Читать книгу Dutch Clarke -- the War Years - Brian Psy.D. Ratty - Страница 7

The sergeants stepped forward and shouted in unison, “Right face! Forward march.”

By the time Sergeant Nelson started us marching, I could see a red dawn brightening the eastern sky. He led us down a few blocks and then turned the group right at a large athletic field. As we marched along, the only sound was that of our shoe leather beating against the blacktop, and the occasional cadence count from Sergeant Nelson.

“Hup, two, three, four…hup, two, three four.”

The first floor group with Sergeant Brice, from last night, followed us. Then, suddenly, the still air was cut by the loud sounds of multiple bugles blaring out their morning song. It was 6:00 AM, and air rang with the sounds of Reveille.

A few moments later, we reached a large, single-story building. Stopping the group, the Sergeant had us turn towards the building, “This is the Mess Hall for Dog Company. You will be taking all of your meals here. You will march single file into the hall and there will be no talking. Once inside, you will take a tray and go down the chow line. You will take and eat what’s given to you. When you are finished with your meal, you will take your empty tray, I repeat your empty tray, to the KP area for cleaning, and any paper trash will be stowed into the appropriate trash cans. You will not take any food with you. You will eat all the food on your tray. Marines do not waste food. Do you understand?”

“Aye, aye, sir!” was our loud reply.

“After your meal, you will form your ranks on me here again. You will not wander off or go to the head or talk to anyone. Do you understand?”

“Aye, aye, sir!”

”Fall out in rows,” barked Sergeant Nelson.

Standing on the stairs, waiting to enter the hall, I felt the first rays of the morning sunlight brush my face. Turning, I could see the bright red ball just rising over some buildings in the distance.

A new day…a new adventure, I thought.

Inside the door on the right was a stainless-steel table stacked with steel trays. Next to them were piles of utensils, napkins and plastic glasses. Next to the table was a long row of stainless-steel serving tables with steam rolling off the covered food. On the other side of the room were rows and rows of bench-type tables, enough to feed hundreds of men, but not half the size of the chow hall we had used the night before. At the far end were large open bays and trash cans. The room was clean and humid but smelled stale from the lack of fresh air.

We were the first group in the hall, and I was about the twentieth person in line. Grabbing my tray and utensils, I followed along the column. Behind the serving tables were two men, dressed in white cooks’ clothing. The first cook was having fun by shouting out, “Well, lookie here! We have new Rainbows. They’re not even Mop Heads yet. Come on, boys. I made you the ‘house specialty’ for breakfast, SOS. You’ll just love it! Take all you want, but eat all you take.”

Approaching him, I held out my tray. On it he placed a piece of toast in the large compartment, then poured some kind of white gravy over it. The gooey mixture looked and smelled awful. The next cook slopped a large spoonful of peaches into one of the two smaller compartments. At the end of the line were cartons of milk and large pots of coffee. Taking two cartons of milk, I moved to an empty table, a few yards away. Moments later, Kurt from Ketchikan sat down across from me. At first, I didn’t even look up. I was more interested in the white slosh on my tray. Taking my fork, I scraped the gray off the toast and cut into it. The soggy toast tasted like grease and moldy milk. It was awful!

From across the table, Kurt whispered, “Do you know what SOS stands for?”

His whisper caught me off-guard. Slowly looking up I shook my head no.

“Shit On a Shingle…that’s what it stands for. I’ve had this before. It’s not so bad after you get by the grease,” he whispered again, with a big smile.

Returning to my food, I started to wash it down with my milk, and finally I got a good look at Kurt. He couldn’t be much older than eighteen and still had freckles on his light-brown face. His hair was blonde, his eyes green, and when he smiled, his young face lit up like a candle. His body looked firm but seemed to fit loosely in his civilian clothes. He didn’t look like much of a Marine, but I liked him, even through he talked too much.

From the Mess Hall, both groups were marched back to the barracks, where we used the head and made our beds. Then we marched off to the post barber shop, this time following the first-floor group. Upon arrival, we were again placed in single file, standing at attention while we waited for our turn with a barber.

The line moved surprisingly quickly. The recruits entered the shop looking like normal people and left, a few moments later, looking like bowling balls. This was not surprising to me, as my recruiters in Ketchikan had warned me about the first Marine butch haircut.

Sergeant Brice was directing traffic at the front door. Giving me a hand signal, he shouted, “You’re next, Boot…move-it, move-it. Take the chair in the back.”

When I entered the room, a recruit in the last chair was just standing up. The well-lit room was long and narrow, with five barbers and chairs. Behind the chairs were the barber stations with sinks and, above that, each station had a mirror. On the floor were piles and piles of cut hair. It looked dirty, it felt dirty. As I slid into the still-warm chair, the barber snapped his cloth around me and turned the chair towards his mirror. Grabbing his electric shears, he turned to me with a smile. “How would you like it, Mac?”

