Marine
By the summer of 1941, I decided that I needed a change in my life. I was still intrigued with the idea of joining the Marines, especially the parts about traveling and being able to see the world. I wanted to enlist, but I did not want to go in alone. I wanted someone to come in with me.
The idea of the Marines stayed with me. Alex, who was a year and nine months older than me, had received some sort of a draft notice at the end of 1940. While he did not have to report for military service immediately, it was a formal letter stating that it would only be a matter of time. He was just being officially notified. We suspected that he would be called up just after he turned 21, on July 25th. Still, it seemed plain that the government was giving him some time to make the appropriate preparations to his life.1
We both thought about his impending entrance into military service, now evidently no longer an option for him. His letter would probably come at the end of July or August, and mine probably would come some months after that. Alex’s choices were simple: the navy was out of the question, so he could join the Marines, or let the army induct him. Whenever I occasionally received a pamphlet from the Marines, I would show it to Alex, and he would read it. We talked about the Marines again in early August, and about the possibility of joining together, and I could tell that he was starting to lean in my direction.
One day, Alex finally said to me, “C’mon George, let’s go together. Let’s join.”
“Well hell,” I told him, “that’s what I’ve been trying to do!”
But Alex was not satisfied with just the two of us enlisting. He wanted us to go in with a bunch of our friends. So we decided to try and talk a couple of them into it.
“Let’s go see our buddies,” he told me, “and we can all go in together.”
I agreed. I felt so much better now that I had a plan. I mean, I had for some time decided that the Marine Corps could be my next big adventure, but I did not want to go in alone. I had worked in the CCC alone for two years, and this time I wanted someone to go in with me. Now I had Alex.
The military service would be good for both of us, and with luck we could share it all together. Besides, the military would give us something we were not used to: three square meals a day and a nice shelter to sleep in.
Boy, was I proven wrong.
The more Alex and I talked about joining the Marines, the more enthusiastic we became. We were, though, going to make an effort to get our buddies to go in with us; guys like Richard Tomkins and Waddy Getz, and John Siler, who at the time lived in the only other house near us, about a quarter mile away. Of the four of us, I was the youngest, although Richard was close to my age, but a year older. Waddy was as old as Alex, so his age was no problem. For years, the five of us had been close, sort of a gang within a gang. Alex and I knew that they thought the way we thought, that war was only a matter of time, and that we would all have to serve. So why not go at our choosing? Get in ahead of the rest? And of course, join the best service of the three?
Alex and I went out and talked to the other three about all going in together. We told them how advantageous it would be for them if they were already in the service when it broke out, and how we would do better as NCOs.
Sure enough, two of them, my childhood chum Waddy Getz, and Richard Tomkins, were eager to go in with us, and agreed to accompany us to the recruiter. However, John Siler did not like the idea. He was going to stay out of the service, at least as long as he could. After all, he had a halfway decent job and was making money for his family. John worked making insulators in the Akron Porcelain Factory, and felt that it was not quite time for him to enlist.2
Before the four of us left for induction in Cleveland, and with our Marine recruiter as an accomplice, we thought we would stry John once more. The Marine recruiter drove us in a government van to the factory on Cory Avenue to take a final shot at convincing John to join us. The recruiter gave us some last-minute advice, and then waited outside as we walked into the main building. We found John on an assembly line putting together insulators. He was working steadily, wearing a big white apron to keep the dust off. We tried to convince him to come with us, and our arguments must have been effective, because he waivered for a few moments before backing out. We nodded our heads in sad understanding, and one by one, we solemnly shook his hand, wished him the best, and bid him farewell. Talk about a corny guilt trip.
We left him, occasionally looking back sadly and walked outside, starting to head back to the van. Suddenly, the factory door slammed open and John hurriedly came out.
“Wait, you guys!” he shouted.
We stopped. He walked up to us, untied his apron, grabbed it, threw it off, and slung it over a rail.
“The hell with it,” he told us, “I’m in!”
We laughed and slapped him on the back. Happily, we all piled into the van, one big gang, and the recruiter pulled out of the parking lot to take us to the induction station in Cleveland. It was a happy trip and we joked all the way up, laughing about what we would do as Marines.
On August 5, 1941, just seven weeks before my 19th birthday, and as it turned out, four months and two days before Pearl Harbor, all five of us were sworn in to active duty in the United States Marine Corps.
I was still seeing Phyllis off and on, but at times I was more going through the motions than actually courting her. We were though, close friends, and could tell each other just about anything. Still, I guess in the end, it was a relationship of convenience for both of us.
Well, it was for me, because I had too much of a roving eye. For instance, the week before I left for boot camp near the end of July, I met another pretty young lady. We went out a few times over a couple weeks, and I guess that she fell for me in the worst way: this little gal wanted me to marry her. She tried her best to talk me into it and sweet-talked me silly for two days straight. However, I was definitely not ready to settle down. I mean, she was a great little gal to spend the evening with, but I was certainly in no mood to get married, especially since I was going into the Marine Corps, so I let it go at that. However, before I left her for the last time, I gave her a picture of me.
Unfortunately, that backfired on me, because a few weeks after Alex I had left for boot camp, this girl and Phyllis bumped into each other one night, just outside of Barberton. There was this huge old building that was a dance hall that served alcohol, and mercifully, they were not particular to whom they sold their beverages. This hall would often have dances, and big ones on Saturday nights. There were many like this in those days, and invariably, they were usually located way out in the country. I would often go to this one with my buddies and have a great time.
This one night then, they happened to accidently meet and began talking to each other. I guess they liked each other right off, and soon they were sharing their lives.
Finally, the subject of beaus came up. One of them must have said to the other, “Well, my boyfriend’s in the Marine Corps,” and the other one probably had replied, “Well, so is mine.” At that point, they each pulled out a photograph of their boyfriend, and of course, they both turned out to be of the same guy—yours truly. Phyllis got a big kick out of it, but the other gal (I cannot to this day remember her name) definitely did not. When I returned from the war, she would not even speak to me. Many years later, I tried to find her just to talk to her, but I never found her. She had moved, and I never heard from her again.
Boot camp
A couple hours after the swearing-in ceremony, we were all sent to Parris Island by bus. We were about to go through a grueling set of weeks together in boot camp. As soon as we got off the bus though, the first thing that they did was to split all five of us up. Funny, but after boot camp, I would never see John Siler again. So much for joining with my friends. Right after that, they gave us haircuts. The barbers were ruthless, and when they were done, you had less than a half inch of hair on your head (I was later told that it could have been worse. In the brig, they cut all of your hair off.) The effect was devastating on a lot of these recruits. Many of them had these real fancy hairdos that they often combed and greased down with hairstyling stuff like Brylcreem. So all that hair getting cut off really did a number on their heads—in more ways than one. It was like destroying their personalities, which of course, is what the Corps did.
Then we went over to the supply building; gruffly tossing stuff to us as we went down a line, they issued us our gear, complete with a sea bag and a helmet. It was one of those prewar salad bowl-looking helmets. We called it the “Frank Buck” helmet, because it looked like one of those old ivory pith helmets that we used to see him wear in magazines when he went hunting on a safari in Africa.3
With our gear issued, they assigned us barracks. Most of the barracks were these cheap, wooden buildings, which is what I landed in. We each had a cot and a big footlocker for our gear. As soon as we had our gear stowed away, they told us where the pails, soap, towels, and scrub brushes were located. Then they ordered us to start thoroughly scrubbing our wooden walls down. It was a thankless, gloomy job, and those of us that had become upset by the haircut experience were now joined by most of the other kids. Many were really out-and-out scared, and a couple of them said, “Oh my God, what the hell did we get into?”
They stayed agitated like that as we were scrubbing, but unlike the others, I found the whole thing amusing. They had been so enthusiastic coming down here on the train, laughing and shooting the bull, and gaily singing the Marine Corps Hymn. Now they were mumbling to each other, scared to death about what was happening to them as reality set in, and they began to realize that these boot camp instructors were like monsters. The more I looked at them, nervously scrubbing, the more it seemed funny to me. So many of them had really serious looks on their faces. One guy actually had a couple tears in his eyes. Looking things over, I thought that maybe a little levity here might go a long way. So with a chuckle, I grinned at them, opened my big mouth, and started singing, “From the halls of Monte-zuuu—uu-ma, to the shores of Trip-pooo-liii …”
Again, another one of those times where my sense of humor did not work, because the other recruits glared at me and started shouting stuff like, “Shut the hell up, man!” and “You sonuvabitch!”
Obviously, I was a different breed of cat.
I continued laughing and singing for a bit, enraging the other guys, but I did not keep it up for too long. Mostly, I quit because I knew that if the D.I. caught me singing like that, he probably would have thrown my butt in the brig.
I had luckily got some critically important advice before joining the Marines. I was told to never volunteer, and to never disclose to our “G.I. D.I. from P.I.”4 the many types of training and certifications that I had received in civilian life. The various types of training that I had earned in the CCC, my chauffer’s license, my qualifications and certification with explosives—all were to be kept secret. The reasoning was simple. The main purpose of boot camp, I had been told, was to break the individual down in every way: physically, in spirit, in habit, and in mental attitude. It was from this lump of a man that they wanted to mold their no-questions-asked fighting warrior.
As it turned, out, that advice was sound. Those few who did disclose previous training in various types of machinery or operations were ridden especially hard, and given much more extra work to do, or details to go on. It was almost as if they resented the fact that you had some outside experience, because you had not been taught to do what you did their way. To them, the recruit was not supposed to have any ideas of his own. That would maximize our efforts to fight in the most efficient way possible as a team, because that is what they were going to teach us. They had to break you down so that they could teach you their way. There was no room in the Marine Corps for preset ideas.
There was one guy in our recruiting class that had been in college. While he was not totally out of shape, he was a somewhat heavyset fellow. When he proudly (even a bit cocky about it) admitted to the drill instructor, the D.I., that he had been in ROTC, it was like he was suddenly marked. The D.I. after that rode him mercilessly. In everything we did, if one of us screwed up, we all paid the price. With this guy though, the D.I.s always checked to see if he had screwed up, and if he had, they would go out of their way to showcase him and make him pay.
In the end, he did not make it through boot camp. One day on the obstacle course, he fell and injured his leg. The medics hauled him off in pain, and he ended up with a broken leg. So they pulled him.
It was only after boot camp that we learned the drill instructors wanted to tear down any preconceived notions and experiences that we had acquired in life, so that they could rebuild us their way. That was one of the reasons for the haircuts. So to know what they were up against, they would try to trap us into admitting our past experiences, so that they knew whom to concentrate on.
