UNITED STATES MARINE CORPS RECRUIT DEPOT
PARRIS ISLAND, SOUTH CAROLINA
0730 HOURS 16 JUNE 1942
Sergeant John Marston Moore was unable to resist the temptation to examine himself carefully in the cheap and somewhat distorting full-length mirror mounted on the door of the closet in his room at the guest house.
He had last examined himself in a small and even more distorting mirror in the head of his barracks twenty-six hours before, after shaving. What had then looked back at him was a hollow-eyed, sunken-cheeked individual in baggy utilities. He had looked very much like every other boot in his platoon, except that he was taller than most of them, and the weight loss and musculature hardening of the physical conditioning had made him look skinnier.
What looked back at him now was a sergeant of the United States Marine Corps, wearing a stiffly starched khaki shirt and a sharply creased green uniform. He moved slightly, so that his left shoulder pointed at the mirror and looked at the reflection of his new chevrons.
Then he met his eyes in the mirror and shook his head. He looked closer. He still had what he thought of as a "boot head"-a head an electric clipper had shorn of all hair, down to the skin, in ninety seconds. His head was by no means recovered from that outrage.
With the boot head I still look like a boot.
He went to the double bed where he had passed the night, picked up his fore-and-aft cap, put that on, and examined himself in the mirror again. That was better. The cap concealed the top of his head from view.
He had woken in the bed at four o'clock, conditioned by six weeks of waking at that hour to the shrill blast of a whistle and the ritual admonition to drop his cock and pick up his socks.
For a moment, he hadn't known where he was, for the room was pitch dark. There had always been some kind of light in the squad bay, if only what came into the long, narrow, and crowded room from the head. And then he had remembered what happened, out of the blue, the previous afternoon.
They would have wondered, the guys in the platoon, what the fuck had happened to Moore, J. He was known as Moore, J. because there were two Moores in his platoon. The other one, from Connecticut, was Moore, A. Moore, J. had never learned what Moore, A.'s "A" had stood for.
"What the fuck happened to Moore, J.?"
"Who the fuck knows. They sent for him. Company, I think."
"What the fuck did he do?"
"Who the fuck knows?"
Eventually, someone's curiosity would overwhelm his good sense and he would ask, waiting until he thought one of the DI's assistants was in an unusually kind mood.
"Sir, permission to speak, Sir?"
"Speak, Asshole."
"Sir, whatever happened to Moore, J., Sir?"
"If the Marine Corps wanted you to know, Asshole, I would have told you. What are you doing, Asshole, writing a book?"
"Yes, Sir. Sorry, Sir. Thank you, Sir."
He had not been able to get back to sleep. After a while, he had gotten out of the double bed and stood at the window in his underwear and looked out at the deserted streets.
Then the sounds of mating had come through the thin walls from the next room. He remembered hearing them the night before, waking him about half past nine. Someone, he had thought, was making up for lost time.
It had been funny for a moment... and then somehow erotic, as his mind's eye filled with what was going on next door. And then finally it was terribly sad, although he didn't quite understand why that should be the case. The Marine Corps, he had noticed from signs at the Reception Desk, seemed determined that no Marine should share one of its Parris Island Enlisted Guest House rooms with a lady to whom he was not legally joined in marriage.
He hadn't thought much about sex since he'd been at Parris Island. For one thing, there hadn't been time to think about sex or anything else. For another, he had always been exhausted; he had woken up exhausted. And he thought it was possible... he had learned that at Parris Island anything was possible... that they did indeed lace the chow with saltpeter as the folklore had it.
There was a knock at the door. He looked at it in astonishment. Since he had been at Parris Island, closed doors, what few of them there were, had been flung open whenever they were noticed. The door opened. It was the Sergeant Major. "Good morning," the Sergeant Major said. "You're up."
"Yes, Sir."
The Sergeant Major smiled. He was a bald, barrel-chested man, whose blouse wore the hash marks, one for each four years of service, of two decades in the Marine Corps.
"Sergeant, sergeants do not say 'Sir' to other sergeants," he said. "Only boots do that."
Moore took off his fore-and-aft cap and rubbed his boot head.
"It'll grow back," the Sergeant Major, understanding the gesture, chuckled. "Keep your cap on when you can. Let's catch some breakfast."
Moore had been given a room on the upper floor of the two-story, newly constructed, frame building. As he followed the Sergeant Major down the stairs to the first floor, they ran into Captain Sessions coming up.
"Good morning, Sir," the Sergeant Major said. "I thought I would make sure that Sergeant Moore got his breakfast."
"My mission, too," Sessions said. "The corporal in the BOQ said it would be all right for me to eat in the snack bar."
"Yes, Sir. It's run by the Base Exchange. Neutral territory."
"Good morning, Moore. You packed?"
"Yes, Sir."
"Then let's eat."
"Would I be in the way, Sir?" the Sergeant Major asked.
"Not at all," Sessions said.
"I've got a staff car, too, Sir. I thought I could take you and Sergeant Moore to the airfield. And then you could turn Colonel Westman's car loose."
"Fine," Sessions said.
"I always feel sorry for colonels who have to walk, Sir," the Sergeant Major said, solemnly.
"I'm sure you do, Sergeant Major," Sessions said, and then laughed. "Take Moore to the snack bar, and I'll go tell the colonel's driver he can go."
The breakfast fare was simple, but the eggs and the hash-brown potatoes were served on plates, and they sat at chairs at four-place tables covered with white oil cloth, and the china coffee mug had a handle; and that combined to make it, Moore thought, the most elegant meal he'd had since he left Philadelphia.
And there was something else. A newspaper. The Charleston Gazette. He hadn't seen a newspaper since coming to Parris Island, either.
There was a photograph on the front page of a tall, skinny American officer, a lieutenant general, Moore could now tell. He was seated at a table on what looked like a porch, wearing a tieless, mussed khaki shirt. There were three other American officers sitting with him. On the other side of the table were Japanese officers.
JAPS RELEASE PHOTO OF WAINWRIGHT SURRENDER, the headline over the picture said. Under it, the caption read: "War Department officials confirmed that Lieutenant General Jonathan M. Wainwright, U.S. Commander in the Philippines, sits (center, left) in this photograph, which the Japanese claim depicts General Wainwright's surrender to Japanese General Mashaharu Homma (center, right) May 5. The photo was obtained via neutral Sweden."