Читать книгу Dutch Clarke -- the War Years - Brian Psy.D. Ratty - Страница 21

The Colonel had hired Hollywood Lights to provide two of their big search lights outside the Canteen. They were being set up when I arrived. Finding some off-street parking, I removed the supplies from the truck and made my way to the front of the Hall. It was a warm evening, with little or no breeze, and I was sure it would be hot and stuffy inside.

Making my way through the open front doors, I found Petty Officer Malone dress in his summer white uniform, waiting for me. With a big smile on his face, he told me, “Tonight, I’ll call you ‘Lieutenant.’”

Grinning back at him, I nodded my head in approval.

One of the volunteer hostesses showed us to a small anteroom in the back where we could layout and arrange our equipment. Using the black changing bag, we loaded eighteen film holders with thirty-six sheets of film. At some point during the evening, we would have to reload all these holders again.

By seven-thirty, we were ready to go. Taking the camera and case, loaded with film holders and flash bulbs, we stepped out onto the dance floor. The Marine band from Camp Pendleton had already arrived and was on the bandstand. The sounds of the practicing instruments filled the hall with disjointed music that sounded like an accident waiting to happen. Standing in a corner, we watched the beehive of preparations.

A few minutes later, the Colonel arrived, dressed in his Class A uniform, with all those impressive battle ribbons pinned on his blouse. He was talking to a few people in the front when he spotted me. Looking over, he gave me a wave, signaling for me to join him.

When I got to his side of the room, he stepped away from the other people so that he could talk to me privately.

“What the hell is that Navy guy doing here? I told you I didn’t want to use any more Signalmen.”

He looked angry. Maggie had told me that he had a fiery temper.

“He’s not a Signalmen, sir. That’s Petty Officer Malone. He was a photographer for TIME Magazine before joining the Navy.”

Reaching into his blouse pocket, he pulled out a pair of glasses. Putting them on, he peered across the room to where Jack was standing. Looking back at me, he said, “Malone from the cafeteria? He was a photographer for TIME?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Who told you that you could use him?”

“You did, sir. You told me to improvise and I improvised.”

Just then, Maggie tapped the Colonel on the shoulder and said, “The General is here, Colonel. I thought you should know.”

He nodded while still glaring at me. Turning to leave, he stopped and said, “Well, I sure as hell hope his pictures are as good as his pies…for your sake, Lieutenant.”

Smiling back at him, I replied, “They are, sir. They are.”

Just before the opening of the doors, Jack and I took our first set-up. It was a picture of the reception line, with General Small, Colonel Ford, Private Glenn Ford, Mrs. Ann Davis, the USO representative, and Johnny Grant, the mayor of Hollywood. At eight sharp, the band started playing and the front doors swung open. We shot three additional pictures of Marines, all tagged with little numbers, shaking hands and filing through the line. After each shot, I carefully recorded each person’s name and hometown, from camera left to right, in my little book. As we were finishing, someone shouted, from outside of the open doors, “Move the line! There’s a lot of Marines out here.”

Grabbing our equipment, Jack and I elbowed our way outside, where we were greeted by the sight of a two-abreast khaki line that snaked its way for over a block. There was still some daylight, so we shot a few pictures of the line and the search lights, now spilling their beams into the gradually darkening sky.

As we headed back towards the front door, I heard my name being called out from the line. “Lieutenant Clarke! Lieutenant Dutch Clarke!”

Turning and looking down the line, about halfway, I saw Hank Marks waving and jumping up and down.

“Jack,” I said, “you go on in. I want to say hello to some pals. I’ll be right there.”

As I walked down the line, nearly all of the soldiers saluted me. This made me increasingly uncomfortable as I approached my friends.

It was the Comedian who first shouted, “Attention! Officer on deck!”

My three pals all braced themselves and, with the biggest smiles on their faces, gave me a sharp leatherneck salute, which I proudly returned. After that, it was handshakes and slapping each other on the back. The other Marines standing around us were dumfounded. They had never seen an officer so friendly with lowly Privates.

“Come on, you guys. Follow me. You don’t have to stand here, unless you want to shake hands with a General.”

They all laughed and started after me.

Finding a table close to the dance floor for the guys, I motioned for Black Jack to join us.

As he was making his way across the room, Kurt whispered, “I saw you working with that swabbie. Isn’t he a Nigger? How did you hook up with him?”

Over the sounds of the band playing, I angrily whispered back, “He’s a Petty Officer in the Navy, and he’s a Negro. Never use that ‘Nigger’ word when you talk about him to me. Got it?”

Kurt looked bewildered. “Sorry, Dutch. I thought that’s what they were called. We don’t have any…Negroes…in Ketchikan.”

And he was right. I could not recall having seen one single colored person in all the years I had lived up there.

When Jack arrived beside me, I said, “Fellows, I’d like you to meet Black Jack Malone. He’s the best damn photographer in the Navy and, more importantly, a very good friend of mine.”

They all shook hands and introduced themselves to Jack. Then Jack took a picture of all four of us. Getting ready to leave, I explained to the guys that I had to work the party, but that I would sneak over to talk to them whenever possible.

At nine, the floor show started. First out was Red Skelton. He did ten minutes of gags and jokes, with the whole room doubled over with laughter. Next up was Marlene Dietrich. She came out in a revealing dress and, in her deep, sexy voice, sang some love songs. While she was on, I asked Red Skelton if he would allow me to take a few pictures of him with some soldiers. He was pleased to do so. I did the same with Miss Dietrich while Bing Crosby and Bob Hope did gags, a few soft-shoe dances and some songs.