For instance, they would ask, “Hey, are there any truck drivers here?” And sure enough, a couple guys would answer with a smile, thinking that they would get slated for special training.
Wrong.
“Okay,” the sergeant would growl. “There are some wheelbarrows over there. Grab one and follow me over to the latrine.”
Luckily, I already knew their strategy, so I very quickly learned not to freely give them any personal information, especially work experiences, and not to volunteer for special details, or unknown duty requests.
The D.I.s were brutal in their schedules and excessively harsh in their training. And they had absolutely no pity for us in their instructions. Me, I survived because I quickly developed an attitude, probably coming to a large degree from my experiences on my own. Suffering the pain and misery of boot camp with my fellow recruits, I had early on gritted my teeth and swore under my breath that these sons of bitches would never ever break me. I would not yield, I would not give in, and I would never give up. No matter how harsh the exertions were, I knew that I would either make it to the end or die trying. So I never fell out of a formation no matter how exhausted I was. Nor did I ever miss a day because I was too bone-weary to get up. I would be there standing when it was over, no matter how strong-willed the D.I.s were. It was me against them.
But man, did they make it hard for us, especially the first few weeks. I was told months later that one reason for this was to introduce the idea of inducing pressure and stress, so that we would have less tendency to freak out when we went into combat. Still, even if we had known that back then, it would not have made things easier.
In our platoon was this Jewish fellow, a guy about five or six years older than most of us. Probably because of that and because of his faith (there were a lot of prejudiced guys in the Corps back then), they really rode him hard. Somehow he persevered and managed to make it through each day with the rest of us.
One morning we were marched over to the medics’ tent to get shots. And we found out that we were going to get a bunch of them. This was no fun, because they did not have those high-pressure jet injectors in those days to give you multiple vaccines at one time. No sir. They gave the shots to you the old fashioned way: one at a time. So with our T-shirts off, we would slowly walk through the main corridor of this large tent, with a row of corpsmen standing on each side. You walked down the aisle, pausing at each station while the corpsman on each side of you would jab a needle in your arm and give you the shot.
George when he was at boot camp, fall 1941. (Author’s collection)
It was not surprising that after that session, when we left the medical tent, our upper arms were sore and our heads a little groggy. We walked out into the hot sun, and lining us up in formation, the D.I.s began to march us back to our tents. Unfortunately, the gunny in charge was one of the more sadistic bastards, and looking at us, he growled, “Oh, don’t feel good, eh?? Well, I will not stop until each of you SOBs drops. If you babies are sick, go to sickbay. Otherwise, you march!”
And we did. We marched all over the place, and drilled for a hell of a long time out there in that intense South Carolina sun on that damn hot August day. Soon, some of the recruits began to drop, too weary to move, and that D.I. would bitch at every one of them, sometimes giving them a swift kick.
Finally the older Jewish recruit in our group who had been slowing down in the paces groaned and collapsed. He dropped to the ground, falling on his back. The sergeant walked over to the recruit, and towering over him, he yelled, and then viciously slapped the hell out of him. The Jewish guy did not move.
Looking down at him, that husky sergeant paused and growled, “Well, I guess he ain’t fakin’ it.”
We went on marching and left that poor guy lying there. A couple of corpsmen finally hauled the unconscious recruit off, I assume to sickbay (although I never knew if he made it there).
More of the guys began to fall out of formation and tried to stagger off to sickbay. As tired as I was though, I resolved not to drop out. Huffing and puffing, I gritted my teeth. No sir, I thought, them bastards ain’t gonna break me. At that point, as far as I was concerned, it was me against the world, and I was going to march until those sons of bitches killed me. I kept on, somehow finding the energy to keep going. My legs ached and my body was in pain, but I grimly kept going.
Finally, the gunnery sergeant, really steaming because we had not all dropped out (less than half of us out of the original twenty), determined that was enough, and marched us back to our tents.
A day or so later, we were told that the Jewish fellow had left the unit and had been transferred to the “Casual Battalion.”5 The rest of us, now all trained and qualified as a rifleman, began to split up into different specialty fields. I wanted to be on the mortars, hopefully as a fire observer. Unfortunately, there was no school for mortar observers, so that was the end of that.
After weeks of what seemed like a terrible ordeal dished out by cold, ruthless D.I.s, boot camp came to an end. There was no ceremony or celebration—back then, you didn’t “graduate” from basic training. You just completed boot camp and got reassigned. It was like getting out of jail: no big deal. When you were through, they just shook your hand, told you that you were now a Marine, and then gave you a new assignment.
Alex was given his orders: 7th Marine Regiment, First Marine Division. He was to report down to New River.6 He immediately had to pack and after a handshake, he left for training there, to then go with the division to the Pacific.
Waddy Getz was sent to Balboa, in Panama. I never found out where my old chum John Siler went. Richard Tomkins was ordered to the field music school, located right there at Parris Island. It was not much of a music school though: all they taught those Marines to play were bugles. Richard begged me to volunteer to go too, and it seemed like a great way to serve in the Marines. Unfortunately though, I had never had any use for music. I had a lousy singing voice, and I didn’t know how to play any kind of musical instrument. My music experience in school had been terrible, to say the least. So bugles for me now were out of the question. The hell with field music school, I told Richard. He was disappointed, but I didn’t care. I’d shovel crap first before I tried to play any instrument.
As the rest of those in my platoon got assignments, I remained. The only one who stayed was Tompkins, who assisted me on the rifle range. Life was a drag. You couldn’t just walk around the base. We were not under any circumstances allowed to go to the PX and buy some “pogey bait” or “belly wash.”7
Instead of going west though, along with several other recruits, I was transferred to some rearguard company, and in late September 1941, we were ordered to New England for guard duty. The next morning, carrying our gear and rifles, we boarded a train and started rolling northeastward. Our thousand-miles-away destination: Quonset Point, Rhode Island.
Our train went up the Atlantic Coast and then over towards New York City, where we were going to have a layover. We got off the train at the Central Railroad Terminal in New Jersey and crossed the Hudson River by ferry into New York. We then marched right up Fifth Avenue to Grand Central Station, where we were to stay for the night. Off the main area of the station, we piled our duffle bags, stacked our rifles, and then we posted a couple guards. The rest of us then had the opportunity to spend the evening looking over the city, although none of us strayed too far away.
We reboarded the train and went up to Quonset Point, Rhode Island, where we reported aboard. We found the accommodation nice. The buildings were all connected, including the mess hall, the brig, the supply room, everything. It was a wonderful new building, and you did not have to go out into the cold to go to chow. After Parris Island, it was like being on a vacation.
There was of course back then, no public address system, so all of the daily tasks on each base were ruled by the bugle. Our bugler had this knack of being able to stand in a certain spot in the central building, and when he blew the call, the sound would bounce back and forth across the walls and echo down all the hallways throughout the complex. So you could clearly hear him for reveille, raising the colors, chow, assembly, taps …
Just after I arrived at Quonset Point, I was ordered on a 30-day tour of duty to Hope Island, right in the middle of Narragansett Bay.8 There I was given the assignment of guarding bombs in storage for the new naval air station that was being expanded back at Quonset Point. Unlike the nice, all-connected brick barracks that we had enjoyed though, those on Hope Island were plain, small, plywood shacks that had room for only eight people.
Hope Island was only accessible by ferry. Since all during that time none of us on the island was allowed to go on liberty, and the weather was getting worse, our off-hours options were quite limited. Mostly we sat around the barracks, and with not much to do, we had plenty of time to shoot the bull and get acquainted. Still, it was a long, long 30 days, especially if you had a girlfriend in town, like some of the guys did.
Around this time, I made friends with a fellow Marine, a guy that I would serve with for some three years. His name was Henry Vastine Rucker. We had both entered the service about the same time, only in different parts of the country. I was a Yankee from Akron Ohio, and Henry was a rebel from some town called Gaffney in South Carolina. We were both 19, and were both fresh out of Parris Island. From just about the first day that we met, we took a liking to each other.
Like I had figured it would be, guarding bombs on a small island in the middle of nowhere was a mundane job, and for the adventure-loving kids like Henry and me and a few of the others, it was positively mind-numbing. Not all of us there though were kids. One time we came off of duty there and found this old guy taking a shower. Assigned to our unit, he had been swimming around in the ocean and was now washing off the seawater. As he walked out of the shower I got a good look at him. Man, did he look old. He introduced himself to us. He was a World War I veteran. The proper term we used was “retreads.” They had evidently taken him back into service. Now they had called him back to do guard duty so that the young guys like us could get shipped out.
There were only two exciting things that happened during my time there on Hope Island. The first one was after we had been there for a week or so. One of the guards came into our barracks one day, having stood guard duty. He took off his heavy coat and sat down onto his lower bunk. The guy above him was cleaning his weapon. Unlike most of us, this guy had one of the new M1 rifles. Most of us had those old .03 Springfields.9 Anyway, the guy above, in the process of cleaning his weapon, banged the edge of the stock against the wall. Evidently he must have forgotten that he still had a round in the chamber, and when he smacked it the rifle accidently went off. The bullet zipped down and hit the guy below in the end of his butt. We all had a good laugh over that one, even the guy who had been shot.
The second exciting thing happened a week later. One night, one of our sentries called in to report that he was pretty sure that he had seen, of all things, a submarine. He supposedly had spotted it in this little bay on the far end of the island. That caused a stir, because if the Germans were to land a raiding party on the island, we would be in big trouble. There were only 30 of us on the island, and all we had to defend ourselves (and those damn bombs) was our rifles, most of them those trusty old Springfields. It was quickly decided that we would have to get the drop on them. So on that cold windy night, all of us Marines prepared to lay siege to a German U-boat.
Armed with our rifles and wearing our Frank Buck helmets, heavy coats and gloves, we moved in silently around the suspected cove. As we quietly approached, a couple guys said that they thought they could actually faintly hear chains clanging and other noises they could not identify.
Moving up in the pitch dark, it was impossible to see anything. So the officer in charge told us that we were going to wait for daylight to come. Then at the crack of dawn, we would rush the sub, board her, and take her by force, either capturing or killing its crew members. We crouched there in the night for a few hours, chilled as the wind blew. Once or twice again, a guy ahead of us swore that he could hear chains rattling way off in the distance. Henry and I were as excited as a couple of schoolboys, and we whispered comments about the whole thing to each other in the darkness. Hey, if we captured a Nazi sub, we would be big heroes and probably each get a medal. We grinned at the idea. That would really be something to tell our folks back home.
