Читать книгу Dutch Clarke -- the War Years - Brian Psy.D. Ratty - Страница 19

The office was quiet and deserted when I returned. As promised, on top of my desk was a large case that held the new camera outfit. On top of the case was a note from Maggie, saying she had some errands to run for the Colonel and would see me the next morning. She ended the note with an interesting comment: ‘Here’s the opportunity the Colonel talked about. Maybe you can find your future with this camera.’

Sitting down at the desk, I pondered her remarks, as I had no idea how opportunities, futures and cameras might work together. Opening the case, I found an olive-drab folded box-camera, a large tube with a polished reflector, and many other assorted accessories. The instruction manual was neatly folded in the case lid. Taking the hundred-and-twenty-page manual out, I read the cover: 4x5 Speed Graphic Camera Model 1940. Shaking my head in disbelief, I returned the manual to the case, closed the lid and snapped it shut. Sitting in the quiet office, I felt lost. How could I possibility learn photography in a week? Still, I knew the manual was the starting point, so I decided to walk to the cafeteria for some coffee and a little reading.

Lugging the heavy camera case into the canteen, I found an Oriental cook behind the line, cleaning the stove.

“Hello Lieutenant. Sorry, we’re closed.”

“I just came in for some coffee. Is the pot still on?”

“Sure. It might not be fresh but it’s hot and black.”

Walking over to the pot, I poured a cup and asked, “Is the boss still here?”

“Black Jack? Yeah, he’s still here. Do you want me to get him for you, sir?”

“Are we talking about Petty Officer Malone? I don’t know him as Black Jack.”

“Sorry, sir. That’s his nickname. I shouldn’t be using it with officers. I just thought everyone knew. Do you want me to get him, sir?”

“No. I just wanted to say hello and thank him for the coffee. Don’t bother him.”

Taking my coffee I moved to a table and placed the camera outfit on it. Opening the case, I removed the manual and started reading while drinking the stale brew.

Some moments later, I heard, “Hi, Lieutenant. I thought that was your voice.”

Looking up, I found the PO coming my way, with a large smile on his face.

As he got to the table, he concluded, “What do you have there? Looks like a new camera.”

I smiled back. “From what the manual says, it’s a 4x5 Speed Graphic Camera, Model 1940…but it’s still a mystery to me.”

Looking down at the outfit, he remarked, “Wow! I’ve never seen a C6 in olive drab before.”

“C6? What’s a C6?”

“It’s what the military calls this type of camera. Can I take a look, sir?”

“Sure. Sounds like you know a lot more about it than me.”

Within moments, he had the camera out of the case. Opening it, he examined how it worked, holding the camera up to his eye. “First time I’ve held this model. There are lots of improvements. Better lens…better focusing system…and its got that new focal plane shutter that goes to 1/1000 of a second. This is quite a camera, Lieutenant! Did you just get it, sir?”

“Yeah. It appeared on my desk, this afternoon. Colonel Ford has given me the duty of unit photographer, but the only camera I’ve ever used was a Kodak Brownie. I’ve never seen such a camera like this. How do you know so much about photography?”

Putting the camera down on the table, he said, with a look of pride, “Photography is what I did before the Navy got hold of me. In 1937, I was a photographer for TIME Magazine. Then, in ’38 and ’39, I worked as a cameraman for a film production company in Chicago. But that was a long time ago, sir.”

His answer made no sense to me. Why would such an experienced photographer be slinging hash in a chow hall like this? I searched for the correct words, as I didn’t want to embarrass him. “So…how did you end up as a cook in the Navy?”

His expression turned from pride to resolve. “In 1940, when I joined the Navy, the recruiters told me that I’d be made a Signalman. But after basic training I was sent off to cook’s school instead. Guess the Admirals don’t want colored folks as photographers. My two-year hitch was up this year, but because of the war they won’t let me out. And to pour salt in the wound, they put me in charge of this cafeteria in the middle of the industry I wanted to work for. So I’m stuck here…but it’s okay. Light hours and light duty.” He shrugged. “Sorry, Lieutenant. I didn’t mean to bend your ear. Guess I’m just letting off some steam.”

“Don’t worry about it. Can you join me for a minute? I’d like to pick your brain about photography.”

Sliding a chair out next to me, he sat down and we talked for almost an hour, mostly about the assignments he had done for TIME Magazine. He talked about the different cameras he had used over the years, and how he’d experimented with smaller-format cameras that used 35MM film. These small cameras were much better for what he called ‘photojournalism.’ He seemed to know all the camera brands and models, which ones worked and which ones didn’t. He was a fountain of information.

At one point, the conversation turned back to his duties as a cook, and why the Navy did what they did.

“It’s not just me, Lieutenant. Take Seaman Riku, over there cleaning the stove. He’s Nisei, a Japanese American, born right here in L.A. in ’21. Can read and write both English and Japanese fluently. Went to Hollywood High School and then on to UCLA to study film production. In early 1941, he saw the war clouds coming, dropped out of college and joined the Navy to be a translator. But he ended up in cook school, too. But it’s worse for him. They won’t even give him sea duty, because he’s Japanese.”

