Читать книгу Dutch Clarke -- the War Years - Brian Psy.D. Ratty - Страница 17

Sadly I replied, “Maybe so.”

The trip north was delayed by almost three hours. Our train was twice moved onto rail sidings as long freight trains carrying war materials passed us by. Even in the dark, I could make out the silhouette of flatbed cars loaded with tanks, trucks and artillery, all heading south. Their destination was San Diego and then on to the Pacific…the direction I should have been heading. Instead, my destination was north and, as Colonel Jacob had said, to ‘Cocktail parties, celebrities and politicians.’ My prospects looked bleak.

Arriving at the Hollywood station at 2300, I asked a cabbie about hotels on Melrose Avenue. He told me that rooms were hard to find in Hollywood, but that I could try the YMCA in downtown LA or sack out in the train station, which is what I did. The night on the hard wooden bench was long and uncomfortable, so when Reveille rolled around, I was ready to take a shower and hit the road.

At 0800, a cab dropped me off at the address on my orders, 5555 Melrose Avenue, but a large sign across the entrance read ‘Paramount Studios.’ Could this be another snafu?

There was a small guardhouse, alongside massive iron gates, which controlled the entrance, so I went there and inquired. An older gentleman in a guard’s uniform was sipping coffee just inside the open sliding door.

Dropping my duffle bag and removing my orders from my pocket, I said, “Pardon me, sir. I have orders to report to OWI offices at this address. Can that be right?”

Setting his coffee down, he joined me in the open doorway and read my orders. Shaking his head, he answered, “I’ve never heard of any OWI outfit on this lot, but let me make a phone call.” Stepping back into the guardhouse, he dialed a few numbers and was soon talking to someone on the other end.

Turning back to me, he asked, “Do you know what OWI stands for? Is it a production company or a union office or what?”

“I was told it’s the Office of War Information.”

Returning to the phone, he passed on the information and then, smiling and nodding he hung up the phone.

Just as he returned to the doorway, a long, red convertible pulled up to the gate.

Looking over and waving to the driver, the old guard pressed a button and said, “Good morning, Mr. Gable.” With this the gate rolled open and the car entered the lot. Turning to me, he continued, “You’re with the Navy boys, over in the old garden cottages. Around here, we know them as the ‘Party Army.’ They have their own gate behind Stage Five, but you can walk there from here. Let me give you some directions.”

Throwing my duffle bag over my shoulder, I started the long walk to the garden cottages. Along the way, I passed many sound stages and marveled at the size of these buildings; they were bigger than airplane hangers. The whole area was a beehive of activity, with people coming and going, dressed in all types of costumes. Weaving between them were other people, pushing carts that had painted props and backdrops, while still others pushed large lights and manhandled piles of electrical cable. It reminded me that Hollywood was still dealing with fantasy, while the rest of the world was dealing with war. Was that good or bad? I had no idea.

Just across the street from Stage Five was a long row of white stucco cottages with red tile roofs. Behind this row was another, separated by a parking lot. Each little house had a patch of green grass and a small walkway lined with flowers, leading to a front door. It was a pleasant setting, worthy of a Hollywood set designer.

The first bungalow had a small sign in front that simply read ‘#1 OWI HQ.’ Placing my kit next to the front door, I straightened my uniform and entered the cottage.

Inside, I found a small room barely large enough for the desk that filled it. Behind this desk, a mature woman was talking on the telephone. Seeing me standing in the doorway, she waved me in with a smile, said goodbye to the caller, and hung up. “Good morning, Lieutenant. How may I help you?”

“I’m Lieutenant Dutch Clarke, reporting for duty, ma’am.”

“Oh, you’re here to see Commander Knox. He’s the boss in our little community. He should be in the office anytime now. He usually rolls in about nine. Take a seat in our one lonely chair. It shouldn’t be long. How about some coffee?”

“No thank you, ma’am.”

This lady could talk and talk, and she did, nonstop. Luckily, Commander Knox joined us a few minutes later. I jumped to attention as he entered the office, and he smiled and told me to stand at ease. He was wearing his summer white uniform with a blouse that had three rows of ribbons and the insignia of a submariner.

