Chapter 3

I quickly obtained the necessary approvals from my ward doctor, and settled in as the office's official receptionist. Although my unofficial status as hospital drill instructor had not yielded the social possibilities I had hoped for, my new job became a veritable mother lode of opportunity.

Shortly before I graduated from crutches to a steel brace and a cane, after I had been on the job for about two months, I answered the phone one morning with my customary "This is the Welfare and Recreation office, sir; Private First Class Moore speaking," and heard a woman's voice.

"This is Miss... of XYZ Sorority. We'd like to invite 30 officers to our annual ball in the Spanish Ballroom of the Olympic Hotel a week from next Saturday night."

Shocked by my temerity, I heard myself saying in disapproving tones, "It is not the policy of this office to differentiate between officers and enlisted men, mam."

Luckily, the inner office door was closed. If Mr. Kardash had heard me say that, I'd have been out looking for a new job!

The woman at the other end immediately caved in. "Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't mean it the way it sounded. Of course, all service men will be welcome!"

Of course.

Well, what the hell? I figured this might be an interesting, low cost evening. So I invited myself. The party was supposed to start at 6 pm. I caught a bus downtown right after evening chow, and was standing on 4th Avenue outside the hotel entrance at 5:45, watching the traffic move by.

A particularly young Air Corps officer wearing the insignia of a warrant officer looked at me peculiarly as he walked past. After he had gone on 20 feet or so, he turned and came back to me. "Don't Marines salute officers any more?"

I briefly considered giving the lad a sword salute with my cane, which, of course, he hadn't seen, but common sense prevailed, so I laboriously shifted my cane from my right hand to my left, drew myself up and gave the boy my best salute.

I thought he was going to burst into tears when he saw that cane, and realized the significance of the Purple Heart ribbon on my chest. Instead, he apologized so profusely that he was beginning to draw a crowd, and I was the one becoming embarrassed.

I ducked into the hotel, climbed the stairs to the mezzanine, found the Spanish Ballroom, and headed straight to the little bar that was set up in the corner of the room. Then I retreated to a table and sat, sipping my drink.

"Do you think they would sell me a drink?" I turned, and there behind me stood my little warrant officer. I instantly guessed that he was accustomed to asking older officers to buy his booze in his officer's club.

Again my opportunistic streak took charge. "I don't know, sir. You do look pretty young," I said. That was a gross understatement. I was barely 19, but the kid looked as if he were about 14 years old.

"How much are the drinks?" he asked.

Oh, boy. This was going to be even better than I could have imagined. "A dollar each, sir," I said, struggling to maintain a straight face.

The kid handed over a $2 bill. "Would you get me one? I'd like a bourbon/water," he said. "Buy yourself a drink, too."

I put the $2 in my pocket and went to fetch the boy a drink. For a kid so young (he was actually about my age, but he lacked the mileage I had acquired), he had a remarkable capacity, and I fed him drinks all evening.

My party ended, however, around midnight. I was sitting at a round table in company with an Army major and captain, and three lovely young girls. I was the only enlisted man (and probably the only combat veteran) in the room, so I was entertaining them with war stories when my young fly boy customer lurched up to the table waving a $5 bill.

Explanations were in order. The girls thought my scam was hilarious, but the two Army officers took a different view, and strongly suggested I return the kid's money.

I'd worked all evening for it, and I wasn't going to let them take it away. Instead, I stood, retrieved my cane, and excused myself. No one stopped me as I left the room $14 richer than I was when I entered it.

Two incidents of lasting importance occurred during my final few months in the service. My mother had moved to Olympia, 60 miles south of Seattle. Because the Welfare and Recreation office was closed on the weekends, my weekends were free. Another marine and I pooled our resources and bought an ailing 1932 Studebaker sedan. I used it for my weekend jaunts to Olympia while he, lacking the freedom I enjoyed, used it during the week.

On my second or third trip to Olympia, on an impulse, I stopped at the Olympia USO, which was located on the main road as you entered Olympia. It was a Saturday morning. Two or three pretty young hostesses were on duty, ready to pour coffee and chat with any service man who might wander in. Luckily, I was the only service man in sight. Olympia is only a short distance from Fort Lewis, a major Army post, so the girls had seen lots of soldiers, but marines were something of a novelty; especially marines on crutches with two rows of campaign ribbons.

One girl in particular caught my eye. I soon learned that her name was Bonnie. We spent a delightful hour getting acquainted, and I quickly discovered she lived almost within walking distance of my mother's house. USO girls were not supposed to make outside dates, but Bonnie readily accepted my invitation to the movies that night. After all, I had a car.