The early morning hours seemed to drag on and on, and finally the sky began to get lighter. The noises coming from the direction of the sub had long stopped, and we now waited, getting ready to pounce. Daylight broke over the cove, but a heavy fog kept us from seeing anything as we lay shivering in the cold behind boulders, our rifles pointed toward the enemy. Slowly the fog began to lift as the sun rose. The officer gave the word, and we started moving in on the cove. Coming up to it, we were surprised to find it empty. Nothing. No sub, no Krauts … nothing but an empty cove.
Needless to say, there were 30 damned embarrassed Marines who returned to their barracks on Hope Island that day.
After our 30 days guard duty assignment was finally over, Henry and I were returned to the Quonset Point Naval Base on the mainland and we were allowed to go on liberty in Providence. Naturally, Henry and I tried to catch up on lost opportunities, so we over-indulged, and the next day, my head felt like it was going to fall off.
Later in October, my brother Alex got leave and hitchhiked up the coast to see me up in New England. Although he was not authorized to, he stayed at our barracks for a few days and slept in a vacant bunk, Alex wore on his uniform the French gears braid.10 When we went out on liberty, a couple people noticed the braid and asked him if he was Canadian, which, of course, he got a kick out of (I have it to this day, although I still cannot figure out how I ended up with it). After a few days, Alex left to return to the First Marine Division, training at New River in North Carolina. I did not know it when we parted, but I would not see him again until after the war.
More guard duty assignments came, and I stood guard through Thanksgiving. It was during that time at Quonset Point that I occasionally came in contact with a certain 29-year-old lieutenant JG,11 a fellow that would someday become president of the United States—of course, who could know back then?—Richard M. Nixon. He was always a serious-looking guy, and to me always seemed to have a sour look on his face.
From our barracks, the view was beautiful. I could walk 200 yards and look out over the Narragansett Bay. On all but snowy days, you could look out and see islands on the other side,12 some of them two miles away. Many was the time I would gaze out into the slot in between and watch an occasional destroyer go by, because there were a lot based there.
Some of us were good on liberty, and some just plain were not. For instance, there was one big tall guy in our group named McNolan or McNorris, or something like that. We just called him “Filthy McNasty,” mostly because he had a foul mouth and a rotten disposition on life. Since he was a big mean guy, he would often go looking for trouble, which, when I was hunting gals, was the last thing on my mind.
One day, a few of us were on liberty in Providence. We had been bar-hopping when we went into this one place for a few more drinks. It was called the Five Points Bar, because it was located at the intersection of these five streets in the southern part of town. The gal that owned the hotel above the bar was in her seventies, but her daughter Charlene was only 32, and I must say, she was not bad looking for her age. So even though she was an older woman, I had started dating her. Okay, I was 13 years younger than she was, but what the hell, when it came to women I didn’t play favorites with regards to age. And anyway, as long as I dated her, her mom took care of our room when we stayed there.
The Five Points Bar was a big place, with a long L-shaped bar on the right side. Next to it were the tables, with dozens of sailors sitting and standing around, all of them drinking. Hell, there must have been over seventy of them. On our guard, getting a number of dirty looks, we sat down in the back and ordered some drinks. I was there to have a good time, and did not want any trouble. McNasty though, being the foul guy that he was, evidently did, because he began to badmouth the sailors, bragging that he could whip any bunch of them.
Ho boy, I thought. Here we go.
One of them finally told McNasty he had better shut his damn mouth up, which of course, just egged him on further. He looked at them with a mean grin and said, “Screw you. I can lick all of you swabbies.”
They looked at each other and sure enough, a bunch of them got up and decided to take him up on his offer. We all went outside, the sailors crowded around us, and some of them lined up to fight. After a few moments, one or two started towards him. McNasty growled and lit into the first guy, and then the second and third. Sure as hell, he took out about five of them pretty good. He was holding his own okay, but daggone, there were dozens of the bastards waiting to get their shot. Besides, he was starting to get tired and they were coming at him fresh.
Naturally, the fight expanded, and soon all of us Marines were in it. We finally took refuge by going inside the bar again, and moved to the back. You know, it’s always nice to have a wall behind you, just in case you have to defend yourself. And with all these sailors coming at us, that was a good thing. Besides, we could hightail it out the back door if we needed to.
As the swabbies started towards us, we realized that while we had no worry about getting hit from all sides, we were essentially trapped. A minute later though, the police burst through the front door with their billy clubs, and man, I was never so happy in my life to see them. They broke up the fight, rescued us, and luckily turned us loose and allowed us to go on our way. But McNasty, beat up and bloody by then, was taken to the hospital. I have to admit though, he was fighting like a demon right up to when the MPs broke things up.
You would have thought that I would have learned to stay out of trouble after that, but it just seemed like trouble followed me wherever I went. A few weeks later, we were on liberty again. On this night, four of us ended up at a place northwest of the Five Points called the Homestead Café. Again, we had a table sitting in the back of the bar. I guess we hadn’t learned our lesson at the Five Points, because although no one could attack us from behind, if trouble were to start, we would be blocked from getting out.
We had been there for a couple hours drinking, and I guess you could say that we were having a good time and in a pretty relaxed mood. One of us though, was further gone than the rest of us. In fact, he was pretty boozed up and had reached a point where good judgment had left him. At that point, he got up, staggered over to one of the booths along the wall, and began talking right to this woman sitting there. We knew there would be trouble and looked at each other, because the lady was obviously married and sitting next to her husband. And there was our buddy, openly putting the make on her, with her husband getting ticked off.
Well, this did not last very long, and after a couple minutes, the husband had had enough and told our drunk buddy to take a hike. He responded by exploding into a rage. He yelled that he was going to whip the crap out of the husband and beat his ass and this and that. Hearing his outburst, a lot of folks in there became angry and took sides with the husband.
It was then that I realized how much this was some kind of a local neighborhood bar, and that these folks were all regulars who all knew each other pretty good. So there we were, sitting in the back, with all these guys in the place now mad at us and standing up to defend this local guy and his wife. The three of us sitting down definitely did not want any trouble. The problem of course was to figure out how the hell we were going to get out of there without getting our damn necks broken. I mean, there were guys standing near the front door with clubs and looked like they really meant business. And again there was no back door escape. We were cornered again.
Okay we decided, it was time for us to make our move. So acting on what we had learned in the last few months, we each took off our webbed belt, made a fist, and wrapped the belt around it, with just six inches and the belt buckle at the end of it. We stood up and staring around, we slowly began to walk through that mob, this wedge of three guys. They glared at us, but they grudgingly parted for us as we walked towards the front. We grabbed our drunk buddy, apologized to the guy and his wife, and walked away as we told folks that we did not want any trouble. We reached the door and got the hell out of there. We just walked off quietly. Afterwards, we had to restrain ourselves from killing that S.O.B. for getting us into that mess. He was nuts. Just as much as McNasty.
War
At the beginning of December 1941, I was given an assignment to stand guard next to a large vehicle storage complex around Davisville, five miles west of the base.13 In it were several acres of machinery-type trucks and construction equipment. I had the 0400 to 0800 watch, which was a miserable time to be guarding a bunch of trucks. I’d stand watch for four hours, get eight hours off, and then be on again and so on for three more shifts. I stood guard next to a small wooden shanty that bordered some woods. At that time of day, very few workers came into the complex. I was bored, to say the least.
About an hour into my watch on December 8th, as I stood there in the freezing cold in my dingy little hut, shivering in my winter coat, feeling miserable, trying to see, one little light bulb as my only source of light, a jeep came barreling down the road and around the corner. I saw some lieutenant driving. The jeep skidded to a stop, and I stared at him.
He looked at me and said, “Japan attacked Pearl Harbor.”
Without another word, he took off again, roaring down the road, leaving me in dark silence. I stood there in the dark, stunned, speechless, wondering, trying to figure out what the hell had just happened. Japan? We were attacked? Was this the start of the war that everyone had been predicting? I looked down at my Springfield rifle. I had just ten rounds of ammo and no extra clips. What in blazes was my 19-year-old butt going to be able to do if I was attacked?
As the wind softly rustled through the trees, I looked out at the cold, silent, dark woods in front of me. My imagination went to work, as I began to worry. I could almost see dark, skulking figures moving around way back in the trees. What the hell could I do if a bunch of Japs came out of those woods? I wouldn’t stand a chance. I stood there, alert, worried, and still cold.
That was my introduction to World War II.
A few hours later that morning, after I was relieved, instead of going to get some rest, I was taken over to the main gate of a nearby work facility to do more guard duty. Along with a couple other Marines, I was ordered to guard some twenty of those semi-round Quonset huts. Each one had a mini-factory or work assembly section inside, in which a dozen or so civilians worked every day.
Although we technically were not at war (word of the declaration of war would not come until that afternoon), because of the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor, new precautionary actions were initiated. When the workers came in to go to work, we now had to frisk them. We were told to be really thorough, too; insides of hats, pockets, cuffs, wallets, and shoes. We had to even check the workers’ thermos jugs and make sure that they actually contained liquid. Needless to say, these guys were infuriated at this new set of security measures. It really upset them that even though they were good, staunch, patriotic Americans, they were all of a sudden no longer trusted by their own damn government, and personally, I agreed with them. So I resented doing what I was ordered to do, and I hated to humiliate them by checking their personal stuff. I did not for a moment want to hassle those folks.
After the work shift began, we were then told to go into the facility and patrol around. Smoking, which was a habit quite common and even encouraged in order to “be cool” in those days, was now forbidden. No cigarettes, cigars, or pipes, and we had to strictly enforce the rule. Again, there was more resentment from the workers, and we guards took the reaction of their discontent and although they did not blame us, they took out their frustrated emotions on us. This became a daily routine, and the whole thing quickly became for me a real crummy job. I decided right there that I would never want to be a cop, and that I had to find a better use of my talents.
In January 1942, the facility was given a formal dedication ceremony, and I was in the Marine honor guard for that event. And to make me feel better, on the 23rd, I was promoted to private first class.
In the months that followed, I did various types of guard duty here and there. On the plus side, I did get to go on liberty a lot, and several of us would go together. There was me, Henry Rucker, Emanuel James “Jim” Olivera, and a fine Marine named Jefferson Davis “Jeff” Watson, Jr. from Jacksonville, Florida. Quite often though, we would hit it off with the girls and go our separate routes. There was one gal in Providence that I dated for a short while. Her mother owned this hotel above Five Points. She was nice. Then there was this barmaid I knew at a rathskellar14 in Fall River, Massachusetts. I liked her a lot, too. Still, I guess I was not the marrying type in those days.
