A few days before graduation, I was ordered to report to Sergeant Nelson’s office. Standing before his hatch, I knocked three times.
From the other side of the door, I heard, “Who’s tapping on my timber?”
“Recruit Clarke, sir.”
“Show your face.”
Reaching down, I opened the door and brought myself to attention in the doorway.
Sergeant Nelson was at his desk. He looked up. “Come on in, Dutch, and stand at ease.”
He’d called me by my first name, which had never happen before. Marching to the front of his desk, I stood at rest. He had a brown file open on his desk and was making notes on some forms inside.
After a moment, he looked up again. “First, I want to tell you that what you did on the obstacle course the other day was outstanding. A Marine never leaves another wounded Marine on the field. Good job.” He continued, “I’ve been reading your personnel file and I’m impressed, not so much with the file but with you, the man that has been here for the past nine weeks. You’re a born leader, a crack rifle shot and, from what this file says, an expert at survival. In other words, you’re just what the Marines are looking for, but maybe better placed than in a rifle platoon.” Nelson had a serious look on his face, an all-business look, as he continued. “I talked to Lieutenant Cunningham, and he talked to the Company CO, and we all agree that you should be offered a position at Officers Candidate School.”
The room fell silent with his last words. My mind was trying to absorb what he had said about OCS, and I remained speechless.
“Well, Dutch, what do you think?”
“Is this an order, sir? Do I have to go to OCS?”
“No, Dutch. The Marines recommend candidates. They don’t order candidates.”
“I noticed you didn’t confer with Sergeant Crane. I’m sure he won’t agree with your recommendation.”
“That might be so,” Nelson replied.
“I thank you and the brass for your consideration, but I would prefer to stay with the platoon, sir.”
Looking down, he closed the file and stood up from his desk, then walked around to the front. “You know where you’re going -- advanced weapons training for the next six weeks, and then, more than likely, off to the Pacific. You’ll end up on some hell hole of an island, getting your ass shot off by some Jap. I would think OCS would be a better option. More than likely, you’d end up a platoon leader, with a better chance of survival.”
“That might all be so, sir, but I don’t have a college education and I would rather stay with this platoon and these men.”
“Very well”, he replied. “Any questions?”
I thought for a moment, and then answered. “Yes, sir. You once told me that Sergeant Crane was a China Marine. I have never heard that expression, and I don’t know what it means.”
By now, Nelson was sitting on the corner of his desk, “They are old-time professional soldiers. They served time in China, fought in Central America and Haiti, and have written half the history of the Marine Corps. They are the old breed, salty noncoms and twenty-year officers. They don’t necessarily like the ninety-day lieutenants and ten-week Boots.” He stopped for a second and then, with a large grin on his face, concluded, “But they’re okay. You just steer clear of them.”
Graduation came on Saturday, August 8, at 0930. Twelve platoons, over nine hundred men, formed on the main parade field and marched to the music from the base band. It was an impressive sight. There was a color guard in front, and columns of men marching around the field, led by their platoon leaders and the noncoms that trained them. Being a squad leader, I was in the front row as we marched by the reviewing stand, with all the officers standing and saluting. With the flags flying and the men marching, the band played the ‘Marine Hymn,’ God Bless America’ and ‘The Stars & Stripes Forever.’ For some reason, my uniform seemed to fit better, I felt taller, my mind was right, and I was on the beam. But then, no Marine ever forgets the day they became a member of the brotherhood.
After the ceremonies, Lieutenant Cunningham and Sergeant Nelson personally handed out the ‘Eagle, Globe & Anchor’ insignia for our uniforms. We were now Privates in the United States Marines Corps, and proud of it.
Back at the barracks, Sergeant Nelson made a few announcements. He would post the list of reassignment orders on the bulletin board by 1600. There would be company liberty the rest of the day, and base liberty for Sunday. We should all be packed and ready to move out to our reassignments by 1000 on Monday. He and Corporal Johnson were getting a new group of Rainbows on Monday night. So the barracks was to be left Marine-clean for the next group of Mop Heads. With that, he shouted “Dismissed!”
At 1600, we all filtered into the Day Room. Looking over the shoulders of the men in front, I read the list. As we had all guessed, the entire platoon, except two, was reassigned to an advanced weapons-training company not a half mile from our barracks.
The two exceptions were Private Neil, a police cadet before enlisting, who was assigned for MP training, and Private Larson, who was assigned to the Motor Pool for training. Larson found this puzzling. He couldn’t change a flat tire, let alone repair an engine, so he attributed this assignment to Marine revenge against him for criticizing all of the marching.
The list was complete…with the exception of my name. Look as I might, my name was nowhere to be found.
Walking out of the Day Room, I crossed the hall to the open door of Sergeant Nelson’s room. When I knocked on the jamb, he looked up from his desk and motioned me in. Corporal Johnson was lying on his bed reading a magazine. The room looked brighter, larger and friendlier than the other times I had been in it.
Coming to attention in front of the desk, I said, “I just read the reassignment list in the Day Room, and my name isn’t on it.”
Looking up, Nelson replied, “I noticed that. The company office was closed when I picked up the list, so I couldn’t inquire. We’ll have to wait until Monday morning to see what’s up. I’m sure it’s just some snafu. You get packed and ready to go with the other guys. I’ll get your orders, first thing Monday.”
Then Johnson chimed in. “Trust me, this won’t be your last Marine snafu. It happens all the time. One time, I waited two weeks in Hawaii for orders sending me to Hawaii! Get used to it, Dutch. Just another snafu.”
Nodding my understanding, I departed thinking about the word ‘snafu,’ a popular acronym for ‘Situation Normal: All Fucked Up.’
