The way it turned out, the way Lieutenant Baker got past Captain McQueen was this: everybody from the Fifth Regiment who hadn’t qualified at the rifle range in less than a year was pulled off the line and sent to the range. Lieutenant Baker went to the colonel with a list of men who had not qualified from our own platoon and although it should not have been, my name was on that list. The reason I had a chevron on my collar had to do with the fact that I shot the highest score in my boot-camp platoon. That chevron separated me from being the lowest thing on the planet, a private in the Marine Corps. Being a private in the USMC is a couple of notches lower than being an untouchable in India—lower than a harijan haricot with a case of AIDS, wet leprosy, and halitosis. You could be an E-1 in the Army, Navy, Coast Guard, or Air Force but you would not be so low. In 1964 a private in the Army could just as well be some guy from Yale who just earned a doctorate in astrophysics and got drafted. A man could join the Navy and actually see the world, or a man might join the Air Force because of the food or training—but the Marines? I already listed the reasons: forced by law, insanity, and two-timed by your woman.

The next morning a troop transport left for the range at 0510 hours. Lieutenant Baker, Mississippi, and myself were on that truck and as we waited for dawn in the freezing chill, huddled in our lined field jackets and blowing on our frozen fingers, a range coach came by with a carbide lamp to blacken our rifle sights and flash suppressors. As soon as the sun cracked the horizon, the field jacket came off and sweat began to bead on my forehead. Two hours later it was running down the crack of my ass.