One day that February, I was given the assignment of guarding a load of ammunition on a train. I was told that I had to sit on top of this boxcar with my .03 Springfield. I was told everywhere that train went, I had to go too as guard.
The day we loaded up in the railroad yard in Davisville was a cold one. My assigned boxcar was located about three or four cars back from the engine, and as the train started southward, I sat up there on the edge of that boxcar with the wind whipping at my face, hunkered down, shivering, freezing my butt off, and generally feeling miserable.
Finally, we made a stop and the train engineer walked back and looked up at me. “Hey, it’s cold as hell,” he said. “There’s no need for you to stay up there freezing, Marine. Why don’t you come on down here and get in the cab and get warm?”
Well, he sure as hell didn’t need to ask me twice, and I told him gratefully, “That sounds good to me.” So I climbed down off the boxcar and walked over to the engine. Wow. What a beautiful piece of machinery I thought as I climbed into the cab.
There were two guys: the old engineer and the younger fireman, who was fueling the engine. He would open the steel door at the bottom of the furnace and shovel in some coal from the coal car behind us. Then he would clang the door shut, and then turn around for another load. In front of the engineer was this large black iron bar that ran diagonally in front of his spot. He took a hold of it and looked over at me. Curious, I stared at him.
“This is the throttle,” he told me proudly. “You use it if you wanna drive.”
“Uh huh,” I said, my mouth open. Wow.
He grabbed a cord and yanked on it. The train whistle blew with a roaring whoo-whoooo! I laughed when I heard it. Then he grabbed the throttle and pulled down on it, and I heard steam rush in somewhere inside the engine. Very slowly, the train began to move. I marveled as we gradually began to pick up speed. I intently looked over the pipes, little wheels, and dials in front of us as the engineer explained what they did.
I volunteered to help shovel the coal, and the fireman grinned at me as he handed me the shovel and showed me how to do it. I grasped the shovel with my Marine gloves and eagerly stood there.
He looked at me and said, “Okay, just get a good scoop of coal from behind ya there, and then turn around, step on that lever right there, and just shoot the coal in. Then ya just take yer foot off the lever, and the door’ll close. It’s that simple.”
I grinned and nodded. I turned around, heaved my shovel into the coal behind us and got a good load. I turned again, walked over to the engine, and like he showed me, I stepped on that lever on the steel floor to open the door. When it clanged open, I shoved my load into the orange hot fire inside. Then I yanked the shovel back and let go the lever. The door clanged shut. I grinned at him again and turned for another load. Another shovel full, opened the door, tossed the coal in, let off the lever, the door clanked shut. Daggone, this was fun! It definitely beat the hell out of sitting on top of that damn boxcar, freezing my butt off. So I shoveled coal for about five minutes until the fire was good and hot. Then the engineer asked me if I wanted to drive.
I was stunned. Wow. My eyes wide and my mouth open, all I could do was nod. Me, driving that whole damn train. I had jumped a lot of them as a kid. Now I had the chance to run one!
He reached out to the iron bar. “This is the throttle,” the engineer told me proudly, his glove on the end of it. “You use it to drive the train.”
“Yeah?” I said, mesmerized.
The engineer grabbed the large diagonal iron bar on the left side that ran diagonally in front of his spot. “Like I said, this is the throttle. You use it if you wanna drive. You just take that bar and pull her down.”
Pull it down. Okay. Hesitantly, I grabbed the big iron lever and looking at him, the back of the engine, and then at the lever, I began to pull down on it.
The train seemed to jump forward as the wheels started to spin faster.
“Whoa, take it easy!” he laughed. “Easy.”
I let off the bar a bit, and the wheels grabbed onto the track and the train began to speed up.
Holy crap! This was great!
After about fifteen minutes of pure ecstasy, he took over control again. We ended up dropping our loads off in some small town, and then through a series of switches and side tracks, we turned around and made the return trip. Since there was no ammo on the train now, I figured that I did not have to sit up on top of that freezing boxcar. Besides, I damn sure liked riding with the engineer and fireman, and they welcomed my company.
At the end of the trip, the truck that came to pick me up had trouble finding me, because the train was in a different position than before, and I of course had to stay with the train. But I had a blast doing that.
Winter turned into spring, and when summer came, I briefly served guard duty in Newport. Then I returned to Quonset Point, where I stood guard over various vessels that came into port. For those assignments, I had to stand watch on this long flat dock adjacent to the land. It was boring, and I remember those winter days being icy and cold as hell. Chilly winds came in right off the ocean, and I would have to stand watch out there, sometimes in snow.
I did more months of boring guard duty at government facilities, next to trains, submarines, and various ships along the East Coast. One of those vessels in the early spring of 1942 was this huge aircraft carrier, I think the USS Hornet.15 I stood guard next to the gangplank walking back and forth in the dirt for one night. It was pretty cold and dark, and even wearing that heavy wool overcoat that hardly let me move, I was still chilled.
I found life there at Quonset Point interesting. The commander of our Marine guard detachment was a Major G. H. Morse Jr., a really serious type of guy. In our spare time, he made damn sure that we drilled over and over. We marched every day and did the order arms until our arms ached. We practiced all sorts of rifle exercises, and we got really good. We could do all kinds of fancy stuff, including drills like the Queen Anne’s Salute. We went through different marching formations until we got good, and then went on and on until we were excellent at marching and turning in blocks.
When we were not outside drilling or on guard, we worked on our .03 Springfields. I learned to wipe linseed oil over the stock and then slowly rub it into the wood. Repeated treatments customized the wood and built up coats on the surface, and as they did, the wood would really shine. Yeah, we polished those butts to the point where they were dazzling, almost like glass.
And oh, our uniforms. Anywhere we went, we had to be all spit and polish, and so we spent endless amounts of hours cleaning our blouses, pressing our guard pants, working on our covers, shining all our brass, spit-polishing our shoes, and of course, cleaning and shining our rifles over and over again.
The summer went by, and we continued our guard assignments. To make sure we kept looking good, every Saturday, Major Morse and his executive officer would line our two rows up on the parade ground next to the barracks, and he would meticulously inspect us.
I remember one particular Saturday morning. Henry and I had been doing some serious drinking the night before, and now I was hung over, and my head was splitting. Still, I dressed with the rest of the guys and walked out to the parade ground, my stomach churning and my head swimming. We assembled in formation as we always did, and when Major Morse called attention, we snapped to. We stood there as he began his inspection, starting with the first row. As he slowly walked down the line, I struggled to stand there, my stomach growling. Oh please, I thought, let’s get this stupid thing over with before I puke.
Morse finished going down the first row, turned, and began inspecting ours. I clenched my teeth as my head began to swim and I started to get queasy. He slowly continued down our line, finally passed me, and turned to do the last row. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, he finished his inspection. He walked back to the front and ordered us to parade rest.
He then began some speech. He was saying something, but I could not make out what he was saying, mostly because I was hurting, struggling at this point just to stand there. My stomach was getting worse, my head was killing me, and I could tell that I wasn’t going to stay long the way I was without letting go of whatever was in my stomach. I was getting desperate, and his talk did not seem like it was going to end any time soon. The time crawled, and I realized that I had to do something. But I just couldn’t raise my hand and tell the major I was sick. He’d yell at me and probably throw my butt in the brig.
Things inside me were coming to a head, though. I knew that I was about to let go, and I could tell that this one was going to be a big one. Yet I just couldn’t hurl chunks of food and old booze on the clean backs of the guys in front of me. Nor could I turn around and do that to the guys behind me. I was stuck in this damn formation. Still, I had to do something as the nausea increased. I realized that it was about to happen, and there was just nothing I could do to stop that.
Well, if that was the case, I thought, since we were a guard unit and were supposed to do everything smartly, I decided that if I had to get sick, I was going to do it and go down with some snappy style. I was going to let fly, but by God, I was going to do it in a military manner. Taking a couple deep breaths, I impulsively snapped to attention and presented arms. I then did a right shoulder arms, took a sharp step forward, did a right face, and began briskly marching between the rows. I was barely aware that the major had stopped talking, and no one else said or even mumbled anything as I marched. I knew though, that all eyes were on me.
Oh Lord, it was getting ready to come up as my stomach rumbled like a volcano about to let go. I smartly marched over to the end of the formation and made it a couple quick steps beyond. That was about as far as I got. I stopped as the stuff came up and my mouth began to let loose. I had to admit, struggling as I was, the force and distance of what flew out impressed me as I stood there letting it all out. Finally, as I gagged my last bits, I came to attention and wiped my mouth off with my left glove as best as I could. Shouldering my rifle, I did an about-face and sharply marched back between the ranks. Getting back to my spot, I stopped, did a left face, took two steps forward, did another about-face, and snapped back to parade rest. I still felt like shit, but at least now I’d survive, the good Lord (and the major) willing.
Still, no one said a word. I had to admit, it had been a classy act. Finally, the major began talking again, finished his speech and then dismissed us. We fell out and the guys began to laugh their butts off. I just looked at them, turned around, walked back to the barracks, and collapsed on my rack. Luckily, the major did not come down on me. Another bullet dodged.
One day, an examiner from the AIG16 came up from Washington to inspect us. They usually came around to each unit every six months or so, mostly to make sure that we were following Marine Corps policy. They also over the years had become a private sounding block for us enlisted. When they spoke to us, we were free to voice any complaints or gripes to them, without fear of reprisals from our officers. This AIG, a major, inspected us in formation, and then later went through our barracks. No one had any complaints for him, and really, we did not think that it would make any difference anyway, and griping was not worth the risk of somehow it getting back to the CO.
He inspected our standing lockers. One guy, maybe in hopes of someday becoming a recognized hero, had found a photo of the Medal of Honor and had cut it out, being careful to cut the paper around the edges of the medal and the ribbon. He then took that paper cutout and taped it to the inside lid of his foot locker. When the AIG opened the door and saw that medal hanging there, he must have assumed that it was the real thing, because he immediately stepped back, snapped to attention, and smartly saluted the image. He turned to the guy next to the footlocker and made a comment about his having the Medal of Honor. That recruit looked at the AIG and fumbling his words, told him, “Uh sir, that’s not real, sir; it’s just a photo.”
We were all ready to crack up. I’m surprised I didn’t start laughing.
