
Now he laughed, almost a giggle.
John Marston Moore had no idea how to react. There was no emotion on his face
at all. Sessions saw this.
My name is Sessions, he said. I m from Headquarters, USMC.
Yes, Sir?
You re posing something of a problem to the Marine Corps, Sessions began
seriously, but then his eyes lit up in amusement. Usually, with a private, and es-
pecially here, that works the other way around, but in this case, you re causing the
problem.
Sir?
I m going to have to take your word that you read and write Japanese, Sessions
said. I suppose I should have brought some document in Japanese for you to read
from, but I left Washington in rather a hurry and didn t think about that. And the
way I write Japanese& that wouldn t be a fair test.
Moore had just decided that Marine Captain or not, this man was an amiable
idiot, when Sessions met his eyes. The eyes were both intelligent and coldly penet-
rating; not the eyes of a fool.
You do read and write Japanese with fluency, right? Sessions asked.
Yes, Sir.
OK. You ever read any Kafka, Moore?
Sir?
Franz Kafka? Everyman s problems with a mindless bureaucracy? They kept
telling him he was guilty, but they wouldn t tell him of what?
Yes, Sir, I know who you mean.
This is going to be something like that, I m afraid, Sessions said. There is a
Marine Corps unit somewhere which has a priority requirement for a man with
your Japanese language skills. I can t tell you what that unit is, where it is except
somewhere in the Pacific or what it does, because that s all classified.
Sir Moore began hesitantly, and then plunged ahead. Sir, I was told that
I ve been granted a SECRET security clearance.
Yeah, I know. But then there s TOP SECRET, and above TOP SECRET are some
other security classifications. In this case, your SECRET clearance wouldn t get you
in the door.
Yes, Sir.
I don t suppose, Sessions said, that based on what little I m able to tell you,
you would be disposed to volunteer for service with this unit, would you?
I am being asked to do something. This is the first I have been asked, as opposed to being
told, to do anything since I got off the Atlantic Coastline train in Yemassee, South Carolina.
38 / W. E. B. Griffin
An image of that scene popped into his mind, complete to sound and smell; it
was the start of his first night of active duty in the Marine Corps.
They had gotten off the chrome-and-plastic, air-cushioned, air-conditioned ACL
cars and transferred to ancient, filthy wooden passenger cars resurrected from some
railroad junk yard for the spur line trip to Port Royal. From Port Royal, they had
been moved to Parris Island, like cattle being carried to the slaughter house, in an
open trailer truck.
In Port Royal, he heard for the first time the suggestion that he might as well
give his soul to Jesus, because his ass now belonged to the Marine Corps. Those
words had subsequently been repeated many times.
From the moment he boarded the spur line train in Yemassee, his every action
had been ordered, usually at the top of some uniformed sadist s lungs, his language
punctuated with obscenities.
He had once been ordered by a corporal to run around the barracks with a gal-
vanized bucket over his head, his piece at port arms, shouting, I am an ignorant
asshole who can t tell the difference between his piece and his prick. He d done
it, too.
He had only been permitted to stop when he ran full bore into a concrete pillar
and nearly knocked himself out. He could not recall, now, the offense.
And now I am being asked to do something. I am not prepared to make a decision.
Sir, I don t know what you re asking me to do.
Let me throw one more thing into the equation, Captain Sessions said. It
would also mean, for the time being, that you would give up your commission.
One can be arranged at a later date, but you would not get one now.
Sir
The bone I am authorized to throw to you is sergeant s stripes, effective imme-
diately, and a five-day delay en route leave, not counting travel time.
Sir, I don t mean any disrespect, but could you tell me why I should do some-
thing like this? I m almost through here. When I finish at Quantico, I ll be an officer.
He had clung to that, the belief that when he had endured all that Parris Island,
specifically all that his Drill Instructor and his assistants, could throw at him, he
would be granted a commission. An officer, even a lowly second lieutenant, was
not required to obey the orders of enlisted men.
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