during this time, each of you will empty out the contents of your duffle bag and neatly place all items on your bunk for inspection by myself or Corporal Johnson. Do you understand?”
“Aye, aye, sir!”
Stripping at my bunk, I was in the second group of ten. We each carried in a towel and the shaving kit we had just been issued. The shower room was long and skinny and filled with steam from the first group. Wet Marine soap was in the racks, so we all got busy washing off the dirt and loose hair. Exiting the shower, I made my way to a sink, wiped the fog off the mirror, and began shaving. Using my towel, I rinsed my face off. When I looked up into the mirror, I saw half a dozen guys staring at my nude body.
Turning, I wrapped the towel around my waist and angrily asked, “What the hell are you guys staring at?”
Finally, one of the guys answered, “What’s that on your shoulder, some type of tattoo?”
Looking down on my left shoulder, the reason for their attention dawned on me. What they were staring at was the scar from a bear clawing some five inches across and eight inches long. It had taken many stitches to sew it up. The scar was still quite red and protruded out from my skin. The recruiters in Ketchikan had, in fact, called it my ‘Bear Tattoo.‘
Before I could open my mouth again, Kurt, standing two sinks down, said, “He got that fighting off a grizzly bear, up British Columbia.”
Once again, Kurt had opened his big mouth. These guys didn’t need to know that story. Damn, I wish I hadn’t done that newspaper interview, I thought.
One of the guys standing next to me exclaimed, “No shit…a grizzly bear?”
Then, from the open latrine door, Sergeant Crane’s voice roared, “What the hell is going on in here, ladies? You Mop Heads are not at a tea party. Make a hole.”
In an instant, the guys between me and Sergeant Crane were gone, leaving the Sergeant staring at me. With his sunglasses gone, I could see his face under his campaign hat. His steel-gray eyes glared at me like lightning bolts. His face was weathered, with a dark, rough complexion and age lines from years in the sun. His uniform was so starched and pressed that I was sure it could stand in a corner on its own. Walking towards me, he moved his stare from my face to my scar.
“What the hell is that?” he asked sarcastically, “A drunken tattoo artist get to you, Boot?”
“No, sir,” I replied.
“Then what the hell is it?”
“It’s a scar from a bear-clawing…sir.”
With his voice still roaring, he said, “I know who you are, Clarke. You think you’re something special, some kind of celebrity. Sergeant Brice told me all about you. What the hell would a Boot like you know about bears…I think you’re a bold-faced liar. Some drunken Indian gave you that lousy tattoo to impress us dumb Marines. Well, it won’t work. I’ve seen recruits like you before, trying to get a leg up in the Corps, and they’re all the same, bold-faced liars. I’ll be watching you, you can count on it!”
Just then, Sergeant Nelson appeared at the door behind Crane. After a few more moments of glaring, Crane turned and walked towards Nelson. He stopped at the doorway and yelled, “Watch Clarke. He thinks he is some kind of celebrity. There’s no room for prima donnas in my outfit!”
Nelson nodded as Crane left the room.
The latrine was dead quiet for the longest time, with not even the sounds of dripping water. Finally Nelson ordered, “You Mop Heads are done. Move it, move it, for the next group.”
“Aye, aye, sir!”
Returning to my bunk, I quickly changed into one of my new utility uniforms. By the time I had the uniform on, I was sure that both floors knew all about my ‘dressing down’ from Sergeant Crane, but there was nothing I could do about that. Continuing to lay out my gear from the duffle bag, I must have looked visibly shaken, because Sergeant Nelson appeared.
At first, he just stood at the foot of my bunk, watching me neatly arrange the items. Finally, he said in a low tone, almost a whisper, “Don’t worry about Sergeant Crane. He’s a China Marine and he likes his recruits in the old Marine mold. Keep your nose clean, do what you’re told, and you’ll be okay.” Then, with a small grin on his face, he turned and walked away.
Continuing to work with my gear, I thought, What the hell is a China Marine?
At noon sharp, Corporal Johnson blew his whistle and marched the group off for chow. After eating, we returned to the barracks to dress down into our physical training clothes, then spent the next two hours sweating in the hot Southern California sun.
Corporal Johnson was the PT instructor and faced us with a lengthy program of exercise. Being in top physical condition, I had no problems with the calisthenics and was usually the only Boot to finish each set. It dawned on me halfway through that maybe I should be dogging it, like the other Boots, so as not to bring attention to myself. But I didn’t.
After PT, we returned to the barracks, hot and sweaty, only to be told to dress again in our utilities. What followed next was two hours on the parade grounds. This was the first of many lessons in close-order drill, instructed by Sergeant Nelson. It started simple: how to stand at attention, right face, left face, about face, cadence counts, etc. In the weeks to follow, Sergeant Nelson would create a cohesive drill unit that would rival all other platoons on the base.
After evening chow, we returned to the barracks for a two-hour lecture and demonstration on how to make a Marine bed, complete with white collar and hospital corners. It was hot and stuffy on the second floor and, during the demonstration, two of the men fell asleep, standing on their feet. Corporal Johnson, who was giving the lecture, used the shaft of his swagger stick to poke each man hard in the gut. Then they were each dressed down, verbally.
“You do not sleep during my instructions, Idiots! You do not sleep until I tell you to sleep. Because you have insulted me, both of you will be in charge of the latrine for one week. That means that each of you will clean and scrub the latrine each morning and evening, during your free time.”
Free time? I thought. When does that come?
Just then, Sergeant Nelson entered the room and blew his whistle. The squad came to attention as he strolled to the center of the room and said, “It’s 2000 hours. Lights will go out at 2100. Reveille will be at 0530, and you will fall in, out on the street, at 0540, dressed in your PT clothes. Do you understand?”
“Aye, aye, sir!” was the loud reply.
“Between now and 2100, you will have your free time. I have opened the day room at the top of the stairs. Here you can write home to Mommy or read the Marine Manual, which I have provided. Or you can take care of business by polishing your boots or organizing your foot locker. You will not, I repeat, will not play grab ass during this time. The smoking lamp will be lit for the next hour. If you smoke, you will use the butt cans on each window sill. Beginning tomorrow night, we will have a fire watch posted all night on each floor. I will cover these duties in tomorrow’s lecture.”
Slowly, he turned and walked towards and then through the open bay doors, blew his whistle, and shouted back, “Dismissed.”
We all stood there like idiots for a
