came to Major Macklin, and said that as of six-thirty in the morning, 30 July, the company was going to shoot some “filler shots” of utilities-clad Marines crawling through the terrain, and he thought he could get by with forty or fifty people, although more would be better.
“You just tell me how many Marines you need,” Major Macklin said, in the spirit of full cooperation.
“What I really would like to do is see if I can’t come up with some interesting faces.”
“How can I help you with that?”
“Do you suppose you could line up a bunch—say, a hundred or so—of your guys, and let me pick the ones I think would fit with the concept we’re trying for?”
“No problem at all. I’ll get right on it, and get right back to you.”
Major Macklin then called the commanding officer of the provisional replacement battalion he knew had been formed to deal with the inflow of Marines to Camp Pendleton. He explained to him what he wanted.
“There’s hardly anybody here,” he said. “The casuals we had, the regular Marines sent here to fill out the 1st Division, are just about gone, and there’s only one reserve company here. . . . They weren’t expected until August first, but they got in this morning.”
“How many men are we talking about?”
“A little over two hundred, plus five officers.”
“Have them standing by at 0700 tomorrow. A casting director will select from them the fifty or so men he needs for the Halls of Montezuma project.”
“What exactly does that mean?”
“It means for two days—possibly three, whatever it takes—the men selected will be used as extras in the motion picture.”
“Christ, Macklin, I don’t know. For one thing, there’s in-processing to be done, you know, for reclassification and assignment. And then their company commander has reserved the known distance range so they can zero their individual weapons. . . .”
“That will have to be put on hold, I’m afraid, until after the filming is completed.”
“By whose authority?”
“General Dawkins has said this project has the highest priority. Are you willing to accept that, or should I call General Dawkins and tell him you’re telling me we can’t provide the full cooperation Headquarters Marine Corps has promised these Hollywood people?”
The provisional reception battalion commander did not want to discuss anything with the assistant commanding general.
“They’ll be standing by at 0700, Macklin,” he said.
“Thank you,” Major Macklin said, and then went to find the production company’s extras casting director to tell him what had been arranged.
When Captain George F. Hart was informed that the 29 July breakfast meal would be served to his company at 0430, as at 0700, he was to have his company formed in front of battalion headquarters, in field gear, and carrying their assigned weapons, he perhaps naturally assumed that battalion headquarters was where the trucks would pick up Baker Company to transport them to one of the known distance firing ranges.
Company B, 55th Marines, was formed at 0655. At that point, the commanding officer of the Replacement Battalion (Provisional) appeared at the door to his headquarters, and when he had caught Captain Hart’s attention, signaled him to join him.
Hart turned his company over to his exec and walked to the battalion headquarters. Since they were both out of doors and under arms, Hart saluted.
“Good morning, sir,” he said.
“Good morning, Captain,” the battalion commander said. “You and your officers aren’t going to be needed for this little exercise. Turn the company over to the first sergeant. ”
“Excuse me, sir?”
“Turn your company over to your first sergeant, Captain, and dismiss your officers from the formation.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” Captain Hart said. He complied with his orders and then returned to the Replacement Battalion (Provisional) commanding officer.
“Sir, may I ask what’s going on?”
“Fifty of your men are going to be in the movies, Captain. A talent scout will shortly appear to determine which ones.”
“Sir, I don’t understand. . . .”
“That must be them now,” the battalion commander said, nodding with his head toward a Plymouth station wagon coming down the street.
The station wagon was driven by a sergeant. In the rear seat were two men, a Marine officer and a plump, wavy-haired blond man the far side of forty. The sergeant opened the door and the two men got out.
“Jesus Christ,” Captain Hart said. “Macklin!”
“Are you acquainted with Major Macklin, Captain?”
“Yes, sir, I am.”
The last time I saw that cowardly sonofabitch was when we loaded the bastard on the sub Sunfish to go to Mindanao. Killer McCoy had authority to