Snapping to attention and saluting, I answered, “Aye, aye, sir,” and smartly turned on my heels to leave.
Getting up from his desk, he walked to the door with me and put a hand on my shoulder. “Dutch, that military stuff is just fine when the brass is around, but not for everyday…okay?”
“Yes…sir.”
Back in Margaret’s office, she remarked, “I’m afraid you didn’t catch the Colonel at his best. He had a late night at a film premier and then played polo with Jack Warner at six this morning. He works very hard for the Marines and I’m pleased you’re here to help him. Did you just get in, this morning?”
“No, ma’am, last night. Would that be Jack Warner of Warner Brothers Studio?”
“Yes…but please don’t keep calling me ma’am. You call me Maggie and I’ll call you Dutch, if that’s okay.”
“Okay.”
Maggie kept asking questions until she found out that I had slept at the train station, the night before, and had made my way to the studio without breakfast. She said her first mission was to find me a place to stay, which might take some doing, as apartments were hard to come by. She suggested that, while she made a few phone calls, I might want to step out for some breakfast. She went on to explain that there was a small Navy canteen at the end of the row of garden cottages, in the basement of the old photo studio building. “The food is good and the prices are right for OWI employees. Just tell them you’re attached to us now.”
As I made my way towards the photo building, my brain was on overload with information. Neither Commander Knox nor Colonel Ford had any idea why I was here. I had nothing to offer in the way of special talents they needed, and what they offered, I didn’t want. And that part that Colonel Ford had said, about ‘here you are and here you will stay,’ scared the hell out of me. There had to be a way that I could get back into the war.
The Photo Studio was a two-story white stucco building with the same red roof tiles as the cottages. Just inside the main entrance was a stairwell with a sign and little arrow pointing down that read ‘Navy Personnel Only’. Downstairs, I found a short hallway with open double doors at the end. Inside the doors was a small cafeteria with fifteen or twenty round tables and chairs on one side and a serving line on the other. There were only a few people sitting at the tables.
At the front of the line was a stack of metal trays, utensils, napkins and plastic glasses, just like the chow hall back at Camp Pendleton. The only difference was the sign above, which read: ‘Breakfast 0700-1000 .35 cents…Lunch 1100-1400 .50 cents...Navy Personnel Only’.
Paying for a military meal would be a new experience for me. Taking what I needed, I moved down the short, empty chow line. Behind the line was a Second Class Petty Officer and one seaman dressed in cook’s clothing.
Approaching the Petty Officer I smiled at him. He was an extraordinary looking man, with olive skin, a square jaw and jet-black eyes. He was tall and had a muscular body with near-perfect bone-white teeth. “Welcome, Lieutenant. You’re a new face here. What can we do for you?”
“I just reported for duty with Colonel Ford in Cottage Seven. Is it too late to get some eggs?”
“Not at all, Lieutenant,” he said, and slid a yellow paper across the line. “Here’s the menu. Take a look and I’ll get my roster to log you in.”
When he returned, he took my name and my order, which he then handed off to the seaman by the grill. The PO explained that the cost of meals would be deducted from my pay on payday. With a grin, he added, “That way, my patrons don’t have to fumble for change or worry about the tip.” Extending his hand, he continued, “I’m Petty Officer Jack Malone. Welcome to my canteen.”
I took his hand and shook it. “Thanks.”
Looking more closely, I noticed his curly black hair and decided he might be Negro…but I wasn’t sure, because he didn’t have the strong facial features of most colored people. In any event, he had a special way about him, a personality that was both confident and straightforward.
He returned a second time, and set a glass of orange juice on my tray. “Can I ask you a question, Lieutenant?”
I nodded.
“Did you come up from the ranks, sir?”
The question caught me off guard. “Yes, I guess you could say that…but how did you know?”
“That gold rifleman’s badge. You don’t see many officers wearing that. It’s impressive. Take a seat, sir, and I’ll holler out when your breakfast is ready…And, Lieutenant, the coffee pot is always on. It’s free, and you’re always welcome to it.”
I nodded my thanks, liking Petty Officer Malone right away.
After breakfast, I retuned to the office, where Maggie was pleased to announce that she had found me an apartment only a mile from the studio. The landlord had told her it was a one-bedroom with a southern exposure, and that it rented for only forty dollars a month. Of this amount, the Marines would pay twenty-five dollars a month. She typed out the directions and told me to take the rest of the day off and be back at nine the next morning. Thanking her I said goodbye. Then I grabbed my duffle bag, swung it over my shoulder, and began walking towards the address.
The walk was refreshing on such a warm sunny morning, with the streets crowded with people doing their business. Many who passed me tipped their hats and gave me a smile, and I felt proud to be wearing my country’s uniform. But also I felt guilty about being on this busy thoroughfare on such a bright, beautiful day while other Marines were fighting in distant lands. There had to be a way for me to join them.
When I met the landlord at the address, he showed me the furnished, second-story apartment. It was bigger, brighter and better than I had expected. The main room contained the living and dining areas, as well as a small kitchen. Off this room was an oversized bedroom with a bath. The apartment was even equipped with an electric refrigerator, stove and radio. After my living conditions of the past year, and then the barracks, these quarters were heaven. I signed the rental agreement and gave the landlord two months’ rent in advance.
After unpacking and a quick trip to the corner market for some light grocery shopping, I sat down at the kitchen table to write letters to Laura and Uncle Roy. My letter to Laura was full of positive news and hope for the future. I even speculated that we might be able to see each other, with my new station in Hollywood. But deep down I knew how hard it would be for her to get air transportation from Alaska without military priority, and then what about the baby? Still, it was a good dream.
My letter to Roy had a much different tone. He had used his influence with the Navy to intervene in my life. I knew that, in his heart, he had done what he felt was best, but what was best for him was not best for me, and I let him know it. I closed the letter with a simple statement: ‘It’s my life, so let me find my own way, whatever way that might be.’ Knowing Uncle Roy, I wasn’t sure the letter would do any good, but I had to try.
After posting the letters, I came back, turned on the radio and opened a beer. As I stretched out on the couch, soft music flooded the room. Shadows of twilight danced across the walls, making strange patterns, and they were the last thing I remembered as I drifted off to sleep.
Returning to the cottage at nine, the next morning, I found Maggie busy working in a small room off her office. Thanking her for her help, I told her eagerly about my apartment.
She seemed pleased to hear how much I liked my quarters, and she explained that the little room she was working on would be my new office. It was tiny, about eight feet across and ten feet deep, with one small window that looked out onto the parking lot. Someone had supplied a gray metal desk and filing cabinet, and those two objects filled most of the little room. In front of the desk, there was just enough room for a single chair.