As instructed, I followed him into his office and deposited my personnel file and orders on his desk.

Sliding behind his desk, he started to review my paperwork. He was short, older and heavy-shouldered. Judging by his graying temples, gray eyes and weathered face, I placed his age in the late forties.

Finally, he looked up at me. “Your paperwork says you’re a born leader, an expert rifleman, with a background in survival. Those are all excellent skills for a mud Marine, but not necessarily the traits OWI is looking for. But then I looked down and saw who signed your orders, and far be it from me to argue with the Secretary of the Navy.” Putting down my file, he continued, “This show is mostly Navy, but we do have a small contingent of Marines, commanded by Lt. Colonel Ford. That’s where you’ll be assigned. I’ll let Ford find your hidden skills. Our mission here is simple -- we’re to promote and provide military information to the Hollywood community. We are the face of the United States Navy to millions of theatergoers across this nation and around the world, and it’s a job worth doing well. In the last war, I was a submarine commander, and after that I was a film producer for MGM. When this war broke out, the Navy needed publicity more than they needed fat old submariners like myself, so I now command OWI. Most of my people are retreads from WW1 or have entered OWI direct from civilian life with special talents or skills. They are writers, editors, publicists, and photographers. The hundred-plus people that work for me take their mission seriously and do a damn good job. Do you understand, Lieutenant?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Leave your DD214 file here, but take a copy of your orders and report to Colonel Ford over in Bungalow Seven, and good luck, Lieutenant.”

Bracing myself, I gave the commander a sharp salute. “Aye, aye, sir.”

My action caught him off guard. Finally, with a puzzled look on his face, he half-heartily returned my salute and mumbled, “Dismissed…Marine.”

Cottage Seven was across the parking lot and down two. In front of the bungalow was a small sign that read ‘#7 USMC Publicity.’ Once again, I deposited my duffle bag next to the front door and entered. The first thing I noticed was the smell of flowers…or was that perfume? This room seemed larger and had two chairs in front of a small empty desk, with wooden filing cabinets behind. On top of the desk was a typewriter, some small, framed pictures and an assortment of files and papers.

Just then, from a hallway at one side of the desk, a woman appeared. She was carrying a coffee cup and looked startled to see me standing in the office. “Sorry, I didn’t hear you come in. I was in the back, getting some coffee. What can I do for you, Lieutenant?” she said in a low voice that was almost a whisper.

It wasn’t the flowers I had smelled, it was this stunning lady.

“I’m Dutch Clarke, reporting for duty. Commander Knox sent me over from HQ to report to Colonel Ford.”

“I see.” She smiled as she slipped behind her desk. “The Colonel is here but he’s a little indisposed right now,” she continued softly. “We only heard yesterday that you were being assigned to us, and I’m afraid we are a little disorganized.”

Smiling back at her, I said, “I understand, ma’am. I only heard yesterday that I was being assigned here, too.”

“Don’t get me wrong. The Colonel needs the help. We were just surprised how quickly this happened, since we only made the request last week.”

She had a very special look, more handsome than beautiful. Her figure was trim and full, and the clothes she wore looked expensive. There was a streak of gray or blonde mixed in with her auburn hair, and after a closer look at her face, I placed her age in the late thirties. Her warm smile and twinkling hazel eyes lit up her face.

Just then, from behind the closed door at the rear of her desk, came the muffled but loud voice of a man. “What the hell is going on out there? I can’t get any goddamn sleep with all that noise…”

Just then, the door opened, revealing an older man dressed only in old-fashioned riding pants and a dirty white tank top. He was startled clearly to see me standing there, staring at him.

The lady looked his way. “This is Lieutenant Clarke, Colonel. Commander Knox sent him over.”

This was Lt. Colonel Ford? Bringing myself to attention, I said, “Reporting for duty, sir.”

He looked me over for a moment, then answered while turning back into his office. “Come in, Lieutenant, and bring your orders.”

At first his office was dark, but soon the Colonel had all three of the window shutters open, flooding the little room with light. Under the window stood a long, red-leather couch, with pillows and a blanket at one end. Across from the couch was a large wooden desk, with rows of book shelves behind it. The room smelled of stale smoke and brandy, just like my grandfather’s office, back in New Jersey. Bracing myself in front of the desk, I handed the Colonel my orders.