The AIG glared at him, and if looks could kill, that Marine would have been a dead man. Still, that AIG did not say a damn word. Finally, he turned around and stormed out of the barracks. We all just shook our heads. We figured that he must have thought that the more he made a big deal out of this, it would in the end be the worse for him. Better to leave well enough along and get out. We only laughed about it later on, when it was safe. Naturally, the photo of the medal hit the trash that night.
For a time, I did duty at Davisville, RI, six miles to the east, guarding storage facilities for the new Seabee facility.17 Mostly though, my assignments kept me in the Quonset Point area. While at times I did guard duty in the same location for a period of time, I often got different assignments.
It was at Quonset Point where I had my first round of trouble in the Marine Corps.
General Court Martial
I was transferred to the Naval War College in Newport in the late spring and did various guard assignments there. We stayed in wooden barracks located on a high bluff, about a hundred yards away from and above the channel, a few miles north of the city.
Staying out of trouble was getting to be a task for me, probably because I was so ornery. And there at Quonset Point, it seemed to be a common thing for us Marines. There were probably about three thousand sailors there and only some two hundred Marines. Still, at any one time, you would probably find about twenty Marines in the brig, and only a few sailors.
I had already been disciplined twice now. The first time was in March. I went out on liberty and stayed out too long. I got back an hour late, and because of that, I was charged AWOL. After a short hearing, I was busted down to private.
Then there was another incident a couple weeks later. We were at Davisville. A corporal was bringing three of us back to the barracks after we had stood our watch. It was evening, and as we passed the flagpole and approached the building, we saw the color guard preparing to lower the colors. Our corporal told us to hurry up and get in the building before they sounded the call “Attention to colors.” See, when that happens in the evening, if you are outside, you come to attention. When the bugler plays “Retreat,” you salute, and remain that way as the colors are lowered. You can go about your business again as soon as “Carry on” is played.
We hustled towards the building. Unknown to us, the officer of the day was watching us out the window from his office on the second story of the barracks. He got annoyed as he saw us hustling, trying to avoid standing for the short ceremony. Just as we neared the front door, the attention to colors was played. So close.
We turned around, saluted, and stood there until it was over. Then we turned around and went inside. We were met by that officer of the day coming down the stairs, really steamed. He walked up to us and started chewing our butts off. We hadn’t done anything wrong, but he hadn’t seen us stop outside, so he assumed we had not. The corporal told him that we really had stopped, but he didn’t believe him. And he didn’t give a crap what we said. Instead, we all got what they call a “deck court martial.”18 It was a bum rap, and we all had to do extra policing duties on the base for a couple weeks.
A month later though, I got into really serious trouble. I had been transferred to a guard unit in Newport. One night sometime after midnight, I became ill. I had had a few drinks that night, but I was not drunk. No, something else was happening to me. I had either caught some disease, drunk some bad liquor, or had eaten some tainted food. Anyway, I was pretty sick. Unfortunately, I was scheduled to go on guard duty in a couple hours. I struggled to get ready and walked outside.
Standing next to the truck loaded with sentries, all waiting to be dropped off at their designated posts, I pleaded with the sergeant of the guard to get someone else to take my shift. I had a temperature, felt queasy, and I was vomiting. Hell, I was dizzy just standing there talking to him. I told him plainly, “I can’t stand my watch. I’m sicker than hell.”
The sergeant sympathized with me, but said, “Well, damn it, I just don’t have an extra guy tonight here.”
I told him flat out that I would not be able to stand the watch. I could barely stand up, and that would not be for long.
He thought about it, and asked me, “Well, can you stand your watch long enough to post the rest of the unit? If you can, I’ll come back and bring a guy to replace you.”
My eyes drooping, I looked at him, sighed, and said, “Okay, I’ll try to hang in there.” So I got into the truck, and together with the other sentries, they took me out to my guard post, a small 4×4-foot shack that was next to a bomb storage lot. I began my 0200–0400 watch.
Standing there in the dark, I felt just terrible. I winced every so often at the terrific pain in my abdomen. I knew I had a fever and could feel the energy in my body draining away. Out there in the silence, I did not—I just could not—stand for too long, and slowly I slumped down some. An hour went by, although it seemed like four, and no one showed. The sergeant never came back.
I got sick again, to the point where I had to throw up behind the guard hut. Finished, I wiped my mouth off and came back to the front, weak and dizzy. Finally, feeling sorry for myself, I sat down on one of those storage crates next to the sentry box. All I could do was think about the sweet relief of just being able to hit the sack and just get some shuteye. Ah, just to be able to sleep it off in my cot. I guess I must have dozed off.
The next thing I knew, someone was shouting at me. I opened my eyes and saw a lieutenant standing in front of me. He must have walked up and seen me sleeping on watch. He yelled for a security guard, and under armed escort, I was taken to the captain of the watch. While the captain sympathized with me somewhat and agreed that I should not have been put on guard, he still was resolute in his determination and charged me with sleeping on duty. He then ordered me to the brig.
I was taken to a hut and put into a wire cage. I sat there on a makeshift bed made out of two boards, still sick as a dog, worried about the charge that had been brought against me. They could not bust me down, because that had happened back in March when I had come back late from liberty. They could though, charge me with sleeping on duty, and in the Marine Corps, that was a court martial offense. Asking around, I had found out that those Marines who had been found guilty of the charge were spending a year of hard labor at Portsmouth Naval Prison.19
I was to be charged with a formal GCM,20 although in my mind, I should not have even been made to stand duty, much less get charged. I spent nearly two months in that cage awaiting my hearing, at which time the charge was to be formally read to me. In those few weeks before the hearing, despite the fact that I had no access to facilities or anything, I decided that I was going to put my best foot forward. These bastards were not going to get the better of me. I figured that the best way to do that was to act like the Marine guard that I had been in previous months. We had drilled often, marched often, and when we were off duty, cleaned and pressed our uniforms. The brig was gonna make a lot of that difficult, but I decided I was going to do what I had been trained to do.
In the next week or so, I saw guys go in and out of the brig. Many of them were going to be processed out. Surprisingly, a number of them would sit there in tears, all broken up, crying about their fate. As I sat there, watching them feeling sorry for themselves, all I could wonder was, what the hell was so damn bad about being in the brig? I mean, it was just temporary.
I spent some time studying these young fellows. Most of them were barely old enough to shave and had probably sung in some church choir before the war had started. And when we got into it, I’ll bet they were the first ones to run down and join up, all proud and bragging about how they were going to save the country. Then they get to boot camp, see how rough it is, begin wondering what the hell they did, and then start to panic. Well, looking at these guys now, all I could feel was sorry for them. I guess that no one had told them there were no church choirs in combat.
During that time I exercised regularly, did not give the guards any lip, and made sure I cleaned up as much and as often as I could. At night, I’d remove my trousers and folded them between the two boards that I slept on. Naturally, each morning, they would not look as bad as they easily could have, and in the end, they stayed in halfway good condition, and I came out looking pretty decent.
At the end of that time, when it was my day in court, so to speak, I strode out of that cage with relatively pressed pants and a confident look on my face. Even the captain of the guard was impressed with me as I walked up to him like I knew exactly what I was doing and saluted him smartly.
I was taken to the hearing room and saw the captain in charge of the detachment. He was an old retired World War I veteran, one of the old guard, a retread who had been allowed to reenlist when the war had broken out. In a small room, the charge against me was formally read off.21 The officer in charge of the hearing was the same captain who commanded the Marine detachment.
I was quite relieved (although I did my best not to show it) to see at the hearing the sergeant of the guard on the night in question, and he testified on my behalf. He verified that I had told him I was too sick to stand my post that night but had tried to anyway. He further added that I had for months served as a very competent sentry without any incident, that I was certainly incapacitated that night from illness, and that I should not under any condition have stood that watch. The captain was impressed by my performance and admitted that there had been extenuating circumstances. In the end, I was found not guilty for that reason, probably one of the few that ever was let off for that type of charge. There was however, one condition: that I be transferred south to New River and from there, shipped out to a combat unit overseas immediately. My orders were to specify that.
Which was, of course, what I had wanted all along.
I readily accepted the findings, and the hearing ended. But I knew I had been shafted. They should have dismissed the charges and cleared my record as soon as that sergeant of the guard had admitted in his testimony that he had forgotten about me. After it was over, the old retread captain called me aside. He told me that he sympathized with me over what had happened and added, “You know, I’m gonna try to help you all I can.”
He added that even though I was being transferred from Newport to Camp Lejeune, he was going to try to arrange for my travel orders to read that I get there via my home town of Akron, Ohio. “So that you can get a chance to see your folks before you leave,” he said.
I thanked him sincerely for all that he was doing for me, and I promised him that I would not let him down overseas. Unfortunately, as it turned out, the captain told me the next day that he could not justify my detouring to Akron. It was just too far out of the way for them to justify it.
During this short time, getting ready to leave, I tried to at least catch up on what my buddies were doing. Jeff Watson, Jr. as it turned out, had joined the Marine Raiders. I found out in 1944 that he became part of C Company, 4th Raider Battalion.22 Another one of our buddies, Jim Olivera, ended up in K Company, 3rd Battalion, 1st Marines (K/3/1). Henry Rucker was still at Quonset Point. It sure was hard to keep track of friends in those hectic days.
As my orders to ship out were being processed, I must have seemed a pretty pathetic case, because two Marines in the administration office took pity on me. They took me aside and one of them said, “Look fella, you can’t possibly have any money, because you’ve been locked up for quite a little while.”
It was true. I only had a couple bucks in my pocket when I had been arrested, and because of the serious charge, I had not received any pay these last two months. The two guys were sympathetic, and evidently felt somehow that I was not a bad sort of fellow. They told me that if I needed any money, they would loan me some. Providing that I paid them back later, of course.
I felt humbled by what they had just offered. I mean, these two guys didn’t know me from Adam. I had just come off being charged with a court martial offense, and I was being shipped out. And yet, they were offering to chip in and help me out, not knowing if they would ever see me again, or if I would ever repay them. The bonds in the Marine Corps though, were strong, and I was starting to find that out. I thanked them for the offer and told them that I most certainly would pay them back. With that, they loaned me a few bucks—just enough to squeak by until my next pay.
It was a freezing, snowy day in December, 1942, when I boarded a train in Boston to head southward. I was on my own. All I had was my gear, my ticket, and the few bucks those two fellows had lent me. I had no idea what the new place would be like.
