minutes, my eyes adjusted, and I could see stars in the sky. Soon, I could even make out the shadowed outline of the row of barracks across the way. It was too quiet and too dark, and a little bit spooky.
Just then, I heard footsteps approaching at the end of the platform. I sprang to attention, raising the weapon and shouting, “Halt! Who goes there? York.”
“Neck,” came the reply.
“No, sir. That is not the right password. Halt. You may not approach!”
Far down the platform, the figure walked out of the ebony darkness and into the light.
“The hell you say. That is the right password, Idiot.”
Oh God, it was Sergeant Crane.
He staggered as he approached. “Clarke! I might have known it would be a shit-head like you. You don’t even know the goddamn password. You are one sorry SOB.”
By now, he was standing in front of me, and he reeked of booze and was slurring his words.
“Boy, you come to attention when I talk to you.”
Jumping to attention, I replied, “Aye, aye, sir!”
Placing the brim of his hat under the brim of mine, he yelled, “Who told you to guard this post standing at parade rest, and why don’t you know the password?”
I hesitated, then replied, “The sentry I relieved told me the guarding procedure, and the password changed at 2400…sir.”
He glared at me from under his campaign hat, his face flushed with anger, and for the first time since my run in with that grizzly, I tasted fear. His eyes were bloodshot, and his uniform spoiled and wrinkled.
“Give me that goddamn weapon. I will show you how to guard this post.”
“No, sir. I will not relinquish my weapon.”
“The hell you say,” he growled as he reached down and jerked the gun out of my hands. “You watch me, Idiot, or I’ll use this weapon to thump your head!” Throwing the gun over his shoulder, he marched -- or, I should say, staggered -- down to the end of the platform. Making a wobbly about-face, he started stumbling back towards me. Just a few steps from me, he lost his balance and fell to one knee on the platform. He was stunned for a second. Then, using the gun as a crutch, he regained his stance. Marching over to me, he shouted, “Go get Sergeant Nelson. I want his asshole out here now!”
”No, sir. I cannot leave my post.”
There was a long moment of silence. Then he yelled, “Clarke, that is an order. I want you to move your ass now!”
His face was twisted with anger. I didn’t know what to say or do. His whole body was twitching and I was full of fear. Finally I shouted back, “General Order Number Five: To quit my post only when properly relieved.”
He fell silent for the longest time, his face changing from anger to puzzlement. Then he reached down and threw the weapon back at me. I caught it in midair. Suddenly, he turned and walked away into the night, mumbling, “Saved by the order. We Marines are always saved by orders.” Turning his head to look back at me, he shouted, “I’ll take care of you later, Clarke. You can count on it.”
Abruptly, he was gone into the darkness and it was quiet again. I was so shaken by the experience that my hands trembled, but I knew it could have been worse. Then again, I was sure it still would be, after he talked to Sergeant Nelson.
Benson relieved me at 0400 sharp. As I made my way across the field, I thought, Well, at least the drinking fountains are in safe hands. I wish I was.
But I was wrong. I never heard about the incident again. Either Sergeant Crane was embarrassed the next morning or the episode got lost in the fog of all that booze.
Ready on the firing line
Rapidly, the morning classroom gave way to field exercises and demonstrations. Corporal Johnson taught all the physical assignments, such as hand-to-hand combat, bayonet training and Judo. He was an expert at Japanese Judo and enjoyed selecting the largest Boots, myself included, and throwing us to the ground in an effortless style. He taught us that it was all about balance and leverage. Once I mastered those concepts I became modestly efficient in throwing my fellow Boots to the mat.
Sergeant Nelson was the weapons expert. He had a working knowledge and expertise with every small arm a rifle platoon might use. From handguns to hand grenades, from submachine guns to our primary Springfield 1903 rifle, we were taught how to use, strip and maintain each weapon. The training was so intense that I found myself dreaming about how to disassemble and assemble each weapon.
Every recruit was required to qualify on the rifle range. Once qualified, the Boots were issued a badge to be worn on their Class A uniforms. There were three designs of badges: Rifleman-bronze bar, Sharpshooter-bronze bar with hanging cross and Expert Rifleman-gold bar with hanging crossed rifles. From what I could see, there were few Expert Badges on the base. Sergeant Crane and Nelson had them, while most others didn’t, so I knew this award was hard to achieve. It became my goal to shoot for the gold.
Before the three rounds of qualification, we were given two sessions of practice. The rifle range was tucked into a small valley surrounded by scrub grass and sand dunes. At one end of the basin were sand-filled cement ramparts with a long, deep dugout behind. Here Marines would connect 5’x 5’ paper targets to racks that would move up and down behind the rampart. Each Boot then fired five rounds of live ammunition from the standing position, five from the sitting position and five from the prone position. Before each exercise, fresh targets would be raised above the wall and, after five rounds, lowered below the wall. Here the range Marines would examine the target for accuracy. After the examination, the target was raised again. A red flag, called Maggie’s Drawers, would be waved in front of the target for each shot that had missed. For each shot that hit the target, a long stick with a large white dot on top would point to where the target was hit. The bull’s eye of the target was only about ten inches across, and black. The next circle was about thirty inches across, and dark gray. The final circle was sixty inches across, and light gray. The recruits would fire from down-range, some hundred yards (the length of a football field). There were twenty lines of targets.
The range was a grueling seven-mile march from our barracks and, on our first afternoon of practice, the temperature was close to a hundred degrees. By now, we had all been issued training rifles, but they were of WWI vintage. When we arrived at the range, the ordnance Sergeant issued newer rifles for the live fire. Along with the rifle came three clips, with five rounds each of live ammunition.
Sergeant Nelson had the first squad on the firing line. He gave one last demonstration on the correct use and firing of the weapon from the standing position, then stressed range safety. Stepping back, he shouted, “Load and lock…ready on the left, ready on the right, ready on the firing line. Commence firing!” With that, the squad opened fire.
The noise and smell was both exciting and frightening. After the first five rounds, the line fell silent and the targets were pulled down. Moments later came the results. A few Maggie’s Drawers were lofted, but most of the bullets had found their way into light gray. Next, the squad would shoot from two more positions.
The second squad went next. Standing in Lane 7, the order came: “Load and lock, ready on the left, ready on the right, ready on the firing
