Читать книгу Dutch Clarke -- the War Years - Brian Psy.D. Ratty - Страница 9

On the third Saturday, after inspection, I was told to report to Sergeant Nelson’s office. This office was really a small private billet across from the Day Room where he and Corporal Johnson slept. It was never a good thing to be called to his ‘office;’ most of the time it meant trouble. Wondering what the hell I had done wrong, I hurried to report.

As always, the hatch (door) was closed, so I gave it three very firm knocks and brought myself to attention. From the other side of the door, Sergeants Nelson’s voice rang out. “Who is the idiot pounding on my palace door?”

“Recruit Clarke, sir.”

The door swung open and Nelson shouted, “Show yourself.”

Marching sharply, I entered the room and braced myself in front of Sergeant Nelson. He was seated behind a small desk, with a brown file folder open. The room had two bunks on each side, with footlockers and chairs at the foot of each bed. Above each bed, tacked to the walls, were Marine recruiting posters. The desk was in the middle of the room, and behind it was a window with a small table under it. On the table was a hot plate, coffee pot and two white coffee mugs. The room was clean, Marine clean.

Looking up from the desk, Nelson said, “Do you like my palace?”

“No, sir…I mean, yes, sir,” I said with frustration.

Sergeant Nelson looked back down at the file and continued, “The platoon has drawn guard duty this week. I have assigned your squad the first duty, starting at midnight. Your name is at the top of the roster. You will relieve Carter from the 3rd Platoon at 2400. You will be relieved at 0400 by Recruit Benson from your squad”. Reaching down, he picked up the typewritten roster and handed it to me. His gaze now squarely on mine, he continued, “You will wear utilities, and I want you and your squad to look and be sharp. Carter will relinquish his training weapon to you, and you will relinquish that same weapon when relieved. The weapon is not loaded, but I want you to treat it as loaded. Do you understand? Do you have questions?”

“Yes, sir. What is the password for tomorrow?”

“The challenge is ‘York.’ The reply is ‘Sergeant.’ I do not expect you will see a soul, at that hour on a Sunday morning, but if you do, use the challenge. Understood?”

“Aye, aye, sir! One more question. What are we guarding, and where do I report?”

“Your mission is to guard the drinking fountains directly across the parade grounds from this barracks.”

I paused a moment. “Aye, aye, sir!”

That afternoon, I briefed my squad about the ‘mission’ and passed out the schedule for each man. Stressing the importance of sharpness, I reminded them of Sergeant Nelson’s orders. Before chow, I went to the laundry and picked up two freshly starched and pressed utilities. After chow, I spit-shined my boots and belt buckle to such a high gloss that I could see my reflection. Just before Lights Out, I dressed in my uniform and retired to the latrine, where I would wait. Passing the time, sitting on a commode, I reread the half dozen letters Laura had sent me during the past few weeks. Her words were full of home, love and happiness, and her envelopes were full of the scent of her perfume. While I had long ago memorized each letter’s contents, it was a joy just to see and smell them again.

At 2345, I exited the barracks and walked across the parade grounds towards the fountains. The night was dark, cool and silent. Approaching the other side, I could easily make out Carter, standing at parade rest under a nearby street light. Next to him were ten drinking fountains, raised on a small wooden platform. The raised area was about thirty feet long and four feet wide.

As I moved into the light, Carter jumped to attention, bringing his weapon to port arms as he shouted, “Halt! Who goes there? Leather”

Damn, I thought. I know tomorrow’s challenge and password but not today’s! ‘Leather’ must be the challenge. I’ll have to guess the password.

Searching for what might be the right password, I finally shouted back, “Neck.”

There was a moment of silence, and then he replied, “Approach.”

“I’m Clarke from the 4th Platoon, here to relieve you.”

Handing me his weapon, he remarked irritably, “Good. You can have this silly duty. Standing guard on drinking fountains is just too dangerous for me.”

As he was about to leave, I asked, “What’s the procedure? Do we march or stand?”

“I was told to stand, but then who the hell knows for sure? Good night!”

Nodding, I opened the bolt of the weapon to double-check that it was unloaded. Then I took my place, standing at parade rest next to the first fountain. Within seconds, I became aware of just how dark the night looked, and how quiet it was. The only sound I could hear was that of the street light lamp making a low humming noise. That one lamp seemed to be the only light on my side of the field. After a few minutes, my eyes adjusted, and I could see stars in the sky. Soon, I could even make out the shadowed outline of the row of barracks across the way. It was too quiet and too dark, and a little bit spooky.

Just then, I heard footsteps approaching at the end of the platform. I sprang to attention, raising the weapon and shouting, “Halt! Who goes there? York.”

“Neck,” came the reply.

“No, sir. That is not the right password. Halt. You may not approach!”

Far down the platform, the figure walked out of the ebony darkness and into the light.

“The hell you say. That is the right password, Idiot.”

Oh God, it was Sergeant Crane.

He staggered as he approached. “Clarke! I might have known it would be a shit-head like you. You don’t even know the goddamn password. You are one sorry SOB.”

By now, he was standing in front of me, and he reeked of booze and was slurring his words.

“Boy, you come to attention when I talk to you.”

Jumping to attention, I replied, “Aye, aye, sir!”

Placing the brim of his hat under the brim of mine, he yelled, “Who told you to guard this post standing at parade rest, and why don’t you know the password?”

I hesitated, then replied, “The sentry I relieved told me the guarding procedure, and the password changed at 2400…sir.”

He glared at me from under his campaign hat, his face flushed with anger, and for the first time since my run in with that grizzly, I tasted fear. His eyes were bloodshot, and his uniform spoiled and wrinkled.

“Give me that goddamn weapon. I will show you how to guard this post.”

“No, sir. I will not relinquish my weapon.”

“The hell you say,” he growled as he reached down and jerked the gun out of my hands. “You watch me, Idiot, or I’ll use this weapon to thump your head!” Throwing the gun over his shoulder, he marched -- or, I should say, staggered -- down to the end of the platform. Making a wobbly about-face, he started stumbling back towards me. Just a few steps from me, he lost his balance and fell to one knee on the platform. He was stunned for a second. Then, using the gun as a crutch, he regained his stance. Marching over to me, he shouted, “Go get Sergeant Nelson. I want his asshole out here now!”

”No, sir. I cannot leave my post.”

There was a long moment of silence. Then he yelled, “Clarke, that is an order. I want you to move your ass now!”

His face was twisted with anger. I didn’t know what to say or do. His whole body was twitching and I was full of fear. Finally I shouted back, “General Order Number Five: To quit my post only when properly relieved.”

He fell silent for the longest time, his face changing from anger to puzzlement. Then he reached down and threw the weapon back at me. I caught it in midair. Suddenly, he turned and walked away into the night, mumbling, “Saved by the order. We Marines are always saved by orders.” Turning his head to look back at me, he shouted, “I’ll take care of you later, Clarke. You can count on it.”

Abruptly, he was gone into the darkness and it was quiet again. I was so shaken by the experience that my hands trembled, but I knew it could have been worse. Then again, I was sure it still would be, after he talked to Sergeant Nelson.

Benson relieved me at 0400 sharp. As I made my way across the field, I thought, Well, at least the drinking fountains are in safe hands. I wish I was.

But I was wrong. I never heard about the incident again. Either Sergeant Crane was embarrassed the next morning or the episode got lost in the fog of all that booze.