a quarter would bounce six inches off your made-up bed. Then, at 1500 hours, came the third and final act. The platoon would be called to attention and we’d wait for a senior NCO or junior officer to strut down the bay and inspect our day-long efforts. Sometimes we waited for over an hour to hear the footsteps of our approaching inspector. This waiting time was the worst, as it allowed all of us to worry about what we had missed or forgotten. The penalty for failing an inspection would be two or three hours of extra drill, the next day.
Sundays were the best. Each recruit was required to dress in their Class ‘A’ uniform and attend the church of their choice. There were many chapels on the post, so I decided to try a few before making my choice. In the end, I selected the Catholics; their church was air-conditioned and the sermons were short. After church, we would return to the barracks for a light drill in our dress uniforms. After the noon meal and ‘mail call’ came free time until Lights Out. This was the opportunity to do your laundry, write home or read, if you could find any reading material other than the Marine Manual -- or, as it was called, the ‘Guide Book.’ It was also a time for playing cards, talking, and making friends. Soon I found myself hanging out with both Kurt and Hank from Ketchikan. They were both fisherman, like me; we had a lot in common. Also, for some reason, I took to Jim Wilson, the skinny kid from Seattle. He couldn’t have been much more than a hundred and ten pounds, dripping wet, and he wore funny-looking reading glasses and wasn’t very Marine-looking, even in uniform. But he could tell stories and jokes that would make you belly laugh for hours. And he had a way with his voice. He could sound just like Sergeant Crain or Nelson, if he put his mind to it. He loved to sneak into the latrine and grab one of the toilet brushes to use as a riding crop. Then, dressed only in his skivvies and t-shirt, he would march down the row of bunks, barking out orders in Crain’s voice: “You clowns have had your last laugh when you met me.” Other times, in Nelsons voice, he would shout, “You Mop Heads are idiots! Move it, move it,” all the while beating the toilet brush across his hands. The whole bay would burst out laughing. He was so funny that I gave him the nickname of ‘Comedian,’ which stuck with him throughout his time in the Pacific. He was a good guy, and fun to be around.
At the end of the second week, a few changes were made. Our reveille was moved from 0530 to 0600, half an hour more sleep and half an hour less of morning PT. Another big change was that our heads were now sprouting fur. We had gone from Mop Heads to ‘fur balls’. Also, Sergeant Nelson split our platoon into four permanent squads, with four recruits as squad leaders. I was named leader of the 2nd Squad, a position I wasn’t sure I wanted. Then again, he didn’t ask.
The Fifth General Order
On the third Saturday, after inspection, I was told to report to Sergeant Nelson’s office. This office was really a small private billet across from the Day Room where he and Corporal Johnson slept. It was never a good thing to be called to his ‘office;’ most of the time it meant trouble. Wondering what the hell I had done wrong, I hurried to report.
As always, the hatch (door) was closed, so I gave it three very firm knocks and brought myself to attention. From the other side of the door, Sergeants Nelson’s voice rang out. “Who is the idiot pounding on my palace door?”
“Recruit Clarke, sir.”
The door swung open and Nelson shouted, “Show yourself.”
Marching sharply, I entered the room and braced myself in front of Sergeant Nelson. He was seated behind a small desk, with a brown file folder open. The room had two bunks on each side, with footlockers and chairs at the foot of each bed. Above each bed, tacked to the walls, were Marine recruiting posters. The desk was in the middle of the room, and behind it was a window with a small table under it. On the table was a hot plate, coffee pot and two white coffee mugs. The room was clean, Marine clean.
Looking up from the desk, Nelson said, “Do you like my palace?”
“No, sir…I mean, yes, sir,” I said with frustration.
Sergeant Nelson looked back down at the file and continued, “The platoon has drawn guard duty this week. I have assigned your squad the first duty, starting at midnight. Your name is at the top of the roster. You will relieve Carter from the 3rd Platoon at 2400. You will be relieved at 0400 by Recruit Benson from your squad”. Reaching down, he picked up the typewritten roster and handed it to me. His gaze now squarely on mine, he continued, “You will wear utilities, and I want you and your squad to look and be sharp. Carter will relinquish his training weapon to you, and you will relinquish that same weapon when relieved. The weapon is not loaded, but I want you to treat it as loaded. Do you understand? Do you have questions?”
“Yes, sir. What is the password for tomorrow?”
“The challenge is ‘York.’ The reply is ‘Sergeant.’ I do not expect you will see a soul, at that hour on a Sunday morning, but if you do, use the challenge. Understood?”
“Aye, aye, sir! One more question. What are we guarding, and where do I report?”
“Your mission is to guard the drinking fountains directly across the parade grounds from this barracks.”
I paused a moment. “Aye, aye, sir!”
That afternoon, I briefed my squad about the ‘mission’ and passed out the schedule for each man. Stressing the importance of sharpness, I reminded them of Sergeant Nelson’s orders. Before chow, I went to the laundry and picked up two freshly starched and pressed utilities. After chow, I spit-shined my boots and belt buckle to such a high gloss that I could see my reflection. Just before Lights Out, I dressed in my uniform and retired to the latrine, where I would wait. Passing the time, sitting on a commode, I reread the half dozen letters Laura had sent me during the past few weeks. Her words were full of home, love and happiness, and her envelopes were full of the scent of her perfume. While I had long ago memorized each letter’s contents, it was a joy just to see and smell them again.
At 2345, I exited the barracks and walked across the parade grounds towards the fountains. The night was dark, cool and silent. Approaching the other side, I could easily make out Carter, standing at parade rest under a nearby street light. Next to him were ten drinking fountains, raised on a small wooden platform. The raised area was about thirty feet long and four feet wide.
As I moved into the light, Carter jumped to attention, bringing his weapon to port arms as he shouted, “Halt! Who goes there? Leather”
Damn, I thought. I know tomorrow’s challenge and password but not today’s! ‘Leather’ must be the challenge. I’ll have to guess the password.
Searching for what might be the right password, I finally shouted back, “Neck.”
There was a moment of silence, and then he replied, “Approach.”
“I’m Clarke from the 4th Platoon, here to relieve you.”
Handing me his weapon, he remarked irritably, “Good. You can have this silly duty. Standing guard on drinking fountains is just too dangerous for me.”
As he was about to leave, I asked, “What’s the procedure? Do we march or stand?”
“I was told to stand, but then who the hell knows for sure? Good night!”
Nodding, I opened the bolt of the weapon to double-check that it was unloaded. Then I took my place, standing at parade rest next to the first fountain. Within seconds, I became aware of just how dark the night looked, and how quiet it was. The only sound I could hear was that of the street light lamp
