Читать книгу Dutch Clarke -- the War Years - Brian Psy.D. Ratty - Страница 6

For some reason, I was awake before the lights were turned on. I must have heard the bay doors open and the corporal walking down the long row of bunks. Then he turned on the lights and started beating a metal trash can with his riding crop. After a few seconds of loud banging, he yelled, “When the lights come on in this squad bay, you are supposed to be at attention!” As I was fumbling to get dressed, he walked around the bay, still shouting. “Assholes and elbows, fall in at the front of the barracks in three minutes. There will be no second wake-up call! Assholes and elbows, fall in at the front of the barracks in two minutes. Move it! Move it!”

Ninety seconds later, there was a long line of recruits running down the front stairway to the open front doors of the barracks. Looking down at my watch, I saw that it was just 5:30 AM.

As I stumbled outside, the corporal was forming our floor into four rows. Standing in the second row, I realized that it was still dark out, with no light in the eastern sky. The only illumination came from a street light in front of our barracks, which cast long, dark, dancing shadows of the men forming ranks.

Suddenly, our corporal shouted, “Attention!” Then the corporal who was forming the first floor of recruits also shouted, “Attention!” So here we were, one hundred and fifty Idiots standing in line, at attention, listening to the sounds of the wind and morning crickets. We must have stood there for a good three or four minutes before, out of the inky shadows, a tall, slender man appeared, wearing a pressed Marine utility uniform. He was holding a swagger stick with both hands in front of his body. He stood there for a moment, some fifty feet in front of both groups, just looking up and down our ranks. His funny little hat kept his face in shadow from the street light above.

Finally he spoke, in a loud, firm voice. “I’m Gunnery Sergeant Crane, the lead Drill Instructor for Dog Company. I’m in charge of what the Marines loosely call recruits. You will notice I didn’t call you Marines because, from what I have seen here this morning, I’m not sure any of you will make it through the next ten weeks of training. You are the sorriest bunch of people I have seen in my eighteen years in the Corps. Our country must be in bigger trouble than I thought, because they are scraping the bottom of the barrel to send me Rainbows like you! I ask for men and they send me plow boys. I ask for tigers and they send me Soda Jerks. I ask for sixteen weeks of training and they cut it to ten. Well, Rainbows, you will have sixteen weeks crammed into ten. This will be the longest and hardest ten weeks of your young lives. You had your last laugh when you met me.” Pounding his riding crop into the palm of his right hand, he started walking up and down the line of recruits. Pausing every now and then, he continued, “This is not a vacation, this is not camp, and I’m not the camp master. Mommy will not be bringing you breakfast in bed, and you are not going to be playing grab ass with your girlfriend or driving dad’s car to the malt shop. For the next ten weeks, your ass is grass and I’m the lawnmower.”

When he walked in front of my row, I could finally see part of his face from under his hat, and I discovered that he was wearing sunglasses in the dark. Stopping and turning to our group he said in a belittling tone, “When I or any other real Marine on this post tells you to do something, your reply will always be. ‘Aye, aye, sir!’ Do you understand?”

The group replied, “Aye, aye, sir!”

“I can’t hear you clowns,” he shouted back.

Louder came our response, “’Aye, aye, sir!” “

Walking back to where he’d started, he turned once again and yelled, “Sergeant Nelson will be leading you clowns to chow. After that, you will be given what all of you need, a Marine haircut, after which you will be called Mop Heads. You will then be taken to supply, where you will be issued Marine clothing to replace the Rainbow uniforms you are wearing. Sergeant Nelson, Sergeant Brice take the men.” Turning his back on us, he briskly walked back into the shadows from which he came.

There was total silence for a moment. His appearance and mannerisms reminded me immediately of a character from a childhood book, Ichabod Crane from The Legend of Sleepy Hollow. Somehow, I knew already that he was the headless horseman we would all come to fear.