Dutch Clarke -- the War Years. Brian Psy.D. Ratty
the room, a recruit in the last chair was just standing up. The well-lit room was long and narrow, with five barbers and chairs. Behind the chairs were the barber stations with sinks and, above that, each station had a mirror. On the floor were piles and piles of cut hair. It looked dirty, it felt dirty. As I slid into the still-warm chair, the barber snapped his cloth around me and turned the chair towards his mirror. Grabbing his electric shears, he turned to me with a smile. “How would you like it, Mac?”
Not thinking, I smiled back at him and answered, “Give me a trim, just enough to keep the hair out of my eyes.”
At that instant, from the other end of the room, Sergeant Brice screamed out, “There will be no talking in this goddamn room. All I want to hear is hair hitting the floor! Do you read me, Boot?”
“Aye, aye, sir!” was my loud reply.
Smiling ear to ear, the barber winked at me and proceeded to shave my head in just under sixty seconds. As he removed the dirty apron, I rubbed my head and stared at myself in the mirror. Damn, that was fast, I thought.
Getting to my feet, the barber turned his back to the front of the room and whispered, “It will grow back…trust me.”
From the barber shop, we marched some dozen blocks or so to the quartermaster’s warehouse. Along the way, we saw many other units marching up and down the side streets between long rows of barracks. We could hear the cadence of their DI’s shouting out, “Hup two, hup two, hup two three four.” The morning air was still cool and, on my now-bald head, almost cold. At one point, we passed a group at parade rest, with their Sergeant nowhere in sight. The group must have been close to graduation because, below their caps, I could see hair almost a half inch long. As we passed one of them yelled out, “Ha, look at these ‘Mop Heads,’ just back from the barber. Sorry, boys! It’s going to be a long ten weeks!”
Another chimed in, “Rainbows…a whole group of Rainbows.”
He then changed to a cadence call, “Rainbow, Rainbow don’t feel blue. My grandfather’s Four-F, too.”
With our haircuts and civilian clothes, everyone on base knew who we were and where we were going. That was everyone, except us.
At the quartermasters, we were all issued clothing and gear, the standard 1041 outfit for all new recruits. The standard issue had ninety-six items, from shirts to socks, from belt buckles to boots, from a sewing kit to a shaving kit. There were fifteen or more supply stations, with stacks of clothing and gear. Marines working in front of the stacks were passing out all the different items to our long Rainbow line. God help any man that didn’t know his size, for the men passing out the items only asked once. If there was silence, you got what you got. There was no measuring, no fitting, no trying it on, just screaming out your size and hoping the guy behind the counter grabbed from the right stack. Later, we found out that one poor sap got boots two sizes too big, and another got his dress uniform two sizes too small. As we received each item, it was packed into our Marine green duffle bag, which had been the first item issued. Slowly moving down the line, I watched the haphazard way the thousands of items were passed out to recruits who had no idea of what they were getting. At the end of the line, the last station, we were issued two pair of black boots, one pair of black dress shoes, one pair of canvas shoes and one pair of rubber shower clogs. Sitting at a desk next to the station was the quartermaster. Each recruit was shown a list of the items just issued and instructed to sign a form regarding items received. Looking down the list, I wasn’t at all sure I had all the items, but I said nothing. No one said a word; we just signed and trusted that our green duffle bags had all the right items.
We were back at our barracks by 11:00 AM -- or, in military time, 1100. After we stowed our duffle bags next to our bunks, Sergeant Nelson blew his whistle and called the group to attention.
“I’m Sergeant Nelson.” He turned to the Corporal standing next to him. “And this is Corporal Johnson.”
The sergeant was tall and lean, with a body built like a Marine recruiting poster. His features were square and clean, with a bronze complexion from the hot sun.
“We will be your daily DI’s for the next ten weeks. You Mop Heads are the 4th Platoon of Dog Company. The floor below is the 3rd Platoon, and in the barracks next to us are the 1st and 2nd Platoons, who are halfway through their basic training. As you learned this morning, Gunny Sergeant Crane is the lead Drill Instructor for this Company. Lieutenant Cunningham is your platoon leader. Captain Roberts is the commanding officer of Dog Company, and his boss is Colonel Jacob, the CO of the 2nd Battalion 3rd Marine Training Regiment. I tell you this so you know the chain of command. You do not, I repeat, do not want to be called in front of any officers in this chain of command. If there is a problem, either Corporal Johnson or I will take care of it, or, God forbid, if we can’t, Sergeant Crane will. Do you understand?”
“Aye, aye, sir!”
Holding one hand to his ear, he barked, “I can’t hear you!”
This time, with gusto, the barracks floor replied, “Aye, aye, sir!”
He continued, “We will march to noon chow in one hour. In the meantime, you Mop Heads will shit, shower and shave. But because we have only ten showers, you will do this in groups of ten, and take no longer then five minutes to complete your business. Do you understand?”
“Aye, aye, sir!”
“Also during this time, each of you will empty out the contents of your duffle bag and neatly place all items on your bunk for inspection by myself or Corporal Johnson. Do you understand?”
“Aye, aye, sir!”
Stripping at my bunk, I was in the second group of ten. We each carried in a towel and the shaving kit we had just been issued. The shower room was long and skinny and filled with steam from the first group. Wet Marine soap was in the racks, so we all got busy washing off the dirt and loose hair. Exiting the shower, I made my way to a sink, wiped the fog off the mirror, and began shaving. Using my towel, I rinsed my face off. When I looked up into the mirror, I saw half a dozen guys staring at my nude body.
Turning, I wrapped the towel around my waist and angrily asked, “What the hell are you guys staring at?”
Finally, one of the guys answered, “What’s that on your shoulder, some type of tattoo?”
Looking down on my left shoulder, the reason for their attention dawned on me. What they were staring at was the scar from a bear clawing some five inches across and eight inches long. It had taken many stitches to sew it up. The scar was still quite red and protruded out from my skin. The recruiters in Ketchikan had, in fact, called it my ‘Bear Tattoo.‘
Before I could open my mouth again, Kurt, standing two sinks down, said, “He got that fighting off a grizzly bear, up British Columbia.”
Once again, Kurt had opened his big mouth. These guys didn’t need to know that story. Damn, I wish I hadn’t done that newspaper interview, I thought.
One of the guys standing next to me exclaimed, “No shit…a grizzly bear?”
Then, from the open latrine door, Sergeant Crane’s voice roared, “What the hell is going on in here, ladies? You Mop Heads are not at a tea party. Make a hole.”
In an instant, the guys between me and Sergeant Crane were gone, leaving the Sergeant staring at me. With his sunglasses gone, I could see his face under his campaign hat. His steel-gray eyes glared at me like lightning bolts. His face was weathered, with a dark, rough complexion and age lines from years in the sun. His uniform was so starched and pressed that I was sure it could stand in a corner on its own. Walking towards me, he moved his stare from my face to my scar.
“What the hell is that?” he asked sarcastically, “A drunken tattoo artist get to you, Boot?”
“No, sir,” I replied.
“Then what the hell is it?”
“It’s a scar