Not thinking, I smiled back at him and answered, “Give me a trim, just enough to keep the hair out of my eyes.”

At that instant, from the other end of the room, Sergeant Brice screamed out, “There will be no talking in this goddamn room. All I want to hear is hair hitting the floor! Do you read me, Boot?”

“Aye, aye, sir!” was my loud reply.

Smiling ear to ear, the barber winked at me and proceeded to shave my head in just under sixty seconds. As he removed the dirty apron, I rubbed my head and stared at myself in the mirror. Damn, that was fast, I thought.

Getting to my feet, the barber turned his back to the front of the room and whispered, “It will grow back…trust me.”

From the barber shop, we marched some dozen blocks or so to the quartermaster’s warehouse. Along the way, we saw many other units marching up and down the side streets between long rows of barracks. We could hear the cadence of their DI’s shouting out, “Hup two, hup two, hup two three four.” The morning air was still cool and, on my now-bald head, almost cold. At one point, we passed a group at parade rest, with their Sergeant nowhere in sight. The group must have been close to graduation because, below their caps, I could see hair almost a half inch long. As we passed one of them yelled out, “Ha, look at these ‘Mop Heads,’ just back from the barber. Sorry, boys! It’s going to be a long ten weeks!”

Another chimed in, “Rainbows…a whole group of Rainbows.”

He then changed to a cadence call, “Rainbow, Rainbow don’t feel blue. My grandfather’s Four-F, too.”

With our haircuts and civilian clothes, everyone on base knew who we were and where we were going. That was everyone, except us.

At the quartermasters, we were all issued clothing and gear, the standard 1041 outfit for all new recruits. The standard issue had ninety-six items, from shirts to socks, from belt buckles to boots, from a sewing kit to a shaving kit. There were fifteen or more supply stations, with stacks of clothing and gear. Marines working in front of the stacks were passing out all the different items to our long Rainbow line. God help any man that didn’t know his size, for the men passing out the items only asked once. If there was silence, you got what you got. There was no measuring, no fitting, no trying it on, just screaming out your size and hoping the guy behind the counter grabbed from the right stack. Later, we found out that one poor sap got boots two sizes too big, and another got his dress uniform two sizes too small. As we received each item, it was packed into our Marine green duffle bag, which had been the first item issued. Slowly moving down the line, I watched the haphazard way the thousands of items were passed out to recruits who had no idea of what they were getting. At the end of the line, the last station, we were issued two pair of black boots, one pair of black dress shoes, one pair of canvas shoes and one pair of rubber shower clogs. Sitting at a desk next to the station was the quartermaster. Each recruit was shown a list of the items just issued and instructed to sign a form regarding items received. Looking down the list, I wasn’t at all sure I had all the items, but I said nothing. No one said a word; we just signed and trusted that our green duffle bags had all the right items.

We were back at our barracks by 11:00 AM -- or, in military time, 1100. After we stowed our duffle bags next to our bunks, Sergeant Nelson blew his whistle and called the group to attention.

“I’m Sergeant Nelson.” He turned to the Corporal standing next to him. “And this is Corporal Johnson.”

The sergeant was tall and lean, with a body built like a Marine recruiting poster. His features were square and clean, with a bronze complexion from the hot sun.

“We will be your daily DI’s for the next ten weeks. You Mop Heads are the 4^th Platoon of Dog Company. The floor below is the 3^rd Platoon, and in the barracks next to us are the 1^st and 2^nd Platoons, who are halfway through their basic training. As you learned this morning, Gunny Sergeant Crane is the lead Drill Instructor for this Company. Lieutenant Cunningham is your platoon leader. Captain Roberts is the commanding officer of Dog Company, and his boss is Colonel Jacob, the CO of the 2^nd Battalion 3rd Marine Training Regiment. I tell you this so you know the chain of command. You do not, I repeat, do not want to be called in front of any officers in this chain of command. If there is a problem, either Corporal Johnson or I will take care of it, or, God forbid, if we can’t, Sergeant Crane will. Do you understand?”

“Aye, aye, sir!”

Holding one hand to his ear, he barked, “I can’t hear you!”

This time, with gusto, the barracks floor replied, “Aye, aye, sir!”

He continued, “We will march to noon chow in one hour. In the meantime, you Mop Heads will shit, shower and shave. But because we have only ten showers, you will do this in groups of ten, and take no longer then five minutes to complete your business. Do you understand?”

“Aye, aye, sir!”

