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