Camp Lejeune
The trip down along the East Coast was monotonous, and the train briefly stopped in Richmond for a layover. I walked around the platform, looking at advertisements. Even for Virginia, the December weather was cold, and as I walked around shivering, looking at some boxes stacked on the platform, I felt isolated. Standing there, reading some of the box labels, I again started to wonder what lay before me. I remembered the GCM, and how close I had come to going to prison.
On the other hand, I thought about the generous advance that those two clerks had loaned me and why they had done it. They had really taken a risk loaning me dough, and based on what I had gone through, they had no idea if I was really the type to return the money. I knew though, that one way or another, I would pay them back for their consideration and for taking a chance on me. Determined to weather this setback and wanting to be ready for what was ahead of me, I took a deep breath and went into the station to get warm.
The train let me off in Jacksonville, North Carolina, and I got on a small military bus, its only rider. The driver took me some twenty miles down, and finally we arrived at the new base, Camp Lejeune. Of course, no one called it that back then. It was just known to us as “Tent City,” because that was just about the only type of structure that was up there. I was directed to the base’s new barracks area, the New River barracks.23 When I arrived, I reported in to the top sergeant there. He looked me over and without saying a thing, he took me into his office.
I stood silently in front of his desk as he opened up my record. He looked at my papers and must have seen the GCM charge because he went “Hmmm …” and then glared up at me.
“Well I got news for you!” he barked. “You ain’t going to act up in my outfit now.”
The top then proceeded to read me the riot act, in detail. He ran a tight friggin’ ship here and by God, there sure as hell was gonna be no damn foolishness in his friggin’ command. Was that CLEAR?!? I had damn well better remember that my sorry ass was always going to be under his watchful eye, and if said sorry ass so much as slipped up even just a tad, he would bring the force of the whole damn Marine Corps down on my stupid worthless head. A whole world of shit would come down on me, and I, sure as God made little green apples, would not know what the hell had hit me. This by heavens was his Corps, and my worthless piece of horse-crap butt was not going to disgrace it.
I stood there, just took a breath and said quietly, “Yes, sergeant.”
Growling, he checked a clipboard and then assigned me to a bunk in the far corner of one of the cheap, plain plywood shacks that had replaced the tents in the area a year before. I found out that I was the first one assigned to this shack, so I quietly stowed my gear in the far corner, lay down on my rack, and relaxed, waiting for chow call.
About an hour later, I was half asleep when the door flew open with a crash. I looked up and along with a chilly gust of wind, in walked a Marine that somehow looked vaguely familiar. He saw me, dropped his seabag, and broke out into a big grin.
By damn, I thought, that guy looked a hell of a lot like Henry Rucker. Still half-asleep, I thought at first I was dreaming, or that my memory was playing tricks on me. But as the guy came towards me, I saw to my surprise and joy that it really was my old friend Rucker. Laughing, we greeted each other and gave each other a big hug. I welcomed him to our new barracks and helped him stow his gear next to mine.
This was just one of the good things about the Marine Corps that I was finding out. It was small enough that you were always seeing old friends or meeting new ones that had news of faraway places. We were just like a big family. I also would learn the down side of that over time when I would occasionally get news that buddies that I had shared many an adventure with had been killed fighting on this island or in that operation. The family thing in those cases made news that much more unpleasant to bear.
For the next two months, we took intensive light machine-gun training. The schedule was nice: one day training, one day off. Being a natural shot, I did well there. Rucker took to the training as well as I did, and we were soon both appointed squad leaders of machine-gun squads. For several weeks, we ran up and down those South Carolina hills, dragging our big old weapons around until they became part of us. We took them apart, cleaned them, and then put them back together time and time again, until we knew them inside and out.
There were a number of other advanced specialty training courses that I wanted to take, and I was older than a lot of other Marines there, so that gave me priority over them. I found out though, to my chagrin that I needed a high school diploma to apply for them. So I lost out on a lot of opportunities to advance my skills.
In the middle of my training, I finally was allowed seven days’ leave to go home for Christmas before I was shipped off to God knows where. It was Friday, December 18, 1942 when I began the trip home. Taking a suitcase with me carrying my dress blues, I caught the train. About ten miles east of Pittsburgh, the train made a stop, and always curious, I got out. I walked into a nearby pub for a quick drink, and that’s when my troubles started.
Taking my beer over to the window, I was shocked to see that the damn train was gone! It had left without me. And worse, my suitcase was aboard. I ran outside and spotted a railway supervisor next to a trolley. I told him that I was going home on leave before going overseas, and that I had been on that train. The supervisor told me to hop on the trolley, and we set off to catch the train at the next station. I mean, he opened that thing up as fast as it would go, and that damn trolley was really rolling, bumping all over those tracks, a stiff wind in our faces.
We just missed the train at the next station, just south of Pittsburgh. I jumped down off the trolley, thanked the guy, and took off running. I spotted the train and ran for it, but as I got near, it began to move. Frustrated, I had to wait for the next one. When it finally came, I went aboard and took it to Youngstown.
Getting off that train, I went in to the station and over to the line at the ticket counter to find out when the next passenger train for Akron was due. When my turn came, I asked the guy behind the counter what time was the next train to Akron was scheduled.
He looked up behind the window and said, “It’s just leaving.”
“WHAT?”
“It’s just leaving right now. That’s it over there,” he said, pointing out the window.
I thanked him and ran out to the track as the train began to move. The car doors were closed, but I sure as hell was not going to miss this train. I looked around and saw no one looking my way. So I quickly walked up past the rear cars and hopped up between two Pullmans. I got a firm grip, and held on.
The train gathered speed as I just stood there between the cars. Wearing my gloves and green coat, I was not that cold at first. But as the train continued, the chill began to set in. Within twenty minutes, I was freezing my butt off, wondering what the hell I was doing.
Suddenly, the back door of the car in front of me opened up, and a guy who was probably the train detective looked down at me. Evidently, someone had seen me climb up between the cars as the train had passed them and had phoned in the report.
The guy crooked his finger at me and said, “Come on in here, son. It’s too damn cold to be out there.”
Gratefully, I crawled over the coupling as he fully opened the back door to let me into the passenger car. I stood there, shaking. I assumed he was the train detective, but he said that he would let me ride into Akron. We talked a while as I began to warm up. He told me that there were worse ways to ride the rails in this weather. Even where I had been between the cars, it was a lot better than “riding the rods,” that is, riding on the crossbars underneath the car. He told me stories of some guys who rode the crossroads, even in the winter. I shivered. I could never do that. That was just dumb. He called them “cinder dicks,” because they rode next to the cinders along the track.
We pulled into Akron, and I finally made it to our house at 2941 Wingate Avenue, the last house at the end of the street, back by the frozen swamps. No one else could build there, because it was a flood plain, and every year the Tuscarawas River would flood at some point. Still, we lived there, and I had a nice stay with my family.
During my leave, I made sure that I saw my girl Phyllis, and we were able to have several nice evenings together. Her mom took a photograph of the two of us, which my brother gave to me years after the war. I also did get drunk a couple times. In fact, one night, I soaked up everything alcoholic that I could, because I knew that once I was shipped out to the Pacific that would be the end of the good times for a long time.
The days flew by, and soon it was time to say goodbye and catch the train to go back to Camp Lejeune. That turned out to be the last official leave I would get in the Marines. I returned to Camp Lejeune and took up where I had left off in machine-gun training. Besides getting to polish firing techniques, I spent weeks learning the proper care and operation of various types of .30 cal. machine guns.
I had one more brief chance to go home again before I was to ship out overseas. In late February 1942, our top sergeant told us that we would soon be headed west to join the war. Not totally heartless, he told us that if any of us did not live too far away and could convince him that we had enough money to make it home and back again, he would grant us a 72-hour liberty.
By then most of us only had a few bucks, and not enough for a trip home. So of course, being Marines, we improvised. A bunch of us pooled all our money together and gave it to one guy. He went in to see the Top, showed him the money, and got his leave. Then he came out and gave the dough to the next guy, who went in and did the same thing. And on and on.
That’s how each of us got to leave the base and go home. I wanted to see my mom again, but I also wanted to see Phyllis one more time. Those of us traveling north had it much harder, it being winter and all. I had to hitchhike, and man, it was icy cold. I managed to find enough rides to get me to Akron, but the last fellow I rode with dropped me off on the outskirts of town at 2 o’clock in the morning. It was so friggin’ cold. There I was in my dress blues and spit polish shoes, walking down U.S. Route 224 past the airport, in the bitter night, shivering, wondering what the hell I was doing. I would be able to get home just long enough to say hi to my mom, and maybe see Phyllis for an hour or so before heading back. Shivering, I walked down Waterloo Road, and finally made it home there at the end of Wingate Avenue. I could not stay long, but in the end, I felt that the trip was worth the effort, especially since I might never see them again.
American Samoa
I made it back to New River in time and continued machine-gun training. One day, just about the time I had established new friends and had become accustomed to our surroundings, in typical Marine Corps fashion, our top sergeant came into our shack and growled, “Okay, half you guys are shipping out overseas. So get yer shit together, cuz you’re leavin’ here in the morning.”
We packed up and early next morning, we headed towards a troop train that sat on tracks right there in the camp.24 We marched into the area and boarded the train from both sides. Rucker and I found seats next to each other in a middle car. We had no weapons with us. They had all been left behind in New River; even our rifles. It was just us and our kit, stowed in storage cars.
The train chugged westward. It took us some five days to travel across the country, and we stayed in those cars for that entire time, mostly in our seats. When the train stopped at a station, we were not allowed to get off for any reason. We had to just sit there. The whole time. Mostly, we spent the time talking, reading, or just staring out the windows. We ate, read, wrote home, and at night, slept sitting. There were no facilities to shower or bathe, so after a couple days, we started getting ripe.
Each pair of cars had two black stewards assigned to take care of us, although they actually did little more than serve us meals. Mostly, they just hung out with us, listened to our stories, and tried to take care of our needs. The meals that they served us were definitely nothing to write home about. They mostly consisted of box lunches or brown bag specials.
The only time we ever left our seats was to visit with other guys in the car, or to hit the head. This was something of a new experience for me. At the end of each Pullman was a tiny bathroom, which was nothing more than a small vented closet with a toilet seat in the middle. When you were done doing whatever you had to do, you stepped on a pedal to flush. There must have been some sort of a holding tank attached to the car, and the water would run into the bowl and flush your business out onto the side of the tracks.25 One of the guys early on asked where the hell all the crap went. I knew, because when I had been a kid walking alongside railroad tracks, I had seen random piles of crap along the tracks. So I told him how it worked. I also told him that this was why we were not allowed to go to the head when the train was in a station. It would not be very pleasant for those folks waiting for a train with big piles of poop sitting on the tracks in front of them.
