The next weeks blended together like the sea and the sand. 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 of 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 was but Act One of weekend inspection. After noon chow, it was Act Two, personal preparation like organizing your footlocker and clothing, and making sure 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.