“Stand at ease. We weren’t expecting you today.” Looking down and reading my orders, he reached into his desk and brought out a cigarette and a white ivory holder. Wetting one end of the cigarette with his lips, he fitted it into the holder and lit it.

In the warm morning light, I could see that he was older than Commander Knox, somewhere in his fifties. His hair was mostly gray, with the exception of his eye brows, which were jet black and made him look distinguished. The Colonel was a short fireplug of a man neither fat nor slender. His face was round, with a large nose, but his eyes were clear and as dark as a barrel of crude. I liked him immediately.

Finally, with his gaze still trained on the page, and white smoke rising around his head, he said, “You run with some powerful folks, Lieutenant. I have never seen a set of orders signed by the big boss himself. I’m impressed!” Putting the papers down, he looked up at me and continued, “We only put in for some help last week, and now you show up. How do you suppose the Secretary of the Navy heard about my request?”

“I don’t know, sir. I have never met the gentleman. Last week at this time, I was just a Marine boot awaiting advance weapons training. Now, for some reason, I’m here.”

“Nothing moves this fast in the Navy…nothing but trouble. But, according to the Secretary of the Navy, here you are and here you will stay.” Chewing and puffing on the cigarette holder, the Colonel went on, “I run a laid-back outfit here, so I’ll call you Dutch and you can call me Colonel. We have an important job to do, and I want us to work as a team. Did Commander Knox give you that bullshit speech about being the ‘face of the Navy’ to millions of people?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, that’s just fine for him and his people, but from now on, you and I are the face of the Marines for these Hollywood types. If I have my way, we won’t be playing second fiddle to the Navy anymore. It’s going to be our own show, a Marine show. Do you understand, Dutch?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. I’ll go over your duties in more detail later. I’ve got a shitty schedule for today, so we’ll have to do it tomorrow.” Turning towards the door, he shouted, “Maggie, come in here, please.”

Within seconds, the front office lady was standing in the doorway.

“Dutch, this is Margaret Meede -- or, as I call her, Maggie. She’s my secret weapon and Girl Friday, and has been so for years. She’ll help you get squared away.”

Turning to Maggie he continued, “I’m going to try to get some sleep again. I have a luncheon at noon, so don’t let me sleep past eleven-thirty. And, Maggie, get a table at the Derby for Dutch and me for tomorrow, and see if you can help the Lieutenant find some living quarters.” Turning back to me, he concluded, “You’re in good hands. I’ll see you tomorrow for lunch.”

Snapping to attention and saluting, I answered, “Aye, aye, sir,” and smartly turned on my heels to leave.

Getting up from his desk, he walked to the door with me and put a hand on my shoulder. “Dutch, that military stuff is just fine when the brass is around, but not for everyday…okay?”

“Yes…sir.”

Back in Margaret’s office, she remarked, “I’m afraid you didn’t catch the Colonel at his best. He had a late night at a film premier and then played polo with Jack Warner at six this morning. He works very hard for the Marines and I’m pleased you’re here to help him. Did you just get in, this morning?”

“No, ma’am, last night. Would that be Jack Warner of Warner Brothers Studio?”

“Yes…but please don’t keep calling me ma’am. You call me Maggie and I’ll call you Dutch, if that’s okay.”

“Okay.”

Maggie kept asking questions until she found out that I had slept at the train station, the night before, and had made my way to the studio without breakfast. She said her first mission was to find me a place to stay, which might take some doing, as apartments were hard to come by. She suggested that, while she made a few phone calls, I might want to step out for some breakfast. She went on to explain that there was a small Navy canteen at the end of the row of garden cottages, in the basement of the old photo studio building. “The food is good and the prices are right for OWI employees. Just tell them you’re attached to us now.”

As I made my way towards the photo building, my brain was on overload with information. Neither Commander Knox nor Colonel Ford had any idea why I was here. I had nothing to offer in the way of special talents they needed, and what they offered, I didn’t want. And that part that Colonel Ford had said, about ‘here you are and here you will stay,’ scared the hell out of me. There had to be a way that I could get back into the war.