We traveled through a good deal of desert. Naturally it was hot, really hot, so the windows pretty much stayed open. Holy cow, a couple of times we even thought that we were in Mexico. Sometimes we saw sand drifts blowing over the tracks.
We finally arrived in San Diego near the end of February 1943. We stayed there for a couple weeks in tents put up on the sand between the parade grounds. We trained hard during the day, but we were given liberty most nights, so for the most part we enjoyed the stay. Then I came down with, of all things, the stupid measles. After being laid up for three days, I really got worried, because the medics wanted me to stay in bed for another few days. I was starting to get paranoid, because I knew that we would be moving out soon, and I did not want my unit suddenly shipping out without me. We had become somewhat close, and they were the only guys in the Corps that I knew. So I definitely wanted to get the hell out of this hut to join up with them.
Somehow, on my fourth day in the medical ward, I convinced the doctor that I was over my measles, pleading that I felt much better, and that he could let me out early. I went back to the unit and immediately went on liberty with my buddies. That night, I met a strikingly lovely lady in a bar. An older lady—I was 20 and she was closer to 30—she was brunette and had a nice figure. She was the quiet type and did not talk much, but to me, she was a goddess. I was my usual flamboyant self, happy to be with such a fine gal. We immediately took to each other and ended up spending the evening together. When the bar closed, we went back to a hotel and she paid for our room. I remember having a truly amazing night with her.
The next morning, March 11th, I left the hotel and hoofed it back to the tent area where my unit was staying. I got there about dawn. Going through the concrete portals and walking out onto the sandy beach, I was shocked to find a deserted, open area. The tents were gone, the guys were gone, the unit was gone—everything was gone. No, wait. What was that in the field next to the beach? I ran over and saw that it was my packed seabag with my rifle on top.
Seeing just my gear laying there, I knew I was in big trouble. I had already been through a court martial once, and being AWOL26 was no joking matter. If I missed a ship movement, that would be another court martial for me. Damn!
Starting to panic, I desperately looked around for any sign of where the guys had gone. Wait, what was that in the distance? Far off, about a half mile away, I could just make out a line of guys heading down the draw, walking towards the piers. Was that my unit? Were those my buddies?
Fervently hoping they were, I grabbed my seabag and rifle and took off along the shore. Huffing and puffing, I finally caught up with the men near the pier, and was so thankful to find out it was my unit. At the end of the line, I boarded the USS Wharton27 just in the nick of time. Made it!
We set sail across the Pacific on March 12, 1943. We had absolutely no idea where we were going. Only our skipper and the ship’s captain knew that. One thing about our trip that I was happy about was the fact that once we were out on the open sea, unlike most of my buddies, I did not get seasick. I never did. That first day, I saw a number of them get seasick, hanging over the rails. I thought to myself that if I stayed around them, I would too. So I went down to my rack and just lay there, feeling the side-to-side motion of the ship. My stomach happily stayed under control, and as I lay there, I thought to myself, so far, so good. A few hours later, when we had hit the open ocean, the ship’s rocking subsided, or else I just became used to it. Either way, I was fine.
Because we were at war and the fear of Japanese subs was pretty real, our transport followed a zigzag course as it made its way westward across the Pacific. We were however, sailing without an escort. When our officers asked why we did not have one, they were told that we did not need an escort, since the Wharton carried a 5-inch gun and a couple 3-inch guns.28 We could easily fight off any sub that was dumb enough to try to take us on in a surface gun duel. Of course, if one decided to torpedo us … well, that was why we were zigzagging.
A day or so out to sea, after we had left California far behind us, I went topside and made a surprising discovery. Strolling along the main deck, I saw two familiar figures standing at the rail talking quietly. I recognized those two clerk corporals who had loaned me that money right after my GCM hearing back in Newport Rhode Island. Small world, I thought to myself as I came up to them and said hello. We all shook hands, and I visited with them for a while. First things first, of course. I asked them right off if they had received my loan repayment. They told me they had, and I thanked them again for lending me the money. I told them that I had been down and out, and their trust in me had gone a long way to help me out of my slump. They dismissed what they had done, saying that they were just doing it for a fellow Marine. We talked some more before I wished them good luck and continued strolling along the deck.
I thought to myself that although I was glad to see them again so that I could thank them for the great thing that they had done for me, I thanked God that I had been smart enough to have paid them back, sending the money out of my first paycheck. Otherwise, this encounter would probably have gone quite differently, and I could have found myself in the Pacific, swimming back to San Diego. I never saw either of those two guys again.
I continued walking around the ship and bumped into some other buddies in my unit. There was Rucker, John Skoglie from California, the Swede, and another guy named Elbert Kinser. Raised on a farm, Kinser was exactly one month younger than I was, born in Greensville, Tennessee (naturally, “Tennessee” was his nickname). He was a quiet sort of fellow with a soft smile. He was certainly not the boisterous type, and he spoke with a soft tone.
Slowly crossing the Pacific, the ship pulled into Hawaii, and we all became eager to hit the beaches and fraternize with the Hawaiian girls. The captain, though, was having none of it. He anchored the Wharton some three miles offshore. It was just far enough to keep even the most determined of us liberty-minded Marines from jumping ship and trying to make it ashore.
We stayed there a day or so and then we got underway. After several days at sea,29 we arrived on March 24th at the port of Tutuila on the island of Pago Pago in American Samoa.30 We walked off the ship with our gear and were told that we would spend the next month there doing various types of jungle warfare instruction.
We marched over to this huge training area and were assigned to the 7th Replacement Battalion.31 The protocol for our training was established at the very beginning of our stay. At the first session, our company was told to gather round two fellows. The one in charge was a short Marine captain who stood before us and told us to pay attention. Standing next to him was this huge gunnery sergeant. I mean, this guy was a massive, dark-complexioned, 250-pound, six-foot-four-inch gorilla who stood defiantly, glaring at us.
He stepped forward and growled, “Is there anyone here that can whip me?”
We looked around at each other, then back at him. No one spoke.
He then defiantly took off his T-shirt and challenged us again. “Well … anybody?”
Still, no one said a thing. I mean, this guy looked like what today kids would call an Incredible Hulk. Over 200 men stood there looking back at him, all of us silent. No volunteers.
“Okay, then,” he said. “You damn well do as we tell you.”
The Marine captain added, “Anyone doesn’t, you’ll answer to him.”
And that’s the way it was. Nearly every weekday we went through our training, and even by Marine Corps standards, it was tough. During these instruction sessions, the NCO instructors in charge took complete control of our training, and barked out directions to all of us, even to our officers.
To simulate getting on and off a ship, we had endless exercises crawling up and down cargo nets until we were exhausted. We had hand-to-hand combat sessions and bayonet drills with real bayonets. I mean, sometimes guys actually got cut. And right there with us each time was the gunnery sergeant and his minions, shouting and cursing. They were effective, too. We were told that when you made a bayonet thrust, you had to growl. Thrust and “Grrr!” Thrust and “Grrrr!” And if you didn’t growl, Gunny would yell at you, or kick you hard in the butt with the side of his boot.
We tried hard to do precisely what they said, and none of us gave them any lip. If you did, Gunny would either smack you along the side of your head, or slap you with an open hand. I mean, he was brutal. Needless to say, I followed their orders to the letter, and did exactly what I was supposed to do, and so I stayed out of trouble. Anyone who says that physical discipline will not keep you in line is full of bullshit.
I will say one thing for them. They absolutely did not play favorites. Every damned one of us was treated equally, junior officers included (although I noticed that Gunny wisely did not smack them around). After all, they were just part of our training.
I found the whole experience quite interesting, definitely a lot more than standing around for hours guarding a hunk of haze-gray navy metal. And I will say that the jungle training that I received there was some of the best I was ever given.
There were exercises where, with our M1s held at port arms, we were told to walk along various jungle paths, and shoot at any “Japanese” we saw. While it was effective training, it was also kind of amusing, at least to me. I saw it as an exercise in an outdoor amusement park. I would be walking on some path, and at certain points, some fellow hidden in the brush would push a button or pull a string, and a spring-loaded, life-size cardboard figure of a Jap soldier would be released. As soon as I saw the target pop up, I was supposed to take a quick shot from the hip, hit the ground, and then fire at him again. I like to think that my experience as a hunter made me a natural for this, and as I expected, I received a good grade. I will say though, I thought it was pretty comical, especially with some of these goofy-looking Japs.
We were given various other types of training. We learned how to conduct a patrol. We were shown how to string barbed wire, and there were a few sessions on how to set charges. Being qualified on machine guns, I was given a number of opportunities to polish my own skills on various types of machine guns.
We had to undergo live-round sessions too, crawling along a course, often muddy, and sometimes under barbed wire less than three feet high, with live machine-gun fire going off. Several gunners at the sides would fire 30 cal. machine guns and the live rounds would zip over our heads as we slowly crawled forward. It was deadly, too. If you stood up, you would be killed. Sometimes, to even more effectively recreate the realism of combat, they would add to the effect of being under fire by setting off around us mortar charges that they had earlier buried in the ground. The shells going off were just concussion rounds without any shrapnel, so they were mostly cosmetic and would not hurt you, unless you were lying right on top of it when it when off. That did not happen of course, because the guys setting them off knew where they were. Still, the explosions were effective in getting our attention.
As if all that was not enough, there was usually a sergeant on each side of us with a .22 rifle, and every time a guy’s head got a little too high, these two sergeants would shoot a round as close to that guy as they could—without hitting us, although one guy down in the dirt swore to God that a .22 bullet actually bounced off his belt.
Sundays we were allowed to rest. We used them to just catch up on some sleep, take care of our equipment, wash our clothes, and in general get ready for the next round of the hellish sessions.
The training was exhausting, but at night, we once in a while were given the opportunity to go on liberty. Granted, the town32 was no San Francisco or Chicago, so you had to make do as best as you could. I found in my exploring around the area that about a half mile away through the thick jungle was this little Samoan village. It was just a bunch of huts in a clearing, and in the center was this big wooden platform, about 50 yards long and 20 yards wide, and almost two feet off the ground. That, I found out on my first liberty, was their local social center. At night, several of the natives would gather there and talk about their day, and share some beverages, although there was no alcohol, and certainly very little food; certainly none that they could share with us. Sometimes the natives would have a social gathering, and most of the folks would attend.
