address. Can that be right?”
Setting his coffee down, he joined me in the open doorway and read my orders. Shaking his head, he answered, “I’ve never heard of any OWI outfit on this lot, but let me make a phone call.” Stepping back into the guardhouse, he dialed a few numbers and was soon talking to someone on the other end.
Turning back to me, he asked, “Do you know what OWI stands for? Is it a production company or a union office or what?”
“I was told it’s the Office of War Information.”
Returning to the phone, he passed on the information and then, smiling and nodding he hung up the phone.
Just as he returned to the doorway, a long, red convertible pulled up to the gate.
Looking over and waving to the driver, the old guard pressed a button and said, “Good morning, Mr. Gable.” With this the gate rolled open and the car entered the lot. Turning to me, he continued, “You’re with the Navy boys, over in the old garden cottages. Around here, we know them as the ‘Party Army.’ They have their own gate behind Stage Five, but you can walk there from here. Let me give you some directions.”
Throwing my duffle bag over my shoulder, I started the long walk to the garden cottages. Along the way, I passed many sound stages and marveled at the size of these buildings; they were bigger than airplane hangers. The whole area was a beehive of activity, with people coming and going, dressed in all types of costumes. Weaving between them were other people, pushing carts that had painted props and backdrops, while still others pushed large lights and manhandled piles of electrical cable. It reminded me that Hollywood was still dealing with fantasy, while the rest of the world was dealing with war. Was that good or bad? I had no idea.
Just across the street from Stage Five was a long row of white stucco cottages with red tile roofs. Behind this row was another, separated by a parking lot. Each little house had a patch of green grass and a small walkway lined with flowers, leading to a front door. It was a pleasant setting, worthy of a Hollywood set designer.
The first bungalow had a small sign in front that simply read ‘#1 OWI HQ.’ Placing my kit next to the front door, I straightened my uniform and entered the cottage.
Inside, I found a small room barely large enough for the desk that filled it. Behind this desk, a mature woman was talking on the telephone. Seeing me standing in the doorway, she waved me in with a smile, said goodbye to the caller, and hung up. “Good morning, Lieutenant. How may I help you?”
“I’m Lieutenant Dutch Clarke, reporting for duty, ma’am.”
“Oh, you’re here to see Commander Knox. He’s the boss in our little community. He should be in the office anytime now. He usually rolls in about nine. Take a seat in our one lonely chair. It shouldn’t be long. How about some coffee?”
“No thank you, ma’am.”
This lady could talk and talk, and she did, nonstop. Luckily, Commander Knox joined us a few minutes later. I jumped to attention as he entered the office, and he smiled and told me to stand at ease. He was wearing his summer white uniform with a blouse that had three rows of ribbons and the insignia of a submariner.
As instructed, I followed him into his office and deposited my personnel file and orders on his desk.
Sliding behind his desk, he started to review my paperwork. He was short, older and heavy-shouldered. Judging by his graying temples, gray eyes and weathered face, I placed his age in the late forties.
Finally, he looked up at me. “Your paperwork says you’re a born leader, an expert rifleman, with a background in survival. Those are all excellent skills for a mud Marine, but not necessarily the traits OWI is looking for. But then I looked down and saw who signed your orders, and far be it from me to argue with the Secretary of the Navy.” Putting down my file, he continued, “This show is mostly Navy, but we do have a small contingent of Marines, commanded by Lt. Colonel Ford. That’s where you’ll be assigned. I’ll let Ford find your hidden skills. Our mission here is simple -- we’re to promote and provide military information to the Hollywood community. We are the face of the United States Navy to millions of theatergoers across this nation and around the world, and it’s a job worth doing well. In the last war, I was a submarine commander, and after that I was a film producer for MGM. When this war broke out, the Navy needed publicity more than they needed fat old submariners like myself, so I now command OWI. Most of my people are retreads from WW1 or have entered OWI direct from civilian life with special talents or skills. They are writers, editors, publicists, and photographers. The hundred-plus people that work for me take their mission seriously and do a damn good job. Do you understand, Lieutenant?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Leave your DD214 file here, but take a copy of your orders and report to Colonel Ford over in Bungalow Seven, and good luck, Lieutenant.”
Bracing myself, I gave the commander a sharp salute. “Aye, aye, sir.”
My action caught him off guard. Finally, with a puzzled look on his face, he half-heartily returned my salute and mumbled, “Dismissed…Marine.”
Cottage Seven was across the parking lot and down two. In front of the bungalow was a small sign that read ‘#7 USMC Publicity.’ Once again, I deposited my duffle bag next to the front door and entered. The first thing I noticed was the smell of flowers…or was that perfume? This room seemed larger and had two chairs in front of a small empty desk, with wooden filing cabinets behind. On top of the desk was a typewriter, some small, framed pictures and an assortment of files and papers.
Just then, from a hallway at one side of the desk, a woman appeared. She was carrying a coffee cup and looked startled to see me standing in the office. “Sorry, I didn’t hear you come in. I was in the back, getting some coffee. What can I do for you, Lieutenant?” she said in a low voice that was almost a whisper.
It wasn’t the flowers I had smelled, it was this stunning lady.
“I’m Dutch Clarke, reporting for duty. Commander Knox sent me over from HQ to report to Colonel Ford.”
“I see.” She smiled as she slipped behind her desk. “The Colonel is here but he’s a little indisposed right now,” she continued softly. “We only heard yesterday that you were being assigned to us, and I’m afraid we are a little disorganized.”
Smiling back at her, I said, “I understand, ma’am. I only heard yesterday that I was being assigned here, too.”
“Don’t get me wrong. The Colonel needs the help. We were just surprised how quickly this happened, since we only made the request last week.”
She had a very special look, more handsome than beautiful. Her figure was trim and full, and the clothes she wore looked expensive. There was a streak of gray or blonde mixed in with her auburn hair, and after a closer look at her face, I placed her age in the late thirties. Her warm smile and twinkling hazel eyes lit up her face.
Just then, from behind the closed door at the rear of her desk, came the muffled but loud voice of a man. “What the hell is going on out there? I can’t get any goddamn sleep with all that noise…”
Just then, the door opened, revealing an older man dressed only in old-fashioned riding pants and a dirty white tank top. He was startled clearly to see me standing there, staring at him.
The