As the weeks went by, I found I was spending almost every Saturday night with Bonnie. However, we never advanced beyond the heavy petting stage. I realize now, of course, that forces beyond my ken were in play. That is, I had met Bonnie's parents, and I'm sure they were significantly underwhelmed by my prospects as a potential son-in-law. Bonnie's father was a relatively prosperous self-made man.

Bonnie was looking for a husband. Our relationship was doomed from the beginning, partly because even I knew I was much too young and too ill prepared to consider marriage.

After I had become well ensconced in my new job, Mr. Kardash was asked to find a 5th Division marine as a speaker for the 7th War Bond Drive. The symbol chosen for that drive was Rosenthal's famous Iwo Jima flag-raising photo, which had electrified the country and which involved the 5th Marine Division. While having the bad luck to be wounded hardly qualified me for the status of a hero, I was reasonably articulate, and came equipped with a Purple Heart and a pair of crutches. What more could a bond drive chairperson ask?

During the next several weeks, I spoke before civic groups and in company lunchrooms all over three counties. I don't know how many bonds I may have sold, but as usual, I was able to find fringe benefits.

Because I was scheduled for a medical survey (discharge), shortly after I graduated to a cane, I was transferred from the hospital to the Naval Air Station at nearby Sand Point to wait while my discharge papers were being processed in Washington. I was just another PFC in a casual company with 128 other crippled marines biding our time, waiting for our discharges from the service, except, my bond drive activities had continued.

Roughly twice a week, a Treasury car would draw up to the curb in front of the Marine Barracks, and the driver would come to the detachment office requesting my presence. This gave me a certain panache. When other members of the casual company were required to relieve the regular Marine detachment by standing guard duty, I was exempt, probably for more reasons than one.

VJ-Day had long come and gone, and there was enormous confusion as the huge American military machine rapidly unwound. Many people suddenly found themselves in charge of valuable assets without normal controls or accountability. One ingenious chap, for instance, was even rumored to have stolen a complete airplane at Sand Point. Thus, there were uneasy backward glances when my car arrived which sometimes ripened into outright paranoia.

How many privates -- even privates first class, which I now was -- had Treasury cars calling for them on official business? They said it was for a bond tour, but...

One of the last talks I gave before my discharge papers arrived from Washington was to the staff of the Olympic Hotel, which was then Seattle's leading hotel. There were perhaps fifty people in my audience, ranging from hotel executives to the housekeeping staff. This bond drive featured a queen contest -- the establishment that sold the most bonds won the contest. The hotel's candidate was a lovely young elevator operator named Shelly who had been introduced to me before my talk, and who sat in the front row while I delivered it.

I had difficulty tearing my eyes away from her to look out into the audience as I spoke, and for good reason. Even in her clumsy elevator operator's uniform, she was a very pretty girl. She wore her cute little pillbox hat tilted high upon a coil of the richest reddish hair I have ever seen. The uniform effectively concealed her figure, but she was obviously slender and her movements were graceful. I noticed, when we shook hands, how soft and unblemished her skin was. She wore only a trace of lipstick on a mouth that was at once sensual and inviting while at the same time displaying an impish little smile as if she knew I had noticed that her eyes were green, and wondered what her body looked like under that stiff uniform.

After I gave my little pep talk, one of the hotel big shots took me to one side and asked if I was free that evening. Hell, yes! Would I like to escort Shelly to dinner as a guest of the hotel? Is the Pope Catholic?

(A stand-alone story, "My First Time," details this meeting and events immediately afterwards, so there is no point repeating it here.)

Although I was no longer a member of the armed forces, and had family nearby, my first move after getting off the bus in downtown Seattle (having sold my half of the Studebaker to my partner), I went straight to the YMCA and booked a bunk in the upstairs servicemen's dormatory (at 50 cents a night).

I'm sure many will find this hard to understand, but I found it a lot easier to join the service than to leave it. I spent a week sleeping in that room while trying to get used to the idea that I was once again a civilian, and I had company. Several other young fellows in that room were going through the same readjustment process.

By the end of that week, I had decided to take it step by step. The first order of business was to buy some civilian clothing. I don't expect many readers are old enough to remember how difficult it was in 1945 to find men's clothing. The production of men's suits had resumed, but the stores were still nearly empty, and with price controls ended, the price of virtually everything in a man's wardrobe was out of sight.

There was only one solution. I took my mustering out pay and the bus to Vancouver, Canada. Canadian stores had plenty of reasonably priced merchandise. After getting off the bus, I went to the Traveler's Aid counter and inquired about servicemen's lodging. The cordial lady sent me to Miss Peacock's house.