The Photo Studio was a two-story white stucco building with the same red roof tiles as the cottages. Just inside the main entrance was a stairwell with a sign and little arrow pointing down that read ‘Navy Personnel Only’. Downstairs, I found a short hallway with open double doors at the end. Inside the doors was a small cafeteria with fifteen or twenty round tables and chairs on one side and a serving line on the other. There were only a few people sitting at the tables.

At the front of the line was a stack of metal trays, utensils, napkins and plastic glasses, just like the chow hall back at Camp Pendleton. The only difference was the sign above, which read: ‘Breakfast 0700-1000 .35 cents…Lunch 1100-1400 .50 cents...Navy Personnel Only’.

Paying for a military meal would be a new experience for me. Taking what I needed, I moved down the short, empty chow line. Behind the line was a Second Class Petty Officer and one seaman dressed in cook’s clothing.

Approaching the Petty Officer I smiled at him. He was an extraordinary looking man, with olive skin, a square jaw and jet-black eyes. He was tall and had a muscular body with near-perfect bone-white teeth. “Welcome, Lieutenant. You’re a new face here. What can we do for you?”

“I just reported for duty with Colonel Ford in Cottage Seven. Is it too late to get some eggs?”

“Not at all, Lieutenant,” he said, and slid a yellow paper across the line. “Here’s the menu. Take a look and I’ll get my roster to log you in.”

When he returned, he took my name and my order, which he then handed off to the seaman by the grill. The PO explained that the cost of meals would be deducted from my pay on payday. With a grin, he added, “That way, my patrons don’t have to fumble for change or worry about the tip.” Extending his hand, he continued, “I’m Petty Officer Jack Malone. Welcome to my canteen.”

I took his hand and shook it. “Thanks.”

Looking more closely, I noticed his curly black hair and decided he might be Negro…but I wasn’t sure, because he didn’t have the strong facial features of most colored people. In any event, he had a special way about him, a personality that was both confident and straightforward.

He returned a second time, and set a glass of orange juice on my tray. “Can I ask you a question, Lieutenant?”

I nodded.

“Did you come up from the ranks, sir?”

The question caught me off guard. “Yes, I guess you could say that…but how did you know?”

“That gold rifleman’s badge. You don’t see many officers wearing that. It’s impressive. Take a seat, sir, and I’ll holler out when your breakfast is ready…And, Lieutenant, the coffee pot is always on. It’s free, and you’re always welcome to it.”

I nodded my thanks, liking Petty Officer Malone right away.

After breakfast, I retuned to the office, where Maggie was pleased to announce that she had found me an apartment only a mile from the studio. The landlord had told her it was a one-bedroom with a southern exposure, and that it rented for only forty dollars a month. Of this amount, the Marines would pay twenty-five dollars a month. She typed out the directions and told me to take the rest of the day off and be back at nine the next morning. Thanking her I said goodbye. Then I grabbed my duffle bag, swung it over my shoulder, and began walking towards the address.

The walk was refreshing on such a warm sunny morning, with the streets crowded with people doing their business. Many who passed me tipped their hats and gave me a smile, and I felt proud to be wearing my country’s uniform. But also I felt guilty about being on this busy thoroughfare on such a bright, beautiful day while other Marines were fighting in distant lands. There had to be a way for me to join them.

When I met the landlord at the address, he showed me the furnished, second-story apartment. It was bigger, brighter and better than I had expected. The main room contained the living and dining areas, as well as a small kitchen. Off this room was an oversized bedroom with a bath. The apartment was even equipped with an electric refrigerator, stove and radio. After my living conditions of the past year, and then the barracks, these quarters were heaven. I signed the rental agreement and gave the landlord two months’ rent in advance.

After unpacking and a quick trip to the corner market for some light grocery shopping, I sat down at the kitchen table to write letters to Laura and Uncle Roy. My letter to Laura was full of positive news and hope for the future. I even speculated that we might be able to see each other, with my new station in Hollywood. But deep down I knew how hard it would be for her to get air transportation from Alaska without military priority, and then what about the baby? Still, it was a good dream.

