Walking towards me, Crane shouted, “Clarke, what the hell are you doing in that goddamn uniform? You are one sorry SOB to be impersonating at officer!”
He was still on me. I felt my face flush with anger, but not with fear. Not anymore. Glaring back at Crane, I let him move to the foot of my bunk before I replied. “It’s Lieutenant Clarke now, Sergeant Crane, and when I talk to you, you will be at attention.”
He didn’t brace. “I don’t believe your sorry ass is an officer any more than I believed that ‘bear tattoo’ bullshit. You’re one sad Marine to cross me, boy,” he screamed back.
Reaching into my blouse pocket, I pulled out my promotion orders. Bypassing Sergeant Crane I handed them to Sergeant Nelson. He looked down at the orders and then, with the biggest smile I had ever seen on his face, said, “He’s right, Sergeant Crane. And his orders are signed by the Secretary of the Navy!”
Grabbing the orders out of Nelson’s hands, Sergeant Crane yelled, “I don’t believe it.” But when he read what was written, his expression turned from anger to compliance in the blink of an eye.
With grit, I remarked, “Saved by orders. We Marines are always saved by orders. Remember those words, Sergeant Crane? I do. Now I’ll ask you again to come to attention when I talk to you.”
This time, both he and Sergeant Nelson instantly came to attention.
There was so much I wanted to say and I wanted to say it loudly…but I didn’t.
Bringing my face within inches of Crane’s, just like he had done to me so many times before, I calmly remarked, “For some reason, you have been riding my ass ever since I got here. They tell me you’re a China Marine and have helped to write most of the USMC history. You’re the old Corps and I’m the new, but we’re still both Marines. That Nip sniper out in the Pacific can’t tell the difference between the old and the new because we both bleed Marine red. Your job is to train young boys into fighting men, and for the most part it’s done well, but it can be done a hell of a lot better when you finally realize that the new breed is going to be writing our future history. So don’t piss on the men and tell them it’s raining, they know better. Do you understand what I’m saying, Sergeant?”
He paused for a moment before replying, “Aye, aye, sir. I’m sorry.”
With the low rumblings of the gable fan sounding in the background, I watched a drop of sweat roll down Crane’s twitching face as I prepared to give my first official command. “A Marine is never sorry. A sorry Marine is a dead Marine. Sergeant Crane, you are dismissed.”
He fumed under his campaign hat for a moment and then, in tribute to my rank alone, gave me a crisp salute, which I returned. Turning on his boot heel, he marched out of the bay.
As the doors swung shut, I told Sergeant Nelson to stand at ease. With Crane gone, I extended my hand towards him and said, “Before I leave, I want to shake your hand and thank you for my training.”
He was caught off-guard for a moment, but then shook my extended hand with a firm grip, and a grin.
I continued, “I have a favor to ask you, Dick. That is your first name, isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“When you get a chance, will you tell the guys in the platoon what happened to me? That snafu was bigger than expected. They are sending me to the OWI Command, up in Hollywood. If you or any of the guys get up that way, please look me up.”
“I knew you’d make a good officer. I just didn’t know how fast it could happen! Don’t worry, I’ll tell the guys. I have no idea what the OWI is, but I’m sure Hollywood is a hell of a lot better place to be than some flea-infested foxhole in the Pacific.”
Tinsel City
Sadly I replied, “Maybe so.”
The trip north was delayed by almost three hours. Our train was twice moved onto rail sidings as long freight trains carrying war materials passed us by. Even in the dark, I could make out the silhouette of flatbed cars loaded with tanks, trucks and artillery, all heading south. Their destination was San Diego and then on to the Pacific…the direction I should have been heading. Instead, my destination was north and, as Colonel Jacob had said, to ‘Cocktail parties, celebrities and politicians.’ My prospects looked bleak.
Arriving at the Hollywood station at 2300, I asked a cabbie about hotels on Melrose Avenue. He told me that rooms were hard to find in Hollywood, but that I could try the YMCA in downtown LA or sack out in the train station, which is what I did. The night on the hard wooden bench was long and uncomfortable, so when Reveille rolled around, I was ready to take a shower and hit the road.
At 0800, a cab dropped me off at the address on my orders, 5555 Melrose Avenue, but a large sign across the entrance read ‘Paramount Studios.’ Could this be another snafu?
There was a small guardhouse, alongside massive iron gates, which controlled the entrance, so I went there and inquired. An older gentleman in a guard’s uniform was sipping coffee just inside the open sliding door.
Dropping my duffle bag and removing my orders from my pocket, I said, “Pardon me, sir. I have orders to report to OWI offices at this address. Can that be right?”
Setting his coffee down, he joined me in the open doorway and read my orders. Shaking his head, he answered, “I’ve never heard of any OWI outfit on this lot, but let me make a phone call.” Stepping back into the guardhouse, he dialed a few numbers and was soon talking to someone on the other end.
Turning back to me, he asked, “Do you know what OWI stands for? Is it a production company or a union office or what?”
“I was told it’s the Office of War Information.”
Returning to the phone, he passed on the information and then, smiling and nodding he hung up the phone.
Just as he returned to the doorway, a long, red convertible pulled up to the gate.
Looking over and waving to the driver, the old guard pressed a button and said, “Good morning, Mr. Gable.” With this the gate rolled open and the car entered the lot. Turning to me, he continued, “You’re with the Navy boys, over in the old garden cottages. Around here, we know them as the ‘Party Army.’ They have their own gate behind Stage Five, but you can walk there from here. Let me give you some directions.”
Throwing my duffle bag over my shoulder, I started the long walk to the garden cottages. Along the way, I passed many sound stages and marveled at the size of these buildings; they were bigger than airplane hangers. The whole area was a beehive of activity, with people coming and going, dressed in all types of costumes. Weaving between them were other people, pushing carts that had painted props and backdrops, while still others pushed large lights and manhandled piles of electrical cable. It reminded me that Hollywood was still dealing with fantasy, while the rest of the world was dealing with war. Was that good or bad? I had no idea.
Just across the street from Stage Five was a long row of white stucco cottages with red tile roofs. Behind this row was another, separated by a parking lot. Each little house had a patch of green grass and a small walkway lined with flowers, leading to a front door. It was a pleasant setting, worthy of a Hollywood set designer.
The first bungalow had a small sign in front that simply read ‘#1 OWI HQ.’ Placing my kit next to the front door, I straightened my uniform and entered the cottage.
Inside, I found a small room barely large enough for the desk that filled it. Behind this desk, a mature woman was talking on the telephone. Seeing me standing in the doorway, she waved me in with a smile, said goodbye to the caller, and hung up. “Good morning, Lieutenant. How may I help you?”
“I’m Lieutenant Dutch Clarke, reporting for duty, ma’am.”
“Oh,