Читать книгу Dutch Clarke -- the War Years - Brian Psy.D. Ratty - Страница 16

Transportation for the Third and Fourth Platoons arrived at 1000 on Monday. My pals and I really didn’t say good-by, as we were confident I would soon be joining them after the snafu was resolved. That morning after chow, we had even laughed about my orders being held up, and the Comedian offered that our next liberty would be on him, if we liked the YMCA -- at which Kurt joked that he probably meant the YWCA.

I watched the buses pull out from the dayroom window, wondering why Sergeant Nelson hadn’t been on hand to say farewell. Turning from the window, I sat down at the desk to write a letter to Uncle Roy. The room was warm and the barracks uncommonly quiet, with the only noise coming from the gable fan that had serenaded me to sleep so many times.

The blank piece of stationary was still vacuous five minutes later. Finding the right words for Uncle Roy was difficult. How could I tell him that Semper Fi -- the Corps motto: Always Faithful -- was more than just words? How could I tell him about the pride and glory I was feeling at being an ordinary mud Marine? Knowing how he felt about the war and my enlistment, I would have to choose my words carefully.

Just then, from the front stairway, I heard footsteps running up. Turning I found Sergeant Nelson in the doorway.

He walked into the room with a puzzled look on his face. “All morning, I’ve been over at company headquarters, trying to find out what happened to your orders. They had no idea. They called the assignment officer at battalion, and he had no paperwork about your reassignment. In fact, for some reason, he didn’t even have your DD214 file. Finally, he called Regiment, and they referred him to the CO of the Second Battalion, Colonel Jacob’s office. They have all your paperwork and files. Don’t ask why, they just do. Now I’m told to have you report to Colonel Jacob’s office ASAP. Do you even know where Battalion Headquarters is?”

Stunned by his information, I finally answered, “No, Sergeant, I don’t.”

He gave me detailed directions to Headquarters, some fifteen blocks away, and off I went.

As I quickly walked towards Battalion Headquarters, my mind was reeling. As far as I knew, no recruit had ever set foot in Company Headquarters, let alone Battalion. These places were for officers and NCOs, and were off limits to privates like me. I kept thinking, What the hell is going on?

Battalion Headquarters was a large, two-story brick building, complete with flag pole and old cannons out front. Three large steps led up to the door, above which a shining brass sign read ‘2^nd Battalion – 3^rd Marine Regiment.’ The building, sparkling in the early morning sun, was rather intimidating. I must have saluted a dozen times before entering the front double doors. Wearing my utilities, I felt out of place; all of the other personnel were dressed in Class A uniforms.

There was a Corporal just inside the doors at a reception desk. As I approached, he said in a commanding voice, “State your business, Private.”

Bracing myself, I replied, “Sergeant Nelson of Dog Company ordered me to report to Colonel Jacob’s office, sir.”

Picking up the telephone, he gave me the once-over and asked, “Your name, Private?”

Within seconds of the Corporal’s phone call, I was given instructions on how to find the Colonel’s office. On the second floor, I found a long corridor that ended in front of a wooden door with a frosted-glass window. On the window, painted in black and gold, was ‘Commanding Officer, 2^nd Battalion 3rd Marine Regiment.’

Bringing myself to attention, I knocked on the hatch three times.

There was no reply.

After a long moment, I reached down and turned the knob, slowly opening the door. Inside, I found myself looking into a large office where five men were working. Four of the men, two on each side of the room, had stacks of papers on their desk. The room was filled with the sounds of the pecking typewriters. No one looked up as I entered and walked down the row of desks. At the far end of the room, the fifth man was reading from an open brown file. Approaching him I noticed a small name plate on his desk: ‘SGT MacDonald.’

Bracing myself again at the front of his desk, I said, “Private Clarke reporting to Colonel Jacob’s office as ordered, sir.”

He looked up from his paperwork and took a good, long look at me. “At ease. So, you’re Clarke. I’ll see if the Colonel will see you now.” Taking the brown file folder, he got up from his desk and moved to the door behind him.

My mind was reeling again. I’d had no idea that I would actually see the Colonel. It had been my impression that I was only going to pick up my paperwork at his office.

A few moments later, the Sergeant returned and ushered me into the CO’s office.

The office was spacious and bright. On one side stood a round table, flanked by overstuffed leather chairs. On the other side was a wall full of maps. At the very end was the Colonel’s mahogany desk, with a credenza behind it, and above the table was a large wall emblem for the Battalion. Sitting behind the massive desk was Colonel Jacobs, framed by an American flag on one side and the Battalion flag on the other. It was an impressive and daunting sight.

Smartly marching up to the front of the desk, I brought myself to attention, saluted and stated, “Private Clarke reporting as ordered, sir.”