My letter to Roy had a much different tone. He had used his influence with the Navy to intervene in my life. I knew that, in his heart, he had done what he felt was best, but what was best for him was not best for me, and I let him know it. I closed the letter with a simple statement: ‘It’s my life, so let me find my own way, whatever way that might be.’ Knowing Uncle Roy, I wasn’t sure the letter would do any good, but I had to try.

After posting the letters, I came back, turned on the radio and opened a beer. As I stretched out on the couch, soft music flooded the room. Shadows of twilight danced across the walls, making strange patterns, and they were the last thing I remembered as I drifted off to sleep.

Returning to the cottage at nine, the next morning, I found Maggie busy working in a small room off her office. Thanking her for her help, I told her eagerly about my apartment.

She seemed pleased to hear how much I liked my quarters, and she explained that the little room she was working on would be my new office. It was tiny, about eight feet across and ten feet deep, with one small window that looked out onto the parking lot. Someone had supplied a gray metal desk and filing cabinet, and those two objects filled most of the little room. In front of the desk, there was just enough room for a single chair.

Maggie had been busy cleaning and stocking the office with supplies. Standing there, looking at the little office, I was saddened. The last thing in the world I wanted was a desk and an office.

She seemed to pick up on my mood. With an inquiring look, she remarked, “I know it’s not much now, Dutch, but with some flowers and the desk lamp I have in the back, it’ll be okay.”

Smiling at her, I replied, “It’s just fine Maggie. You’ve done a splendid job. I just can’t see myself fighting this war from behind that damn gray flat top. Still, as the Colonel said, ‘Here I am and here I’ll stay.’

Maggie stared at me for a moment, then excused herself.

Sliding myself behind the desk, I ran my hands over its cool metal top, then opened and closed some of the drawers. Maggie soon reappeared with coffee and a beautiful colored-glass desk lamp. After fussing around for a few more minutes she sat down in the chair and commented, “Sometimes, Dutch, wars are fought with more than just guns and bullets. That’s what we do here. We fight for the hearts and souls of the American people, so they know just what young men like you are doing to win this war. It’s a big job worth doing right. I hope you’ll come to understand this.”

As she was speaking, I found myself thinking how beautiful and straightforward she was. Her words sounded genuine, as if they truly came from her heart as much as her head. My remarks about the war and the desk had disappointed her, and for this I apologized.

For the next two hours and three cups of coffee, Maggie and I got to know each other better. She answered many of my questions about Commander Knox, the OWI organization, and how our little Marine detachment fit in. When she talked about Colonel Ford, it was always with deep respect and admiration. He had been one of the true heroes of the first war, going to Europe as a Marine Second Lieutenant and returning two years later as a Major and Company Commander. After the war, he became one of the most powerful public relations people in Hollywood. To hear her tell it, he was individually responsible for the careers of such Hollywood film stars as Errol Flynn, Katharine Hepburn and Jimmy Stewart, to name just a few. He knew the town’s players and how to make those players work for our mission -- a mission, she emphasized, as important as guns and butter. Later in our conversation, she told me that the little white cottages that were the OWI offices had been used as bungalows by movie stars back in the days of silent films. Our building had, at one time, been the cottage used by Mary Pickford. Maggie’s office had been the parlor, the Colonel’s office had been her bedroom, and my little office had been the maids’ quarters. The bigger the star, the bigger the cottage, and we were lucky to have one of the biggest.

Maggie also gave me a tour of the kitchen, laundry facilities and large dressing room/bathroom behind the offices. In the late 1930’s, the studio constructed new cottages on the other side of the lot and had planned to demolish these to make way for another sound stage, but then the war broke out. Uncle Sam now leased the buildings for a dollar per year for the duration. The whole story brought a new perspective to my surroundings, and I found myself thinking, If only these walls could talk.

Time seemed to slip away, but then it always does when you’re enjoying good company. At one point, in mid-sentence, Maggie jumped to her feet, saying, “Gosh, Dutch, its eleven-thirty and you have to be at the Derby by noon.” She paused for a moment, looking at me, and then continued, “Do you have any idea what the Brown Derby is?”

Looking up at her, I smiled. “I’m guessing it’s a restaurant, since I’m meeting the Colonel there for lunch.”

