a couple times. The rifle recoiled sharply against my shoulder. The feeling was familiar, after all that hunting in British Columbia, and I was confident of my score. After the range fell silent again, the targets went down and, moments later, up again.
In front of Lane 7 came not one or two but five passes of the red flag! All Maggie’s Drawers! I could not believe it.
Just then, Sergeant Nelson approached and remarked, “Clarke, I’m surprised. I thought you would do better.”
Turning my head towards him, I replied, “I know I’m better, Sergeant. There has got to be something wrong with this weapon.”
“Give it to me. Let me take a look.”
Opening the bolt, I turned and handed the rifle to the Sergeant.
Just then, from behind the third squad, came Sergeant Crane. Approaching us he shouted, “What the hell is going on here? What’s the hold up?”
Sergeant Nelson replied, “Recruit Clarke thinks there might be a problem with his weapon.”
“Did Clarke get Maggie’s Drawers? Well, the problem is not with the weapon. It’s with Clarke!”
Turning to me, he continued, “You have one excuse after another. You’re one sorry, burr-headed Idiot to blame your weapon because you can’t hit the broad side of a barn.”
“Actually, he might be right, Sergeant Crane. The rear sight looks a little bent,” Nelson replied.
“Bull shit. That’s just an excuse,” answered Crane. Turning he grabbed a weapon out of the hands of the recruit standing in Lane Six and tossed it to me.
“Here, Clarke. Try this one. Maybe it’s broken, too. Or are you afraid to admit it’s all your sorry-ass problem?”
Crane was staring at me, just like the night at the drinking fountains, but this time I didn’t taste fear. I turned to Sergeant Nelson. He looked at me and nodded his approval. Approaching the firing line, I slid the bolt open and squeezed five rounds into the rifle’s magazine. Unlocking the safety, I shouted, “Ready on the left, ready on the right, ready on the firing line.”
“Commence firing,” Sergeant Nelson called out.
The sweat was gone; my eyes were clear. Within fifteen seconds, the magazine was empty. The target moved down and within seconds up again. This time, no red flag, just five beautiful white dots, all pointing inside the black bull’s eye!
Letting out a sigh of relief, I turned to see Sergeant Nelson grinning and Sergeant Crane marching off, carrying the bad weapon.
Finally, Nelson commented, with a smile, “You wouldn’t want to be the ordnance Sergeant this afternoon. Good shooting, Clarke. Carry on”.
“Aye, aye, sir!”
After qualifications, I was one of only two recruits in our platoon to be awarded the gold Expert Rifleman badge, an emblem I would wear proudly on my dress uniform.
Hurry and Wait
Our first pay call came at the end of our sixth week. That Saturday afternoon, Sergeant Nelson lined us up in the barracks bay and shouted out instructions. “The pay officer is here. Each of you will smartly go to the Day Room when your name is called. You will stand at attention in front of the pay officer and sing out your name and serial number. You will receive your pay in cash, and you will sign a voucher that you have received your pay. Do you understand?”
“Aye, aye, sir!”
Each man received forty-six dollars. We were told that, upon completion of boot camp, that amount would be raised to fifty-two dollars. Marines would never get rich; then again, no man in the barracks had joined for the money.
‘Mail Call.’ What great words for any solider! Ours came twice a week and it was always a big event for all Boots. Laura had been great, with one or more letters every week. I even got a letter from her father, Skip, which was a pleasant surprise.
My letters to Laura had been slow and few, but I was sure she understood. It was Uncle Roy that I had not heard from, and I was getting concerned. Then, in the seventh week, I received a letter on Hotel El Cortez stationery from Roy. Opening it, I found five new one-hundred-dollar bills folded inside his note. These bills I quickly stuffed into my trousers’ pocket, as no one needed to know about my finances. His letter read:
August 3, 1942
Dear Dutch,
Sorry for the delay in sending you this letter. This war has made for strange bedfellows as I’m now working with the Roosevelt Administration for the Navy’s need of petroleum products. This has kept me on the road for the last few months. As you can tell from the stationery, I have been here in San Diego for the last week. I have been meeting with an Admiral King about specialty lubricants for his submarines. Maybe you have run into him. He said he’s up at Camp Pendleton a lot. Well, just a thought. He’s a hell of a nice guy, if you ever need anything.
A grin crossed my face. Yeah, sure, I get to meet lots of admirals here, I thought.
I tried twice to give you a phone call but each time they told me that recruits can’t take telephone calls. Admiral King got me your commanding officer’s name, Colonel Jacob, but when I called him, he transferred me to a Sergeant Crane. This guy sounded like a real jerk and I told him so! But he said he knew you, and that he would pass on the message that I called. I hope he did!
Sorry we couldn’t have gotten together for dinner or something. This hotel is the best, and their food is outstanding. We would have had a grand time! I still don’t understand why you joined the Marines, when you could have been home helping with the war effort. Oh well, what’s done is done…
…PS I have put some pocket money in here for you. Let me know if you need more. Business is going just great!
Putting the letter back in the envelope, I shook my head in disbelief that he had called the Colonel and then talked with Sergeant Crane. Uncle Roy just didn’t get it. This military life was a mystery to him, and I would most likely pay the price. And that part about ‘business is just great’ -- being a war profiteer was something I didn’t like!
At the end of our eighth week, there was a feeling in the air that we were all going to make it. We had changed, our heads had hair, our bodies were firmer, and our minds were sharper. We walked with a swagger and we could curse like any good mud Marine. These weeks brought other changes, and I marveled, watching the young boys becoming young tigers. We had worked hard and it was beginning to pay off. Our platoon could out-march, out-shoot and out-swim any other unit on the post.
Liberty
As a reward for the platoon’s hard work, Sergeant Nelson announced that on the coming Saturday we would get a twelve-hour pass to San Diego. Two buses would depart at 1000 and return at 2200 sharp. God help any recruit not back from liberty at 2200, as they would be listed AWOL (absent without leave) and court-marshaled. The 3rd Platoon was not as lucky, and was spending that day practicing close-order drills again. Sergeant Nelson enjoyed telling us that bit of news.
The day of our