The Colonel had his head down, reading from a file. He had an unlit cigar in his mouth, which he was chewing. I stood there at attention, with my right hand still in the air, saluting for the longest moment before he returned the salute without looking up.

Finally, he raised his gaze and took a long, hard look at me before saying, “At ease, Private.” Repositioning his body in his chair, he continued, “I’ve been in the Marines for over twenty years and I’ve seen a lot of strange things happen over these years, but this tops them all.”

The full bird Colonel was a distinguished-looking man with jet-black hair and graying temples. While his face showed some aging, his green eyes were bright, and his gaze was still strong and lively. Picking up a piece of paper from the file, he read its contents: “Effective on 8 August, 1942 at 1200 hours, Private Dutch R. Clarke, Serial Number 23344323, is promoted to the rank of Second Lieutenant United States Marine Corps Reserve.” Putting the paper down, the Colonel looked over at me and continued, “I’ve seen field commissions before, they’re not so unusual. I’ve even seen battlefield commissions where a Private is promoted to a Second Lieutenant in the middle of a fire fight. Those aren’t so unusual either. What makes this promotion so strange is that, on the morning of 8 August, you were just a recruit. By midmorning, you were a Private, and by noon a Second Lieutenant. Now that is unusual! But what makes it even more interesting is who issued and signed your orders.” Reaching down, he picked up the paper again and read, “As ordered by the Secretary of the Navy, Frank Knox.” While still holding the orders, the Colonel looked up at me and, chewing his cigar, went on, “Your orders go on to relieve you from Camp Pendleton and reassign you to the OWI command in Hollywood, California. Lieutenant, you know some powerful people in high places!”

Standing in front of the Colonel, I was stunned and speechless. One thing was for sure: Uncle Roy’s fingerprints were all over these orders. Confused by my situation, I was mad as hell at him.

The Colonel broke the silence, “Well, Lieutenant?”

Clearing my throat, I regained my voice, “Let me assure the Colonel that I don’t know any of these ‘powerful people.’ This is not something of my doing. Can I turn the commission down, sir?”

A broad smile crossed the Colonel’s face as he answered. “The Secretary of the Navy does not make suggestions, he gives orders! Do you understand that, Lieutenant?”

“Aye, aye, sir. But I don’t understand. What is the OWI command?”

Leaning back in his chair scowling, he answered, “It’s a sweet little job working for the Office of War Information. They are the propaganda arm for the military.” He turned away from me and shouted towards the door, “Mac, come in here please.” Returning his attention to me, he added, “Cocktail parties, celebrities and politicians. What a way to run a war. God help the United States of America!”

Just then, Sergeant MacDonald reappeared. The Colonel asked him, “Do you have the Lieutenant’s paperwork done?”

“No sir. It will take a few more hours to get his travel orders, transportation and meal vouchers ready. But the rest of his 214 file is done and ready.”

Turning back to me, the Colonel remarked, “Sergeant MacDonald will help you get squared away. While you’re waiting for your paperwork, the first order of business should be for you to get the correct uniforms over at the main Post Exchange. And good luck, Lieutenant, with OWI.”

He saluted me while I came to attention and saluted back.

I followed Sergeant MacDonald out to his desk, where he handed me a copy of my promotion orders and rattled off instructions. “You’ll need these to buy officer’s uniforms, Lieutenant, and you should go back over to your old barracks and pick up your duffle bag. The Marines usually want officers who’ve been promoted from the ranks to turn in their 1041 outfit but I know they just burn the used clothing, so go ahead and keep yours. I should have your paperwork done no later than 1500. Then you can get transportation to the Union Station from here. Is that okay with you, sir?”

He’d called me sir! It caught me off guard. Finally, I replied, “No problem, Sergeant. But could you direct me to the main PX?”

As I walked towards the PX, my emotions went from low to empty. Something the Colonel had said kept racing in my mind: Cocktail parties, celebrities and politicians… what a way to run a war. This was not why I had joined the Marines. And then there were my pals in the Third Platoon. Would I ever see them again? And what would they think of me being a Lieutenant? For the most part, we didn’t even like officers.

My emotions turned to anger at Uncle Roy, who had butted into my life once again. But in the end there was nothing I could do about it. I was a Lieutenant, and I was going to work for OWI. Life has many strange turns and I had to make the best of this detour.

Although there were a half dozen Post Exchanges on the base, only the main PX sold goods for officers. But one thing was certain: when I walked into the Exchange, I didn’t look much like an officer.