“It’s more than just a restaurant, Dutch, It’s where the who’s who of this town meet and eat. You can’t be late.”

“Can you give me directions? Can I walk there in a half hour? If not, please call a taxi for me.”

Now she was smiling at me. “Walk? Taxi? No one walks in Hollywood, and cabs are harder to find than apartments. Come on. I’ll drive you there while we talk about getting you a car.”

She drove a 1940 black Buick two-door. It was a luxurious car and still smelled new. On the way, she asked if I could afford a car and, if so, what my budget might be. With the war on, only used cars were available, and even they could be hard to find, but she had a friend who might be able to help me out.

I told her that I had no idea what cars cost, but that I could afford whatever she thought was reasonable.

She turned to me with a puzzled smile. “Really? How refreshing. I didn’t realize Second Lieutenants made that kind of money.”

Looking back at her with a grin, I said, “You might call it an enlistment bonus my family gave me. Whatever you think is fair will be okay with me.”

When we pulled up in front of the Brown Derby restaurant, I started to get out of the car, but Maggie reached over and touched my arm, stopping me. When I turned back to look at her, she remarked, “Break a leg, Dutch. You’re going to be great at this job. I’ll see you later.”

I returned her smile, slid out of the car, and watched her pull away. Maggie was one amazing and resourceful lady, and I could see why she was Colonel Ford’s secret weapon. The only thing I didn’t understand was the ‘break a leg’ part.

The Brown Derby could only have fit into the fantasy world of Hollywood. Part of the building was shaped like an upright derby hat some three stories tall, fashioned out of brown-painted concrete. It was a bizarre-looking structure, with a blinking neon sign on top. Walking through the main door I thought, If this is where the celebrities and politicians hang out, my country is in trouble. A stuffy-looking man, dressed in a tux, guarded the dining room entrance and looked down his nose at me as I approached.

“May I help you, Lieutenant?”

“Yes. I’m here to meet Colonel Ford for lunch.”

“Colonel Ford?” He paused, looking uncertain, then said, “Oh, yes. Mr. Lennie Ford. He’s at his table.” He snapped his fingers.

A waiter appeared and was told to take me to Mr. Ford’s table in the California Room. This particular dining room was located under the concrete derby. The room was massive, with tables on the main level arranged around a small dance floor and bandstand. The second level was three or four steps up, and had rows of tables with white linens and silverware. All of them were taken by people drinking and talking.

The last level up had a long row of leather booths, all facing out into the room. Here I found Colonel Ford sitting alone, in uniform, sipping a martini. As I slid into the booth, the waiter handed me a menu, which I placed on the table.

“I hope I’m not late, Colonel.”

“No, you’re fine. I got here a little early, to go over your 214 file. Did you have any trouble finding the Derby?”

“No, sir. Miss Meede drove me…or is it Mrs. Meede?”

“It’s Miss. That was nice of her. I was afraid you might get lost in such a big city, after your year in the wilderness. Someday you will have to tell me why any young man would waste a year of his life living in a rainforest, like Tarzan.” He nodded at the menu on the table. “You better take a look. It takes forever to get chow here.”

“Yes, sir.”

Looking at the items offered on the menu, I couldn’t help thinking that the boys back at Camp Pendleton would have loved this place. The Derbyburger was two bucks, and you could order it cooked or raw! I had never seen food or prices so outrageous.

As I was perusing the list of options, a distinguished-looking gentleman approached our booth. “Lennie? Is that you? I’ve never seen you in uniform. You look grand. You should do it more often. Are you coming to the premiere tonight? If so, let’s have a drink afterwards. I have a project you might find interesting.”

“Yes, I’ll be there, Harry. See you after the show, at Carmen’s.”

Nodding approval, Harry continued on to the next booth, to talk to the people at that table.

The Colonel turned to me. “That’s Harry Watt of RKO. He always has a project he thinks I might like, but all the scripts so far have been about the Navy or the Army. He just doesn’t understand that a film about Marines is the only project I’m interested in.”

The Colonel did look good in his uniform, with his silver oak leaves and four rows of colorful battle ribbons on his chest. But these awards weren’t just colorful; they told me the measure of the man. I could make out the Navy Cross, Bronze Star and Purple Heart, to name just three of the twelve. Those ribbons were only given to men who had performed with courage in battle. He and they were impressive.