“Also during this time, each of you will empty out the contents of your duffle bag and neatly place all items on your bunk for inspection by myself or Corporal Johnson. Do you understand?”

“Aye, aye, sir!”

Stripping at my bunk, I was in the second group of ten. We each carried in a towel and the shaving kit we had just been issued. The shower room was long and skinny and filled with steam from the first group. Wet Marine soap was in the racks, so we all got busy washing off the dirt and loose hair. Exiting the shower, I made my way to a sink, wiped the fog off the mirror, and began shaving. Using my towel, I rinsed my face off. When I looked up into the mirror, I saw half a dozen guys staring at my nude body.

Turning, I wrapped the towel around my waist and angrily asked, “What the hell are you guys staring at?”

Finally, one of the guys answered, “What’s that on your shoulder, some type of tattoo?”

Looking down on my left shoulder, the reason for their attention dawned on me. What they were staring at was the scar from a bear clawing some five inches across and eight inches long. It had taken many stitches to sew it up. The scar was still quite red and protruded out from my skin. The recruiters in Ketchikan had, in fact, called it my ‘Bear Tattoo.‘

Before I could open my mouth again, Kurt, standing two sinks down, said, “He got that fighting off a grizzly bear, up British Columbia.”

Once again, Kurt had opened his big mouth. These guys didn’t need to know that story. Damn, I wish I hadn’t done that newspaper interview, I thought.

One of the guys standing next to me exclaimed, “No shit…a grizzly bear?”

Then, from the open latrine door, Sergeant Crane’s voice roared, “What the hell is going on in here, ladies? You Mop Heads are not at a tea party. Make a hole.”

In an instant, the guys between me and Sergeant Crane were gone, leaving the Sergeant staring at me. With his sunglasses gone, I could see his face under his campaign hat. His steel-gray eyes glared at me like lightning bolts. His face was weathered, with a dark, rough complexion and age lines from years in the sun. His uniform was so starched and pressed that I was sure it could stand in a corner on its own. Walking towards me, he moved his stare from my face to my scar.

“What the hell is that?” he asked sarcastically, “A drunken tattoo artist get to you, Boot?”

“No, sir,” I replied.

“Then what the hell is it?”

“It’s a scar from a bear-clawing…sir.”

With his voice still roaring, he said, “I know who you are, Clarke. You think you’re something special, some kind of celebrity. Sergeant Brice told me all about you. What the hell would a Boot like you know about bears…I think you’re a bold-faced liar. Some drunken Indian gave you that lousy tattoo to impress us dumb Marines. Well, it won’t work. I’ve seen recruits like you before, trying to get a leg up in the Corps, and they’re all the same, bold-faced liars. I’ll be watching you, you can count on it!”

Just then, Sergeant Nelson appeared at the door behind Crane. After a few more moments of glaring, Crane turned and walked towards Nelson. He stopped at the doorway and yelled, “Watch Clarke. He thinks he is some kind of celebrity. There’s no room for prima donnas in my outfit!”

Nelson nodded as Crane left the room.

The latrine was dead quiet for the longest time, with not even the sounds of dripping water. Finally Nelson ordered, “You Mop Heads are done. Move it, move it, for the next group.”

“Aye, aye, sir!”

Returning to my bunk, I quickly changed into one of my new utility uniforms. By the time I had the uniform on, I was sure that both floors knew all about my ‘dressing down’ from Sergeant Crane, but there was nothing I could do about that. Continuing to lay out my gear from the duffle bag, I must have looked visibly shaken, because Sergeant Nelson appeared.

At first, he just stood at the foot of my bunk, watching me neatly arrange the items. Finally, he said in a low tone, almost a whisper, “Don’t worry about Sergeant Crane. He’s a China Marine and he likes his recruits in the old Marine mold. Keep your nose clean, do what you’re told, and you’ll be okay.” Then, with a small grin on his face, he turned and walked away.

Continuing to work with my gear, I thought, What the hell is a China Marine?

At noon sharp, Corporal Johnson blew his whistle and marched the group off for chow. After eating, we returned to the barracks to dress down into our physical training clothes, then spent the next two hours sweating in the hot Southern California sun.

Corporal Johnson was the PT instructor and faced us with a lengthy program of exercise. Being in top physical condition, I had no problems with the calisthenics and was usually the only Boot to finish each set. It dawned on me halfway through that maybe I should be dogging it, like the other Boots, so as not to bring attention to myself. But I didn’t.

After PT, we returned to the barracks, hot and sweaty, only to be told to dress again in our utilities. What followed next was two hours on the parade grounds. This was the first of many lessons in close-order drill, instructed by Sergeant Nelson. It started simple: how to stand at attention, right face, left face, about face, cadence counts, etc. In the weeks to follow, Sergeant Nelson would create a cohesive drill unit that would rival all other platoons on the base.

