in the Third Platoon. Would I ever see them again? And what would they think of me being a Lieutenant? For the most part, we didn’t even like officers.
My emotions turned to anger at Uncle Roy, who had butted into my life once again. But in the end there was nothing I could do about it. I was a Lieutenant, and I was going to work for OWI. Life has many strange turns and I had to make the best of this detour.
Although there were a half dozen Post Exchanges on the base, only the main PX sold goods for officers. But one thing was certain: when I walked into the Exchange, I didn’t look much like an officer.
At first, the civilian clerk in the uniform department was dubious about my carbon-copy orders. It was only after he made a telephone call to Sergeant MacDonald that his caution turned to salesmanship. All military officers are required to purchase their uniforms and other personal items. I’m sure that, once he knew I was a real officer, he viewed me as a big ticket. Therefore, he was quite disappointed when I only bought two khaki dress uniforms and some extra bars and insignias. He couldn’t understand why I didn’t purchase a couple of woolen and formal white dress uniforms, complete with swords. And the thought of me buying only one hat and no shoes at all frustrated him even more. The fact was, my clothes in the duffle bag could do double duty, with some minor changes. For that, I could thank Sergeant MacDonald.
While some slight tailoring was done on my new uniforms, I had lunch and did some more shopping. The last item I bought was the ‘Officers Handbook,’ a manual I was sure to need.
That afternoon, walking out of the PX in one of my new uniforms with gold bars glistening in the sun, I looked like a Marine Lieutenant, but I didn’t feel like one. It took a few minutes for me to realize that the enlisted men saluting me wanted a salute back. Damn, what a strange feeling it was to be an officer!
Back at the barracks, I attached my Rifleman’s Badge on the left side of my new blouse. It was the only symbol I had that, at one time, I had been an enlisted Marine. Taking my garrison cap from my duffel bag, I pinned a gold bar on it. Laying out my remaining new uniform on my old bunk, I folded it neatly and stowed it in my bag. Placing my cap on, I was turning to leave when I found Sergeants Crane and Nelson entering the barracks bay. When their gazes reached mine, a puzzled look ran across their faces.
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