“It must be rough to be Japanese American in these times,” I agreed. “Seaman Riku told me your nickname. Do they call you Black Jack because you’re a Negro?”

With a broad smile on his face, he said, “No. When I was working in the South for the magazine, I did a lot of assignments in the slums. The poor folks there could roll ya for a stick or a stone, so I started carrying a blackjack for protection. People soon were calling me the ‘blackjack photographer.’ I never lost a camera or the nickname.”

“Do you still carry one?”

“A sap? Yes, sir, I do, but it’s out of habit, not fear. Don’t think anyone in the canteen would mug me for my apple pies!”

With his big-shouldered physique, I respected Black Jack Malone right away. He was intelligent and resourceful, with a good sense of humor. From the look of him, I was convinced that he was able to take care of himself, too.

Finally, I got up the nerve to ask him if he would be willing to give me a few photography lessons.

He hesitated for a moment and then, with a big grin, answered, “Sure. Why not?”

He went on to explain that we would need to buy some supplies and yet more camera accessories for the lessons. We agreed to meet at Cameron’s Camera Shop on Wilshire Boulevard on Saturday morning.

As I was getting ready to leave, a serious look crossed Jack’s face. “Can I ask you a question, Lieutenant?”

“Sure…but please call me Dutch.”

With a surprised look on his face, he said, “Okay, Dutch. If you say so. When did you get your commission?”

Getting to my feet, I admitted, “Last Saturday morning, I was just a recruit going off to advance weapons training. By that afternoon, they’d promoted me to Lieutenant and sent me here. The whole thing was just one big Marine snafu! So I’m stuck here, just like you.” Rolling the camera manual into my pocket, I reached out and shook his hand. “See you Saturday morning at Cameron’s. And thanks for helping me out.”

With a twinkle in his eyes, he nodded. “You bring the camera, I’ll bring the knowledge, and we’ll have you shooting like a pro in no time.”

Dropping off the camera outfit at the office, I started the walk home. My thoughts kept going back to the Black Jack and Seaman Riku. All day, I had pissed and moaned to myself about my lot…and then I met them. Prejudice had raised its ugly head and really shafted these two guys. Maybe it was time for me to change my attitude and start having some fun with this snafu. And maybe, just maybe, along the way I could help these guys, as well. If the Marines wanted me as a photographer, then I was determined to become the Leonardo da Vinci of photography.

The next morning, when I arrived at the office, I found Maggie on the phone. Looking up from her note pad, she smiled and nodded at me. Walking into my office I unrolled the manual from my pocket, and laid it on my desk. It was starting to look ‘dog-eared,’ as I had read it from cover to cover twice during the previous night. Sliding behind the desk, I removed the camera from its case and opened it. It was time to put the words to practice.

There were dozens of little metal stops, gears, levers, knobs and tracks that made the camera work. In the course of the next few minutes, I surprised myself with my basic understanding of how it all worked. It was really just a light-tight box with a lens at one end. All those metal parts simply controlled the box and the lens.

My mind was deep into the levers and gears when Maggie broke the silence from my doorway. “That was the Colonel on the phone. He’s in San Diego today, making travel arrangements for the soldiers coming up to next weekend’s party. He wants to know if you have any friends down there you would like to invite. If you do, please give me their names and units. When he calls back, this afternoon, I’ll pass it on to him.”

I smiled to myself at the thought of Kurt, Hank, and the Comedian. I knew they loved to party. Maybe I’d even include Sergeant Nelson, if he could get away.

“Sure,” I said, “I have three or four. I’ll write them down for you…and good morning, Maggie.”

“And good morning to you, Dutch,” she said with a sheepish look. “I’m sorry about that. I’m just not used to having someone in the office with me…but I like it. Let me get you some coffee.”

When she returned, I had the list written out, and handed it to her. Sitting on the corner of my desk, she had other news for me. The friend that had helped her buy her Buick was going to help me find a car. He would be calling her back later in the day.

As she sat there, talking about cars, I realized again how beautiful she was. Her makeup looked natural and, while her figure was full, she tastefully disguised it. She was just the opposite of Carole Lane, for Maggie was elegant in both dress and manner. That remark the Colonel had made about men and the ‘amorous way’ kept racing through my mind. I just couldn’t understand it.

“Oh,” she remarked, “the Colonel said you would need some help with the photography. How’s it going?”

Holding the camera in my hands, I told her about Chief Malone and the lessons he’d agreed to give me. She was surprised to hear of his talents, and pleased that he would help. That, in turn, brought up the subject of the supplies and accessories I would need, and how I could get them.

“Simple” she said. “You give me a list of what you need. I’ll type out a requisition form and send it to Headquarters. They’ll send it to Supply, and Supply will send back what you need, or a voucher so you can purchase it locally.”

“And how long will that take?”

“Usually two or three weeks.”

“That won’t do. The Colonel wants me shooting by next weekend. Guess I’ll just buy what I need, for the next few weeks. I’ll wait on giving you that list until I see what Chief Malone suggests.”