Just then, the waiter appeared to take our order. The Colonel ordered his ‘usual’ and another martini, while I ordered the Cobb Salad, with an iced tea.

The Colonel glared across the table at me. “I don’t like to drink alone. Have something stronger.”

“Yes, sir.” Turning back to the waiter, I amended, “I’ll have a Falstaff beer.”

The waiter disappeared as quickly as he had come.

Looking back at the Colonel, I commented, “They all seem to know you here, sir.”

“They should. I have lunch here two or three times a week. Hell, I was here the first day it opened, back in ’26. I even helped convince Jack Warner to put up the money to expand the place, a few years back.”

“They seem surprised to see you in uniform, sir.”

”Yeah, the clowns around this town think a uniform is something you get from the wardrobe department. But enough about me. Let’s talk about our mission, and how you’ll fit it.”

Thus began my briefing about our mission and what the Colonel expected of me. The bottom line was that roughly twenty million people went to the movies, each week. The four major studios -- MGM, Paramount, Warner Brothers and RKO -- produced over two hundred feature films a year, to satisfy this audience’s appetite. In 1941, only a handful of those films had been produced with a military story line. This year, 1942, over thirty-five productions would deal with the war, and the Colonel speculated that in 1943 that number would double or triple.

It was our job to make as many of these films as possible have a Marine theme and, when they did, to make sure the depiction was accurate. To accomplish this mission we would wine and dine the studio big shots. The Colonel would do the actual wining and dining, while I did the leg work and follow-up.

Another part of our mission was to stage public relations events with a variety of celebrities and Marines. Those events would be covered by the press and could help with recruitment. As a case in point, a week from Saturday, the USO Hollywood Canteen would have an ‘All-Marine Night.’ The Canteen had already had All-Navy, All-Army and All-Air Corps nights, so this would be the first for the USMC. The party would be hosted by a movie-star-turned-Marine by the name of Glenn Ford, along with any other top celebrities we could enlist. The hosts would entertain and serve the men, while cameras documented the party. Footage of the event would end up in newsreels, newspapers and magazines throughout America.

As the Colonel remarked, “Mix Hollywood celebrities with Marines and we’ll stampede the boys to the recruiting stations.”

The final part of our mission was to help sell war bonds. Working again with the celebrities and some selected politicians, we would stage different events to promote and sell the bonds. A few weeks earlier, OWI had staged a parade of a dozen movie stars down Hollywood Boulevard and had sold over two million dollars’ worth of bonds. We would conduct this same sort of event, on a smaller scale, at department stores, restaurants, factories, and movie premieres. Our job was to enlist the celebrities, select the venues and stage the events.

During this ninety-minute briefing, I consumed three beers while the Colonel belted down three martinis, two of which were paid for by different people who stopped by the table to chat. The Colonel seemed to know everyone, and everyone seemed to like him.

As he finished the briefing, he looked across the table at me. “Well, there you have it, Dutch. It’s a hell of an opportunity for a young man like you. You’ll be going places, seeing things and working with movies stars that most people only dream of meeting. But I have to warn you, this town is full of people who lie, cheat and steal. I call them the ‘land mines,’ and unfortunately most of these land mines are the celebrities themselves. Keep your eyes and ears open, and only believe half of what you see or hear. Got it?”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

“Oh…and one more thing. When you get back to the office, you will find a new camera outfit on your desk. I ordered it last month and it came in yesterday, just like you. Must be destiny. From now on, you’ll be doing all the photography for our events. Before you and the camera arrived, I had to go to Commander Knox to get a photographer. He’d send me a Navy Signalman, which was fine, but the pictures that came back were always full of Navy personnel. I want our pictures full of Marine personnel so, from now on, you’ll be doing the photography.”

With a sinking feeling in my gut, I looked across at the Colonel, trying to absorb what he had just said. Finally, I broke the silence. “Colonel, I know nothing about photography! The only camera I ever used was a Kodak Brownie, and most of those pictures were blurry. I’m sure you can do a lot better than me, in this town full of photographers.”