After evening chow, we returned to the barracks for a two-hour lecture and demonstration on how to make a Marine bed, complete with white collar and hospital corners. It was hot and stuffy on the second floor and, during the demonstration, two of the men fell asleep, standing on their feet. Corporal Johnson, who was giving the lecture, used the shaft of his swagger stick to poke each man hard in the gut. Then they were each dressed down, verbally.

“You do not sleep during my instructions, Idiots! You do not sleep until I tell you to sleep. Because you have insulted me, both of you will be in charge of the latrine for one week. That means that each of you will clean and scrub the latrine each morning and evening, during your free time.”

Free time? I thought. When does that come?

Just then, Sergeant Nelson entered the room and blew his whistle. The squad came to attention as he strolled to the center of the room and said, “It’s 2000 hours. Lights will go out at 2100. Reveille will be at 0530, and you will fall in, out on the street, at 0540, dressed in your PT clothes. Do you understand?”

“Aye, aye, sir!” was the loud reply.

“Between now and 2100, you will have your free time. I have opened the day room at the top of the stairs. Here you can write home to Mommy or read the Marine Manual, which I have provided. Or you can take care of business by polishing your boots or organizing your foot locker. You will not, I repeat, will not play grab ass during this time. The smoking lamp will be lit for the next hour. If you smoke, you will use the butt cans on each window sill. Beginning tomorrow night, we will have a fire watch posted all night on each floor. I will cover these duties in tomorrow’s lecture.”

Slowly, he turned and walked towards and then through the open bay doors, blew his whistle, and shouted back, “Dismissed.”

We all stood there like idiots for a moment, not knowing what to do next. Finally, someone shouted “Yes!” and we all broke ranks with a gasp of relief.

Turning, I walked to my bunk, where Kurt was standing.

“Which one are you going to do, Dutch?” he asked.

“Which one what?”

“You know…write a letter, read the manual, polish your boots, or what?”

“None of the above,” I said with a smile.

Standing next to my bunk, I stripped down to my skivvies and t-shirt. Grabbing a butt can and reaching into my kit for my Bull Durham, I climbed the top bunk and sat Indian style while rolling a cigarette. As I lit it, I noticed Kurt still watching. He shook his head with a grin and said, “You know, you can buy those already made now.”

“Yeah, I know. It’s just a habit I have. There’s something soothing about rolling your own smoke.” Truth to tell, I was proud that I could roll my tobacco as firm and round as any store-bought. A few moments later, I noticed four or five guys standing at the foot of my bunk, talking to Kurt, who was sitting on his bunk below.

Finally, one Boot looked up at me and said, “Show us your tattoo. We didn’t get a chance to see it.”

“Yeah, Dutch, how about it?” another asked.

Looking down at them, I replied, “Come on, guys. It’s no big thing.”

“Please?” said another.

Their faces were now all turned to me, and others started joining them at the foot of the bed. As their group started to crowd down the aisle, I answered, “Okay, but it’s no big deal. It’s just something that happened.”

I rolled up my left t-shirt sleeve, which normally covered most of the scar. The guys crowded around for a good, close look.

“Damn, that must have hurt,” one guy remarked.

“What happened to the bear?” another asked.

“Maybe I’ll tell you, some time. For now, let’s enjoy this free time.”

The guy sitting on the top bunk next to me reached out for a handshake, saying, “I agree. I’m James Wilson from Seattle.”

Taking his hand, I shook it. “I’m Dutch Clarke from Ketchikan.”

That started it. Within minutes, the whole barracks was shaking hands and introducing themselves to each other. There were guys from all up and down the West Coast. Kurt, Hank Marks and I were from the furthest north, while others were from Seattle, Portland, San Francisco, and Los Angeles, as well as two Boots from nearby San Diego. Seventy-six young men, short and tall, skinny and plump, ranged in age from seventeen to me, the old man at twenty-two. I liked them all instantly.

At 2100, the whistle blew and the lights went out. Butting my second cigarette into the can, I reached down and placed it back on the window sill.

From the bunk below, Kurt whispered, “Good night, Dutch.”

“Night.”

Lying back on my bunk, I heard the sounds of rustling and whispers soon turn to snoring. I thought about getting under the covers but it was just too hot. Staring up at the ceiling, I heard the gable fan at the end of the barracks making its swishing noise as it tried to move the stale hot air out.

Soon, I realized just how tired I was. It had been a long day. My first day in the United States Marines Corps. If this is the worst, then I can take whatever lies ahead, I reflected, and fell asleep before another thought could pass.