“That’s what most of us do. When the Colonel and I first started here, it took four weeks to get three typewriter ribbons. Now I order them in case lots and have over fifty ribbons in my desk. If you need some cash, I can help out.”

“No, I think I’ll be all right…but thanks for offering. But I will need to open a bank account. Any suggestions?”

Right after lunch, Maggie’s car guy called and told her he’d found two possibilities. One was a 1940 Ford four-door sedan with 23,000 miles, for $1,250. The other was a 1939 Chrysler Royal two-door coupe with just 9,000 miles, for $1,300.

He said the Chrysler had been stored in a garage since 1940 and still smelled new. Seems the owner had been a pilot with the Air Corps but had been killed at Hickam Field on December 7^th. His parents had kept the car in storage and only agreed to sell it when they found out that another solider needed it.

I was definitely interested in that coupe.

After lunch, Maggie and I both talked to Colonel Ford on the phone. She passed on the information I had written out, and I asked him if there were any further instructions for me. He just kept going on about my photography and how important it was for me to be ready for the USO event. I assured him I would be prepared.

After talking to the Colonel, Maggie drove me to a local bank, where I opened a new account. Using the last of my Ketchikan fishing money, I transferred just over three thousand dollars from my savings account in New Jersey to my new checking account. The next stop was Western Union, where I wired Uncle Roy, asking for another three thousand and giving him the banking information. I closed the telegram with a smart ass comment: ‘Being an officer is getting expensive. Look at the money we could have saved!’

Our last stop was my apartment, where I asked Maggie if she would like to come up, see it, and have a beer.

With a funny look on her face, she said, “I don’t think so, Dutch. Maybe some other time.”

I had the urge to reach out to her and ask again, but I didn’t.

The next morning, when I arrived at the office, I found a very large man sipping coffee and talking to Maggie.

“Good morning, Dutch. I would like you to meet John Craft, my friend that helps me out with cars. John, this is Lieutenant Dutch Clarke, your customer.”

When he got up from his chair, I was astounded by his size. He was enormous, standing well over six foot ten, and he looked to weigh well over three hundred pounds. He had no neck and his face was round, with a rough complexion and a dark beard that hid his chin.

He extended his hand. “Hello, Lieutenant. Nice meeting you.”

Taking his hairy hand, I was amazed by the sheer size of it. He was dressed in a business suit that had seen better days and, when he talked, the whole room filled with his low, gravelly voice.

“Good morning, Maggie. And hello, Mr. Craft. Did you bring the car?”

“Sure did, Lieutenant. It’s out in the parking lot. Would you like to see it?’

“Sure.”

My first impression of it wasn’t the best. The car’s color was Marine green, or maybe Army brown, or somewhere in-between. It had black-wall tires and black rubber running boards on both sides. Its shape was small, with a pointed front end and tapered back. In short, it was a funny looking car.

But when he opened the door and I slid behind the driver’s seat, my impression changed. It did smell new, and the soft cloth upholstery was as clean and fresh as it must have been on the showroom floor. The front bench seat was big enough for three, and there were two small jump seats behind the front bench.

John handed me the keys and told me to start it up. It started on the first crank, and the motor ran as smoothly as warm butter on hot toast.

He launched into his best car pitch. “She’s a real honey. Power assisted steering, power windows -- hell, even the dash lights turn colors. From zero to thirty, they’re green, from thirty to fifty, yellow, and after fifty, red. It’s a stick shift with what they call ‘overdrive’ for highway performance. That’s good, with gas rationing. It’s as straight as an arrow, Lieutenant.”

Turning off the engine, I walked to the back of the car and opened the trunk. It was big enough to carry not only the spare tire but also any camera equipment and duffle bags I might have. Moving to the front, I opened the hood to find a flat head six engine so clean that the spark plug wires still had a factory sheen.

The car salesman in Mr. Craft just couldn’t stop. “With the war on, you just don’t find cars like this. Chrysler only made four thousand of this model. It might be a 1939, but ’39 was the best year Chrysler ever had, and with these low miles you should get years out of this baby. What do you think, Lieutenant?”

There was no point in being coy. “I’ll take it.”

We went back into the office, where we did the paper work and I paid Mr. Craft.

After he left, I said to Maggie, “Thanks again for your help. I love the car. That Mr. Craft is an unusual guy, a real giant of a man. I wouldn’t want to meet him in a dark alley.”

“He’s not what you think. Truly, he’s the gentlest, kindest man I’ve ever met. Our first perceptions of people aren’t always correct.”

Looking into to her smiling, pleasant face, I thought, Isn’t that the truth!

Having a car might have been a luxury that I needed for my job, but taking care of all the paperwork was a pain in the butt. The rest of the day was spent registering it with the state, getting insurance, securing a parking permit from the studio, and then accruing gas ration coupons at OWI Headquarters. Nevertheless, driving my new coupe from place to place was a real joy, and by day’s end I had bonded with the car and couldn’t understand how I’d ever lived without it.