and NCOs, and were off limits to privates like me. I kept thinking, What the hell is going on?
Battalion Headquarters was a large, two-story brick building, complete with flag pole and old cannons out front. Three large steps led up to the door, above which a shining brass sign read ‘2nd Battalion – 3rd Marine Regiment.’ The building, sparkling in the early morning sun, was rather intimidating. I must have saluted a dozen times before entering the front double doors. Wearing my utilities, I felt out of place; all of the other personnel were dressed in Class A uniforms.
There was a Corporal just inside the doors at a reception desk. As I approached, he said in a commanding voice, “State your business, Private.”
Bracing myself, I replied, “Sergeant Nelson of Dog Company ordered me to report to Colonel Jacob’s office, sir.”
Picking up the telephone, he gave me the once-over and asked, “Your name, Private?”
Within seconds of the Corporal’s phone call, I was given instructions on how to find the Colonel’s office. On the second floor, I found a long corridor that ended in front of a wooden door with a frosted-glass window. On the window, painted in black and gold, was ‘Commanding Officer, 2nd Battalion 3rd Marine Regiment.’
Bringing myself to attention, I knocked on the hatch three times.
There was no reply.
After a long moment, I reached down and turned the knob, slowly opening the door. Inside, I found myself looking into a large office where five men were working. Four of the men, two on each side of the room, had stacks of papers on their desk. The room was filled with the sounds of the pecking typewriters. No one looked up as I entered and walked down the row of desks. At the far end of the room, the fifth man was reading from an open brown file. Approaching him I noticed a small name plate on his desk: ‘SGT MacDonald.’
Bracing myself again at the front of his desk, I said, “Private Clarke reporting to Colonel Jacob’s office as ordered, sir.”
He looked up from his paperwork and took a good, long look at me. “At ease. So, you’re Clarke. I’ll see if the Colonel will see you now.” Taking the brown file folder, he got up from his desk and moved to the door behind him.
My mind was reeling again. I’d had no idea that I would actually see the Colonel. It had been my impression that I was only going to pick up my paperwork at his office.
A few moments later, the Sergeant returned and ushered me into the CO’s office.
The office was spacious and bright. On one side stood a round table, flanked by overstuffed leather chairs. On the other side was a wall full of maps. At the very end was the Colonel’s mahogany desk, with a credenza behind it, and above the table was a large wall emblem for the Battalion. Sitting behind the massive desk was Colonel Jacobs, framed by an American flag on one side and the Battalion flag on the other. It was an impressive and daunting sight.
Smartly marching up to the front of the desk, I brought myself to attention, saluted and stated, “Private Clarke reporting as ordered, sir.”
The Colonel had his head down, reading from a file. He had an unlit cigar in his mouth, which he was chewing. I stood there at attention, with my right hand still in the air, saluting for the longest moment before he returned the salute without looking up.
Finally, he raised his gaze and took a long, hard look at me before saying, “At ease, Private.” Repositioning his body in his chair, he continued, “I’ve been in the Marines for over twenty years and I’ve seen a lot of strange things happen over these years, but this tops them all.”
The full bird Colonel was a distinguished-looking man with jet-black hair and graying temples. While his face showed some aging, his green eyes were bright, and his gaze was still strong and lively. Picking up a piece of paper from the file, he read its contents: “Effective on 8 August, 1942 at 1200 hours, Private Dutch R. Clarke, Serial Number 23344323, is promoted to the rank of Second Lieutenant United States Marine Corps Reserve.” Putting the paper down, the Colonel looked over at me and continued, “I’ve seen field commissions before, they’re not so unusual. I’ve even seen battlefield commissions where a Private is promoted to a Second Lieutenant in the middle of a fire fight. Those aren’t so unusual either. What makes this promotion so strange is that, on the morning of 8 August, you were just a recruit. By midmorning, you were a Private, and by noon a Second Lieutenant. Now that is unusual! But what makes it even more interesting is who issued and signed your orders.” Reaching down, he picked up the paper again and read, “As ordered by the Secretary of the Navy, Frank Knox.” While still holding the orders, the Colonel looked up at me and, chewing his cigar, went on, “Your orders go on to relieve you from Camp Pendleton and reassign you to the OWI command in Hollywood, California. Lieutenant, you know some powerful people in high places!”
Standing in front of the Colonel, I was stunned and speechless. One thing was for sure: Uncle Roy’s fingerprints were all over these orders. Confused by my situation, I was mad as hell at him.
The Colonel broke the silence, “Well, Lieutenant?”
Clearing my throat, I regained my voice, “Let me assure the Colonel that I don’t know any of these ‘powerful people.’ This is not something of my doing. Can I turn the commission down, sir?”
A broad smile crossed the Colonel’s face as he answered. “The Secretary of the Navy does not make suggestions, he gives orders! Do you understand that, Lieutenant?”
“Aye, aye, sir. But I don’t understand. What is the OWI command?”
Leaning back in his chair scowling, he answered, “It’s a sweet little job working for the Office of War Information. They are the propaganda arm for the military.” He turned away from me and shouted towards the door, “Mac, come in here please.” Returning his attention to me, he added, “Cocktail parties, celebrities and politicians. What a way to run a war. God help the United States of America!”
Just then, Sergeant MacDonald reappeared. The Colonel asked him, “Do you have the Lieutenant’s paperwork done?”
“No sir. It will take a few more hours to get his travel orders, transportation and meal vouchers ready. But the rest of his 214 file is done and ready.”
Turning back to me, the Colonel remarked, “Sergeant MacDonald will help you get squared away. While you’re waiting for your paperwork, the first order of business should be for you to get the correct uniforms over at the main Post Exchange. And good luck, Lieutenant, with OWI.”
He saluted me while I came to attention and saluted back.
I followed Sergeant MacDonald out to his desk, where he handed me a copy of my promotion orders and rattled off instructions. “You’ll need these to buy officer’s uniforms, Lieutenant, and you should go back over to your old barracks and pick up your duffle bag. The Marines usually want officers who’ve been promoted from the ranks to turn in their 1041 outfit but I know they just burn the used clothing, so go ahead and keep yours. I should have your paperwork done no later than 1500. Then you can get transportation to the Union Station from here. Is that okay with you, sir?”
He’d called me sir! It caught me off guard. Finally, I replied, “No problem, Sergeant. But could you direct me to the main PX?”
As I walked towards the PX, my emotions went from low to empty. Something the Colonel had said kept racing in
