Our first pay call came at the end of our sixth week. That Saturday afternoon, Sergeant Nelson lined us up in the barracks bay and shouted out instructions. “The pay officer is here. Each of you will smartly go to the Day Room when your name is called. You will stand at attention in front of the pay officer and sing out your name and serial number. You will receive your pay in cash, and you will sign a voucher that you have received your pay. Do you understand?”
“Aye, aye, sir!”
Each man received forty-six dollars. We were told that, upon completion of boot camp, that amount would be raised to fifty-two dollars. Marines would never get rich; then again, no man in the barracks had joined for the money.
‘Mail Call.’ What great words for any solider! Ours came twice a week and it was always a big event for all Boots. Laura had been great, with one or more letters every week. I even got a letter from her father, Skip, which was a pleasant surprise.
My letters to Laura had been slow and few, but I was sure she understood. It was Uncle Roy that I had not heard from, and I was getting concerned. Then, in the seventh week, I received a letter on Hotel El Cortez stationery from Roy. Opening it, I found five new one-hundred-dollar bills folded inside his note. These bills I quickly stuffed into my trousers’ pocket, as no one needed to know about my finances. His letter read:
August 3, 1942
Dear Dutch,
Sorry for the delay in sending you this letter. This war has made for strange bedfellows as I’m now working with the Roosevelt Administration for the Navy’s need of petroleum products. This has kept me on the road for the last few months. As you can tell from the stationery, I have been here in San Diego for the last week. I have been meeting with an Admiral King about specialty lubricants for his submarines. Maybe you have run into him. He said he’s up at Camp Pendleton a lot. Well, just a thought. He’s a hell of a nice guy, so if you ever need anything look him up.
A grin crossed my face. Yeah, sure, I get to meet lots of admirals here, I thought.
I tried twice to give you a phone call but each time they told me that recruits can’t take telephone calls. Admiral King got me your commanding officer’s name, Colonel Jacob, but when I called him, he transferred me to a Sergeant Crane. This guy sounded like a real jerk and I told him so! But he said he knew you, and that he would pass on the message that I called. I hope he did!
Sorry we couldn’t have gotten together for dinner or something. This hotel is the best, and their food is outstanding. We would have had a grand time! I still don’t understand why you joined the Marines, when you could have been home helping with the war effort. Oh well, what’s done is done…
PS. I have put some pocket money in here for you. Let me know if you need more. Business is going just great!
Putting the letter back in the envelope, I shook my head in disbelief that he had phoned the Colonel and then talked with Sergeant Crane. Uncle Roy just didn’t get it. This military life was a mystery to him, and I would most likely pay the price. And that part about ‘business is just great’ -- being a war profiteer was something I didn’t like!
At the end of our eighth week, there was a feeling in the air that we were all going to make it. We had changed, our heads had hair, our bodies were firmer, and our minds were sharper. We walked with a swagger and we could curse like any good mud Marine. These weeks brought other changes, and I marveled, watching young boys becoming young tigers. We had worked hard and it was beginning to pay off. Our platoon could out-march, out-shoot and out-swim any other unit on the post.