At first, the civilian clerk in the uniform department was dubious about my carbon-copy orders. It was only after he made a telephone call to Sergeant MacDonald that his caution turned to salesmanship. All military officers are required to purchase their uniforms and other personal items. I’m sure that, once he knew I was a real officer, he viewed me as a big ticket. Therefore, he was quite disappointed when I only bought two khaki dress uniforms and some extra bars and insignias. He couldn’t understand why I didn’t purchase a couple of woolen and formal white dress uniforms, complete with swords. And the thought of me buying only one hat and no shoes at all frustrated him even more. The fact was, my clothes in the duffle bag could do double duty, with some minor changes. For that, I could thank Sergeant MacDonald.

While some slight tailoring was done on my new uniforms, I had lunch and did some more shopping. The last item I bought was the ‘Officers Handbook,’ a manual I was sure to need.

That afternoon, walking out of the PX in one of my new uniforms with gold bars glistening in the sun, I looked like a Marine Lieutenant, but I didn’t feel like one. It took a few minutes for me to realize that the enlisted men saluting me wanted a salute back. Damn, what a strange feeling it was to be an officer!

Back at the barracks, I attached my Rifleman’s Badge on the left side of my new blouse. It was the only symbol I had that, at one time, I had been an enlisted Marine. Taking my garrison cap from my duffel bag, I pinned a gold bar on it. Laying out my remaining new uniform on my old bunk, I folded it neatly and stowed it in my bag. Placing my cap on, I was turning to leave when I found Sergeants Crane and Nelson entering the barracks bay. When their gazes reached mine, a puzzled look ran across their faces.

Walking towards me, Crane shouted, “Clarke, what the hell are you doing in that goddamn uniform? You are one sorry SOB to be impersonating at officer!”

He was still on me. I felt my face flush with anger, but not with fear. Not anymore. Glaring back at Crane, I let him move to the foot of my bunk before I replied. “It’s Lieutenant Clarke now, Sergeant Crane, and when I talk to you, you will be at attention.”

He didn’t brace. “I don’t believe your sorry ass is an officer any more than I believed that ‘bear tattoo’ bullshit. You’re one sad Marine to cross me, boy,” he screamed back.

Reaching into my blouse pocket, I pulled out my promotion orders. Bypassing Sergeant Crane I handed them to Sergeant Nelson. He looked down at the orders and then, with the biggest smile I had ever seen on his face, said, “He’s right, Sergeant Crane. And his orders are signed by the Secretary of the Navy!”

Grabbing the orders out of Nelson’s hands, Sergeant Crane yelled, “I don’t believe it.” But when he read what was written, his expression turned from anger to compliance in the blink of an eye.

With grit, I remarked, “Saved by orders. We Marines are always saved by orders. Remember those words, Sergeant Crane? I do. Now I’ll ask you again to come to attention when I talk to you.”

This time, both he and Sergeant Nelson instantly came to attention.

There was so much I wanted to say and I wanted to say it loudly…but I didn’t.

Bringing my face within inches of Crane’s, just like he had done to me so many times before, I calmly remarked, “For some reason, you have been riding my ass ever since I got here. They tell me you’re a China Marine and have helped to write most of the USMC history. You’re the old Corps and I’m the new, but we’re still both Marines. That Nip sniper out in the Pacific can’t tell the difference between the old and the new because we both bleed Marine red. Your job is to train young boys into fighting men, and for the most part it’s done well, but it can be done a hell of a lot better when you finally realize that the new breed is going to be writing our future history. So don’t piss on the men and tell them it’s raining, they know better. Do you understand what I’m saying, Sergeant?”

He paused for a moment before replying, “Aye, aye, sir. I’m sorry.”

With the low rumblings of the gable fan sounding in the background, I watched a drop of sweat roll down Crane’s twitching face as I prepared to give my first official command. “A Marine is never sorry. A sorry Marine is a dead Marine. Sergeant Crane, you are dismissed.”

He fumed under his campaign hat for a moment and then, in tribute to my rank alone, gave me a crisp salute, which I returned. Turning on his boot heel, he marched out of the bay.

As the doors swung shut, I told Sergeant Nelson to stand at ease. With Crane gone, I extended my hand towards him and said, “Before I leave, I want to shake your hand and thank you for my training.”

He was caught off-guard for a moment, but then shook my extended hand with a firm grip, and a grin.

I continued, “I have a favor to ask you, Dick. That is your first name, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“When you get a chance, will you tell the guys in the platoon what happened to me? That snafu was bigger than expected. They are sending me to the OWI Command, up in Hollywood. If you or any of the guys get up that way, please look me up.”

“I knew you’d make a good officer. I just didn’t know how fast it could happen! Don’t worry, I’ll tell the guys. I have no idea what the OWI is, but I’m sure Hollywood is a hell of a lot better place to be than some flea-infested foxhole in the Pacific.”