I said, “Reporting for duty, sir.”
He looked me over for a moment, then answered while turning back into his office. “Come in, Lieutenant, and bring your orders.”
At first his office was dark, but soon the Colonel had all three of the window shutters open, flooding the little room with light. Under the window stood a long, red-leather couch, with pillows and a blanket at one end. Across from the couch was a large wooden desk, with rows of book shelves behind it. The room smelled of stale smoke and brandy, just like my grandfather’s office, back in New Jersey. Bracing myself in front of the desk, I handed the Colonel my orders.
“Stand at ease. We weren’t expecting you today.” Looking down and reading my orders, he reached into his desk and brought out a cigarette and a white ivory holder. Wetting one end of the cigarette with his lips, he fitted it into the holder and lit it.
In the warm morning light, I could see that he was older than Commander Knox, somewhere in his fifties. His hair was mostly gray, with the exception of his eye brows, which were jet black and made him look distinguished. The Colonel was a short fireplug of a man neither fat nor slender. His face was round, with a large nose, but his eyes were clear and as dark as a barrel of crude. I liked him immediately.
Finally, with his gaze still trained on the page, and white smoke rising around his head, he said, “You run with some powerful folks, Lieutenant. I have never seen a set of orders signed by the big boss himself. I’m impressed!” Putting the papers down, he looked up at me and continued, “We only put in for some help last week, and now you show up. How do you suppose the Secretary of the Navy heard about my request?”
“I don’t know, sir. I have never met the gentleman. Last week at this time, I was just a Marine boot awaiting advance weapons training. Now, for some reason, I’m here.”
“Nothing moves this fast in the Navy…nothing but trouble. But, according to the Secretary of the Navy, here you are and here you will stay.” Chewing and puffing on the cigarette holder, the Colonel went on, “I run a laid-back outfit here, so I’ll call you Dutch and you can call me Colonel. We have an important job to do, and I want us to work as a team. Did Commander Knox give you that bullshit speech about being the ‘face of the Navy’ to millions of people?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, that’s just fine for him and his people, but from now on, you and I are the face of the Marines for these Hollywood types. If I have my way, we won’t be playing second fiddle to the Navy anymore. It’s going to be our own show, a Marine show. Do you understand, Dutch?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. I’ll go over your duties in more detail later. I’ve got a shitty schedule for today, so we’ll have to do it tomorrow.” Turning towards the door, he shouted, “Maggie, come in here, please.”
Within seconds, the front office lady was standing in the doorway.
“Dutch, this is Margaret Meede -- or, as I call her, Maggie. She’s my secret weapon and Girl Friday, and has been so for years. She’ll help you get squared away.”
Turning to Maggie he continued, “I’m going to try to get some sleep again. I have a luncheon at noon, so don’t let me sleep past eleven-thirty. And, Maggie, get a table at the Derby for Dutch and me for tomorrow, and see if you can help the Lieutenant find some living quarters.” Turning back to me, he concluded, “You’re in good hands. I’ll see you tomorrow for lunch.”
Snapping to attention and saluting, I answered, “Aye, aye, sir,” and smartly turned on my heels to leave.
Getting up from his desk, he walked to the door with me and put a hand on my shoulder. “Dutch, that military stuff is just fine when the brass is around, but not for everyday…okay?”
“Yes…sir.”
Back in Margaret’s office, she remarked, “I’m afraid you didn’t catch the Colonel at his best. He had a late night at a film premier and then played polo with Jack Warner at six this morning. He works very hard for the Marines and I’m pleased you’re here to help him. Did you just get in, this morning?”
“No, ma’am, last night. Would that be Jack Warner of Warner Brothers Studio?”
“Yes…but please don’t keep calling me ma’am. You call me Maggie and I’ll call you Dutch, if that’s okay.”
“Okay.”
Maggie kept asking questions until she found out that I had slept at the train station, the night before, and had made my way to the studio without breakfast. She said her first mission was to find me a place to stay, which might take some doing, as apartments were hard to come by. She suggested that, while she made a few phone calls, I might want to step out for some breakfast. She went on to explain that there was a small Navy canteen at the end of the row of garden cottages, in the basement of the old photo studio building. “The food is good and the prices are right for OWI employees. Just tell them you’re attached to us now.”
As I made my way towards the photo building, my brain was on overload with information. Neither Commander Knox nor Colonel Ford had any idea why I was here. I had nothing to offer in the way of special talents they needed, and what they offered, I didn’t want. And that part that Colonel Ford had said, about ‘here you are and here you will stay,’ scared the hell out of me. There had to be a way that I could get back into the war.
The Photo Studio was a two-story white stucco building with the same red roof tiles as the cottages. Just inside the main entrance was a stairwell with a sign and little arrow pointing down that read ‘Navy Personnel Only’. Downstairs, I found a short hallway with open double doors at the end. Inside the doors was a small cafeteria with fifteen or twenty round tables and chairs on one side and a serving line on the other. There were only a few people sitting at the tables.
At the front of the line was a stack of metal trays, utensils, napkins and plastic glasses, just like the chow hall back at Camp Pendleton. The only difference was the sign above, which read: ‘Breakfast 0700-1000 .35 cents…Lunch 1100-1400 .50 cents...Navy Personnel Only’.
Paying for a military meal would be a new experience for me. Taking what I needed, I moved down the short, empty chow line. Behind the line was a Second Class Petty Officer and one seaman dressed in cook’s clothing.
Approaching the Petty Officer I smiled at him. He was an extraordinary looking man, with olive skin, a square jaw and jet-black eyes. He was tall and had a muscular body with near-perfect bone-white teeth. “Welcome, Lieutenant. You’re a new face here. What can we do for you?”
“I just reported for duty with Colonel Ford in Cottage Seven. Is it too late to get some eggs?”
“Not at all, Lieutenant,” he said, and slid a yellow paper across the line. “Here’s the menu. Take a look and I’ll get my roster to log you in.”
When he returned, he took my name and my order, which he then handed off to the seaman by the grill. The PO explained that the cost of meals would be deducted from my pay on payday. With a grin, he added, “That way, my patrons don’t have to fumble for change or worry about the tip.” Extending his hand, he continued, “I’m Petty Officer Jack Malone. Welcome to my canteen.”
I took his hand and shook it. “Thanks.”
Looking