The last act was Carole Lane. She sang a few numbers but for the most part just talked to the guys about home and country. Carole’s act surprised me. She wasn’t wearing all that much make-up, and her dress, while sexy, had style. When she talked to the audience, she seemed to be talking from her heart. Her closing story was about how her brother joined the RAF in 1940 and was killed the next year in the skies over London. The way she told it, amplified by her stage presence, brought tears to the eyes of many in the audience. Then, with the rest of the cast joining her, she sang the closing number, ‘God Bless America.’

It brought the house down, with whistles and applause. The performances were outstanding, especially with the stars acting so friendly and down-to-earth. They provided much more than just entertainment -- they provided a way to forget the war, and then to remind us what we were fighting for. An audience full of soldiers always loves a good show, as they’re so pleased the entertainers cared enough just to show up.

After the performances, the volunteer hostesses danced with the men while the stars worked the room, signing autographs. Jack and I were like one-armed paper hangers, taking down information and shooting pictures as fast as we could. At one point, Jack had to reload our film holders, so I snuck over to my pals’ table.

“What did you guys think of the show?”

With smiles on their faces, they all agreed that it was the best damn show they had ever seen.

“When do you guys have to go back?” I asked.

“We have to be on the bus at 23:30,” the Comedian answered.

“Gosh, I wish there was a way I could get you to stay the night.”

Just then, I felt a tap on my shoulder. Turning, I found Carole Lane standing there. Reaching out, she gave me a big hug and kissed me on the cheek, saying, “Dutch, darling, you haven’t said hello to me all night, and you promised to take some pictures.”

The look on my friends’ faces was priceless. That’s when the idea flashed to me.

“Carole, I’d like to introduce you to some friends of mine. I was wondering if I might bring them up to your home tomorrow and take a few publicity pictures of you giving them your autograph, out by your pool.”

“How do you know I have a pool, Dutch?”

“When I delivered the program to your house, I saw it, and it occurred to me that it would make a great backdrop for PR shots.”

“Why didn’t you come in and see me, sweetie?”

“Your gate keeper wouldn’t let me pass. I think she said you were out.”

“Mrs. Jackson’s my housekeeper, not my gate keeper. Next time, call first. I’ll always see you. And okay, let’s take some pictures around the pool. How about eleven, tomorrow morning?”

My friend’s sat speechless, their faces frozen in expressions of disbelief, as I talked to Carole Lane, who was some kind of sex goddess in their minds. Just then, Jack returned with fresh film and suggested we take a picture of Carole with my pals. After the picture, I told them that I would try to get approval for them to stay over -- a plan to which they whole-heartedly agreed.

As we were leaving to catch some more shots with Carole, she turned to them and said, “Good night, boys. See you tomorrow morning…and don’t forget your bathing suits.”

As we moved to the next setup, Jack whispered, “What’s happening tomorrow morning with Miss Lane and your friends?”

I told him about my idea and her agreement.

“Well, I’m sorry, Dutch, but you’ll be on your own, tomorrow. I have other plans.”

Trying not to panic, I assured him that I understood. This time, in my enthusiasm, I’d outsmarted myself, and I’d have to improvise again.

Just before the party ended, I found Colonel Ford and told him that Miss Lane had offered to let us shoot some more photographs the next day with my Marine friends. I asked him if he could make the arrangements for them to stay over.

“Where will the guys sleep? And who’s doing the shooting, you or Malone?”

“I have room at my apartment, and I’ll be doing the photography.”

He hesitated for a moment. “After her performance tonight, how could anyone say no? I’ll square it with their CO by saying it’s a personal favor to Miss Lane. But they have to be on the afternoon train back to Camp Pendleton tomorrow, and you’ll buy their train tickets. Do you understand, Lieutenant?”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

By the end of the evening, over a thousand Marines had passed though the turnstiles, and Jack and I had shot eighty-four images of the event. Our supplies had dwindled to a few sheets of film and only four remaining flash bulbs, just enough for the next day.

My friends were delighted to be staying over, and they helped Jack and me as we carried the camera equipment and exposed film to my car. As the guys piled in, I took Black Jack aside and thanked him again for his support and friendship.

His parting comment was classic: “Never thank a photographer until the proofs are back.”

On the way home, between being teased about being an officer and the color of my car, I stopped and bought two six packs of beer. When we got inside my apartment, I had the guys get out of their uniforms so they could iron them for the next morning. Here we were, four guys drinking beer, smoking and laughing, dressed only in our skivvies. Our conversation, for the most part, was about their advanced weapons training, my job at OWI, Sergeant Nelson, and other friends in my old platoon.

We talked until the last drop of the last beer had been shared by all. By then, it was late, very late. Jim finally fell asleep on the floor and Hank in the easy chair.

As I got up to leave Kurt on the couch, he asked, “You okay, Dutch?”

“Yeah, I think so. Why? What are you worried about?”

“You’re the most gung-ho Marine I have ever met. All the way through boot camp, you talked about killing Japs…and now they’ve got you armed with a camera. It just doesn’t make much sense to me.”

“Me neither, but don’t worry about it. All things change, and this, too, will pass. Somehow, someway, someday, I’ll get back into the fight. Good night Kurt.”