Frowning back at me, he said, “Well, Dutch, you better learn and learn fast. Consider it on-the-job training. And I expect all my pictures to be in focus. Do you understand, Lieutenant?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Talk to Maggie. Maybe she can help you find a photography instructor. Do you have any questions?”

Trying to change the subject to something lighter, I said, “Yes sir. I was wondering how you met Maggie, and what she did before going to work for you.”

An enormous smile raced across his face, “She’s quite a gal. I met her in 1928, over at MGM. She was twenty-six then, doing some dancing and walk-on roles. I used her in a couple projects and thought she was a hell of a lot more intelligent than most dancers. One day, I told her I needed help staging an event, and she volunteered. That was the last time I needed to look for help. She’s been with me ever since. As I said, she’s my secret weapon.” He paused a moment, and his smile turned serious as he continued, “She’s too old for you, Dutch. And anyway, I don’t think she likes men in the amorous way. Well, we have to get out of here. I have an appointment at two-thirty.”

His reply caught me off-guard, since I hadn’t been asking about her for personal reasons. And that remark about not liking men ‘in the amorous way…’ What the hell was that all about? I felt my face go flush with embarrassment, and didn’t know what to say, other than, “Aye, aye, sir.”

As I looked up to slide out of the booth, a lady approached our table, shouting, “Lennie, darling, is that you? God, you are one good-looking soldier!”

She was a vivacious woman wearing a tight, revealing, yellow sundress with more cleavage than I had ever seen. From the layers of makeup on her attractive face, I knew she had to be a celebrity.

The Colonel stood up and threw his arms around her in a big hug. “Carole! How nice to see you. Don’t you look spectacular in that dress!”

Carole turned her face my way and asked, “Lennie, who is this fine-looking young soldier with you?”

“This is Lieutenant Dutch Clarke. He just came to work for me. Lieutenant, this, of course, is Ms. Carole Lane. I’m sure you know her from all of her films.”

Getting on my feet, I fumbled for an answer, since I had never seen or heard of her before. Finally, I lied, “Yes, I certainly do. It’s very nice meeting you, Miss. Lane.”

When she extended her hand to me, I didn’t know whether to kiss it or shake it, so I did the latter.

“Sweetie,” she said, “you can call me Carole.” She smiled and winked at me.

I could feel the eyes of people around our table staring, and it made me feel uncomfortable.

Finally, the Colonel asked, “So, Carole, are you coming to our party at the Hollywood Canteen, a week from Saturday? We really need a sexy star like you to entertain all the Marines that’ll be there. What do you say?”

Reaching out again, she recaptured my hand and asked, “Will you be there, Dutch?”

“He’ll be there,” the Colonel stated before I could speak. “He’s our official photographer.”

“Oh, I love photographers. You can count on me, Lennie.” Turning to leave, she stopped and turned back to me. “See you there, Dutch. Maybe you can take some new publicity photos for me. God knows, I need them!”

“Yes, Miss Lane. I’ll look forward to seeing you again.”

As she walked away, most of the eyes in the restaurant watched her jiggle across room.

Looking back at the Colonel, I remarked, “That’s quite a woman…”

He whispered, “Remember those ‘land mines’ I talked about? Well, she’s one of them. When she reached thirty, her career started rolling downhill like a snowball, so be careful. The older actresses, like Carole, love young bucks like you. They’ll wear you like a trophy and throw you out with the trash.”

It took almost a half hour to hail a cab on Wilshire Boulevard. Maggie was right: depending on cabs was a fool’s errand. Leaning back in the seat, I rolled down the window and let the warm air wash over my face. My head was still spinning with information and details that I didn’t fully understand. What kind of shit hole had I fallen into? I worked for a command that believed propaganda was more powerful than bullets, my commanding officer had martinis running through his veins, and I was working in a town full of liars and cheats. And, to top it all off, I was supposed to be thrilled about the whole thing, and show my appreciation by taking pictures!

I hadn’t joined the Marines to meet movie stars, drink cocktails or become a photographer. I had joined to defend my country and kill Japs! Colonel Jacobs had been right when he described this duty: ‘Cocktail parties, celebrities and politicians, a hell of a way to run a war. God help the United States of America.’