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instruct the trainee in the Approved Marine Corps Technique of killing the enemy with a knife..
The trainee would be handed a sheathed trench knife. Similarly armed, Corporal Warren would attack
the trainee. In a second or so the trainee would find himself on his back, with Corporal Warren's
sheathed knife pressing painfully against his Adam's apple.
"You're dead, cocksucker!" Next Corporal Warren would tell the trainee to attack him, to demonstrate
the proper method of defense against a knife attack.
"Now really try to kill me, shitface!" The trainee-who was not only in awe of Corporal Warren but
traumatized by the situation-would make a clumsy attempt to stab Warren with his sheathed knife. He
would immediately find himself on his back, with Warren's knee grinding one side of his face into the
ground, or else on his stomach, with Warren twisting his arm to the point of shoulder dislocation.
"You're dead, you stupid motherfucker!" Private Hart noticed with satisfaction that today's instruction
period was going very much like yesterday's. He also noticed that the drill instructor, who sometimes
watched Corporal Warren in action, seemed to be occupied with the other half of the platoon.
"You, college boy!" Corporal Warren said, indicating Private Hart.
Private Hart rose to his feet. Corporal Warren threw him a sheathed trench knife.
"Try to kill me, college boy!" Private Hart successfully resisted the terrible urge to obey the order, and
moments afterward found himself on his back with Corporal Warren's sheathed knife pressing painfully
against his Adam's apple.
"Fucking fairy motherfucker, you're dead!" He spat in Private Hart's face and then contemptuously got
off him.
Private Hart had dropped his knife.
"Pick it up, college boy, and really try to kill me!" Hart picked up the knife. He crouched and spread his
arms, then advanced on Corporal Warren.
Warren smiled.
Private Hart threw the trench knife from his right hand to his left. When Corporal Warren's eyes
followed, for a split second, the passage of the knife, Private Hart kicked Corporal Warren in the groin.
As Warren's eyes, now registering shock, returned to him, Hart took one step toward him, grabbed his
right arm, twisted it, flipped Warren over his extended right leg, and followed him to the ground as he fell.
He placed his knee between Warren's wrist and elbow and tensed his muscles to break the arm.
He felt a hard blow in the back, between the shoulder blades, and felt himself flying through the air.
What the hell?
His face slid a foot through the dirt and pebbles. The breath was knocked out of him.
He heard the crunch of boots on the dirt and a pair of highly shined service shoes and the cuff of sharply
creased khaki pants appeared in his view.
"On your feet!"
He recognized the voice of the drill sergeant before he saw his face.
Shit, he saw what happened. He kicked me.
Private Hart, breathing hard, came to attention.
"Look at me," the drill instructor said evenly.
He was a leathery-faced, leanly built staff sergeant in his early thirties. His eyes were gray and cold.
"Try me, tough guy," the drill instructor said, and Hart felt a jabbing at his stomach. He looked down and
saw that he was being offered a trench knife, butt first. The sheath had been removed.
He looked into the drill instructor's face again.
He looks, Hart thought, more contemptuous than angry.
"Go on, tough guy, take it," the drill instructor said, and jabbed Hart in the stomach again with the butt of
the trench knife.
Hart shook his head and blurted what came into his mind: "I don't have anything against you." The drill
instructor's eyes examined him with renewed interest.
"Meaning you think you could hurt me?"
Again, Hart blurted what came into his mind: "I don't know. But I've got no reason to cut you."
There was a moment's silence.
"'Ten'hut!" the-drill instructor barked. "Fow-wud, Harch!
Double-time, Harch!" Hart's compliance was Pavlovian. He started double-timing across the parade
ground. After a moment, he became aware that the drill instructor was double-timing a step or two
behind him, just within his peripheral vision.
He came to the end of the parade ground, then crossed a narrow macadam road and moved between
two barracks buildings.
"Column left, Harch!" the drill instructor ordered when they reached the far end of the long frame
building. "Detail, halt!" Hart stopped and stood at attention. The drill instructor stepped in front of him.
What the fuck do I do now? Let him beat me up?
"Who taught you to fight?" the drill instructor demanded, and then, without waiting for a reply, "What did
you do before you came in The Corps?"
"I was a cop"
"A cop?"
"A detective," Hart said.
"Where?"
"Saint Louis."
"Were you really going to break his arm?"
"He's a vicious, sadistic sonofabitch," Hart heard himself say. "Yeah, I was going to break his arm.
Nobody calls me a motherfucker."
"He's on his way out of here," the drill instructor said.
"Before the war, there's no way an asshole like Warren would have made corporal, much less been
assigned here. But he is here, and you just made him-made a DI-look like an asshole in front of the
platoon. Maybe I should have let you break his arm we could have said it was an accident." Jesus Christ,
he's talking to me like a human being.
"I'll fix it with the Captain somehow," the drill sergeant said, obviously thinking out loud. "If I can get you
transferred to another platoon, can you keep your mouth shut about what happened?" He looked intently
at Hart, as if finally making up his mind.
Hart nodded.
"Thank you," he said.
"Stick your thanks up your ass. I'm not doing this because I like you.
I'm doing it because it's the best thing for The Corps."
(Two)
ROYAL AUSTRALIAN NAVY COASTWATCHER ESTABLISHMENT
TOWNSVILLE, QUEENSLAND
30 AUGUST 1942 The letters USMC were stenciled on both sides of the hood of the gray 1941
Studebaker President, and a stenciled Marine Corps globe and anchor insignia were on each rear door.
The driver was a Marine, a tall, muscular man in his early thirties. He wore a green fore-and-aft cap
adorned with the Marine insignia and the golden oak leaf of a major. Otherwise, he was substantially out
of uniform. Instead of the forest green tunic prescribed for officers during the winter months in Australia,
he wore a baggy, off-white, rough woolen thigh-length jacket that was equipped with a hood and was [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]