Turning, I walked to my bunk, where Kurt was standing.
“Which one are you going to do, Dutch?” he asked.
“Which one what?”
“You know…write a letter, read the manual, polish your boots, or what?”
“None of the above,” I said with a smile.
Standing next to my bunk, I stripped down to my skivvies and t-shirt. Grabbing a butt can and reaching into my kit for my Bull Durham, I climbed the top bunk and sat Indian style while rolling a cigarette. As I lit it, I noticed Kurt still watching. He shook his head with a grin and said, “You know, you can buy those already made now.”
“Yeah, I know. It’s just a habit I have. There’s something soothing about rolling your own smoke.” Truth to tell, I was proud that I could roll my tobacco as firm and round as any store-bought. A few moments later, I noticed four or five guys standing at the foot of my bunk, talking to Kurt, who was sitting on his bunk below.
Finally, one Boot looked up at me and said, “Show us your tattoo. We didn’t get a chance to see it.”
“Yeah, Dutch, how about it?” another asked.
Looking down at them, I replied, “Come on, guys. It’s no big thing.”
“Please?” said another.
Their faces were now all turned to me, and others started joining them at the foot of the bed. As their group started to crowd down the aisle, I answered, “Okay, but it’s no big deal. It’s just something that happened.”
I rolled up my left t-shirt sleeve, which normally covered most of the scar. The guys crowded around for a good, close look.
“Damn, that must have hurt,” one guy remarked.
“What happened to the bear?” another asked.
“Maybe I’ll tell you, some time. For now, let’s enjoy this free time.”
The guy sitting on the top bunk next to me reached out for a handshake, saying, “I agree. I’m James Wilson from Seattle.”
Taking his hand, I shook it. “I’m Dutch Clarke from Ketchikan.”
That started it. Within minutes, the whole barracks was shaking hands and introducing themselves to each other. There were guys from all up and down the West Coast. Kurt, Hank Marks and I were from the furthest north, while others were from Seattle, Portland, San Francisco, and Los Angeles, as well as two Boots from nearby San Diego. Seventy-six young men, short and tall, skinny and plump, ranged in age from seventeen to me, the old man at twenty-two. I liked them all instantly.
At 2100, the whistle blew and the lights went out. Butting my second cigarette into the can, I reached down and placed it back on the window sill.
From the bunk below, Kurt whispered, “Good night, Dutch.”
“Night.”
Lying back on my bunk, I heard the sounds of rustling and whispers soon turn to snoring. I thought about getting under the covers but it was just too hot. Staring up at the ceiling, I heard the gable fan at the end of the barracks making its swishing noise as it tried to move the stale hot air out.
Soon, I realized just how tired I was. It had been a long day. My first day in the United States Marines Corps. If this is the worst, then I can take whatever lies ahead, I reflected, and fell asleep before another thought could pass.
Routine
The next days and weeks blended together like bread dough. We had a routine: Reveille at 0530, an hour and a half of PT, and then marching to the morning meal. After chow, we would have three hours of classroom lectures with the 3rd Platoon. The instructors were either Sergeant Nelson or Sergeant Rice. The information they taught was everything about standing fire watch, guard duty, military organization and the code of conduct. On two occasions, Sergeant Crane gave lectures on Marine tactics and military protocol. Both times, he wore his Class A dress uniform, which was quite impressive. Being a Gunnery Sergeant, he had not only Sergeant Stripes on the sleeve but also two lower half-round rockers below. In addition, the lower part of the sleeve had six hash marks, one for every three years service. On his dress blouse on the left side were four rows of colorful and distinguished ribbons. Just above these medals he proudly wore his Expert Rifleman Badge. His presence and presentations were always a bit arrogant but commanding and captivating.
For some reason, his lecture on protocol resonated in my mind. “The salute given to all officers is a salute to the rank, not the man. You might not respect the man wearing the rank, but you will always respect the rank,” he told us.
After noon chow, we would spend another ninety minutes doing PT. After that, it was two or more hours of close-order drill instruction, all of which was done outside, with the weather well over ninety degrees and the humidity the same. Once every hour, our platoon would take a break for a swig -- and only a swig -- of water and a salt pill, to help control our water loss due to sweating. And sweat we did, with many of us losing three or more pounds of body weight in an afternoon.
After evening chow, it was back to the barracks for another hour or two of lectures and demonstrations from Corporal Johnson or Sergeant Nelson. Most of what they taught was basic military survival: how to prepare for inspections, how to mark and identify your gear, hygiene, and so on. I found Johnson and Nelson to both be firm but fair when dealing with us. They were professionals doing a job. Nelson was about twenty-five years old and roughly my size. Underneath his campaign cap were blue eyes with short cropped-brown hair. He walked and talked with confidence but had a bright smile when needed. Johnson was my junior in age, around twenty or twenty-one. He had a sandy complexion with a personality to match; the Corporal was all business, with a fire in his belly that seemed to be about proving something to the Marines, or perhaps just to himself.
There were a couple of screw-ups in the platoon, and they were ridden hard by our DI’s, but not vindictively, like I was sure Sergeant Crane would have done. For the most part, those who messed up were given latrine duty or required to march on the parade grounds during our free time.
One of our first assignments was to memorize the eleven General Orders that all Marine sentries are required to know. This assignment was to be completed during our free time. Sergeant Nelson’s instructions were quite clear: “Woe to any unfortunate Mop Head who cannot shout out, verbatim, all eleven orders. Such a recruit will incur a firestorm of wrath from all of his Drill Instructors”. With this in mind, our platoon set out to memorize the eleven orders on our second night of free time. Each recruit was given a printed list of the orders, which contained about a hundred and thirty-five simple words, such as: ‘1. To take charge of this post and all government property in view’ or ‘5. To quit my post only when properly relieved.’ For some reason, I had very little trouble committing those orders to memory. But that was not the case for about half the bay. Soon I began coaching other recruits, and continued to do so, long after Lights Out. This tutoring was a good opportunity to better get to know my fellow Mop Heads. Lying back in my bunk, that night, I was confident that all of us ‘clowns’ would sleep better, having memorized the eleven General Orders.
Saturday mornings were spent scrubbing the barracks -- or, as it was called, “having a GI Party.” Everything, every nook and cranny, was cleaned, polished or painted. This activity