There were very few native girls that stayed around, mostly because the locals feared what we Marines would do with them. Those that did socialize with us, even though most of them were not at all good looking, had their pick. We could not choose who we wanted to talk to: the girls chose. If they didn’t pick you, you just had to sit there and watch the activities. The few girls that came into the area would walk around, smiling, and chat casually with the other natives. If a gal took a fancy to you, she would come up to you, smile just a little bit, take you by the hand, and lead you off somewhere to get to know you better. Usually, this meant just walking around, visiting some of her relatives and talking to them—which did us no damn good, because we did not speak a bit of their lingo. So you basically were at their whim. If you happened to get picked by an ugly one—well, what did that guy say about war sometimes being hell?
One thing about these native girls: they had this quirk. They did not like facial hair, and whiskers were definitely out, unless you wanted to be left alone. So it was no beards, goatees, or moustaches. If you had not shaved for several days, you were out of luck.
These nocturnal activities were monitored by 50 husky Samoan native guards,33 who functioned as the island’s security force. Each guard, or leoleo, typically wore for his uniform a lavalava skirt,34 and a simple uniform on top. Most of them were big natives carrying .03 rifles, and I must say, they treated us fairly. So we felt secure with them providing security for both the natives and for us.
One thing interesting about the island was that there were no snakes on it, at least none that I ever saw. That was not typical for islands out in the Pacific. While the natives sometimes put large stones around the entrances to keep small varmints from entering, their huts were all built on the ground, because there were no snakes or other such crawlies. Later on, when I was sent to other islands like New Guinea, this was certainly not the case, and the natives had to build their huts on big stakes in the ground. But not Samoa.
One night, I was sitting in the open area and this nice native girl came up to me. I smiled up at her—back then, I had a smile the gals loved—and she sweetly smiled back. Then she gently took my hand, and we began walking off. We strolled around the huts for a while. She took me all around and talked to all of what I guess were her friends and relatives before we eventually ended up at her family’s hut. They were lucky enough to have mosquito nets. I looked inside and saw this woman, probably her mother, sleeping on the ground. We quietly crawled underneath the mosquito net. Without making a sound, we lay down on the ground as well. We embraced for a while as we looked at each other before kissing some. Eventually, we got up and she took me outside.
Kissing me again, she took me over to this tall, drooping palm tree near the hut, leaned back on it, and staring into my eyes, she held her arms out for me. I figured out that she wanted to mess around, and somehow that she had this crazy idea that if we made love while she was standing up, she wouldn’t get pregnant. I could not understand that, but hell, at this point, in the randy condition that I was in, who was I to argue with her?
Unfortunately, a short time later, as we were still kissing, her father, who turned out to be a huge guy, came walking by, so that stopped that. I stood up and quickly straightened out my clothes. To my relief, he didn’t get excited about what he had seen us doing, and she stayed calm while they chatted. Then her father stared at us once more, turned, and went into the hut to sleep. We walked back to the hut too and went in. Holding hands, we lay down with all of them. At this point, I was amazed at the whole thing, and naturally, I was too leery of doing anything beyond just holding her. I stayed with her until just before daylight, mostly just snuggling and snoozing. Then I said goodbye to her, crawled out of the hut, and returned to my unit. Nice people.
When our training was concluded, we were told we were shipping out. Incredibly though, we found out that instead of going into combat or even into a preparation area as we had been expecting, we were instead going to the beautiful wonderland of Down Under—Australia. Melbourne, to be precise. Where the girls outnumbered the guys, at least according to some of our “knowledgeable” sources, by five to one.
Yeah, we knew then that we were in for a great time.
Australia
We boarded the American SS Lurline in Pago Pago Harbor on April 27th, and set sail the next morning for Melbourne. The voyage out was like nothing I had ever experienced before in my life. The Lurline was a luxury liner, the largest vessel of the Matson Line.35
For guys that had gotten used to sitting in muddy holes eating K-rations out of cans and munching on crackers out of wrappers, we felt like we were in another world. We sat at solid, round, decorative dining tables, with heavy white tablecloths. We ate—actually, the term to use here is dined—off beautiful heavy china with elegant silverware. We were served by waiters carrying pewter or sterling silver pitchers and dispensers of water or coffee, just like the rich folks. It was an experience I had only read about in dime novels.
On the way to Australia, the Lurline took us to the French port of Noumea in New Caledonia for about a week so that we could undertake a working party before continuing on. We were quartered aboard the ship and would disembark during the day for working parties. We would march to these warehouses and unload supplies, probably brought by our ship and by others.
One thing I remember in particular was that the water there in the harbor was crystal clear, and you could see down into the depths for quite a ways. In the early morning and evening, the crew on the Lurline would gather their food scraps, mash them all up, and then shoot the mess below the water and into the bay with compressed air.36 I would stand on the main deck and watch with fascination as swarms of these fish, big and little, would immediately rush in for a feast. And of course, because the water was so clear, it was easy to see the fish dining and sometimes fighting for scraps so far down.
At the end of one day, after our working party was completed, we were offered a one-time liberty, and those of us that were not too tired from working decided to leave the ship for a few hours. After all, there was nothing to do back on the ship. So I went walking around with a couple buddies.
One of the features of Noumea was a French platoon that was based there.37 These French often paraded through the town, and they always did so in smart formation. I really got a kick out of those extravagant uniforms that they wore. They had all kinds of fancy crap on their jackets, and a lot of colored plumes in their helmets and all kinds of other stuff on their uniforms.
Probably because of us Marines and sailors, security in town was pretty tight. The houses all had tall wooden fences around them, so that you usually could not see into the yard, even if you were in the alley out back. And walking down the street, except for us Marines I usually didn’t see a damn soul, especially not any gals.
At the other end of the wide main street, about three or four blocks down, was this large administration building, the largest on the island, which apparently was where the local government worked. On another street over, about three blocks from the town square, was a large pastel-pink house that was located on a small hill. And that was exactly what it was called: “The Pink House.” While this pink stucco mansion was not exactly off limits to us, we were discouraged from going there, which, of course, made it a natural attraction for us Marines. We quickly found out through scuttlebutt that “The Pink House” was the town’s only brothel, and I guess its reputation was quickly spreading throughout the military.38 This explained the lines that I always saw there (especially on payday).
At the door were these MPs and a couple medics to check your private parts out. If you were healthy and you paid the 25 bucks entry fee, you got in. Then, later to get out, you had to give yourself a chemical prophylactic treatment with an EPT39 kit in the presence of a medic or MP. I never had the desire to patronize the place—I mean, what on earth would Phyllis back home have thought? Besides, it was at the other end of the town, and I did not want to walk that far.
In the decades after I left the service, I learned that the Pink House’s fame had spread throughout the entire Marine Corps. I found it quite amusing that, so many years after the war, any Marine veteran that I talked to who also happened to have stopped in New Caledonia would lean forward with a big smile and wide eyes and ask, “Hey, didja ever get to go down to the Pink House?”
We finally shipped out to Melbourne, Australia and arrived on May 10, 1943. As soon as we arrived, Rucker and I were transferred to the First Marine Division, and into the 3rd Battalion, 1st Marines. We were assigned to M Company, or as we liked to designate it, M/3/1.40 This was the battalion’s heavy weapons company, commanded by an officer named Captain Frank Simpson. The unit consisted of a headquarters unit, three machine-gun platoons, and a heavy weapons 81mm mortar platoon. Rucker and I were assigned to the mortar platoon, which consisted of a command unit, an OP section,41 a battery of four 81mm mortars, an ammo squad, a communications unit, a forward observers unit, and two corpsmen.
We marched over to what was the Melbourne Cricket Ground at the southern outskirts of the city (we marched everywhere). It was a big stadium, and we pitched our tents out there. We were to live there some five months.42 During that time, we spent a couple of months up in the mountains north of Melbourne, training. Although Melbourne itself once in a while got a little snow, it was much more frequent in the mountains. So between the cold and the warm weather around Melbourne, I experienced a variety of weather.
We newcomers soon became a part of the divisional family. The Guadalcanal veterans grudgingly accepted us in their own way, with a bit of snobbery. From time to time, they needled us about being the new guys, calling us the “Samoan Rats,” and there was some cynicism about it. Also, if there was a shortage of something being given out, the “Canal” vets, being senior to us, always got first dibs. Still, they did eventually welcome us into the division, and we soon began to effectively train together to fight as a unit. I had always wanted to be with the mortars, and so the training was fun. Working with these awesome weapons was fascinating.
Our mortar platoon had two officers: 1st Lt. James J. Haggerty was the platoon leader, and 2nd Lt. Joseph Murphy was his assistant. Haggerty was not too crazy about him, and initially tried to drop him, but Lt. Murphy stayed with the platoon. Personally, I thought that he did okay by us.
Unfortunately, during our training Murphy had an accident on the firing range. He wanted to drop a few mortar rounds himself one day, just so that he could get some experience (and probably to brag to the other officers, and show Haggerty he was not a screw-up after all). Unfortunately, a couple of his rounds dropped a little short, and one of them unfortunately wounded a couple Marines. The two were taken to sickbay, and one of them ended up being crippled. Murphy, mentally messed up by what he had done, swore that he would never fire another mortar round himself.
I was initially assigned as an ammo carrier, to fetch the shells from wherever they were stored up to the mortar crews, and to keep them well stocked. I also learned to be part of a mortar crew as well, and I had my share of feeding shells down that 81mm tube.
At night, liberty in Melbourne was as fantastic as we imagined it would be, and my memories of our time there are by far the finest that I have of all my experiences in the Marine Corps. The friendly people treated us great. I saw I was going to have a fantastic time there. There were shops that we go buy stuff in, and these trams that we could ride, which were small, about half the size of our streetcars, with small wooden benches. The tram station was out in the country, a big old barn platform, very primitive.
We discovered, to our delight, that the Australians had a great affection for us Yanks. They had already lost thousands of men in North Africa earlier in the war. When the Japs came into it in 1941 and started barreling down the South Pacific, the Aussies saw that they were in big trouble. They only had a couple divisions to defend their country. Things got worse when the Japs started bombing their northern towns, like Darwin,43 and occupied almost all of the islands north of Australia.
So when the U.S. came into the war and moved down and took over naval control from the Japs in the area, the Australian people were very grateful for us, having, you know, saved their bacon. In a sense, they kind of adopted American servicemen. The country embraced us, and often they would fondly in the newspapers refer to us Americans as “our boys.” In many cases, Australian families would take in U.S. servicemen into their homes or their farms, or treat them to special dinners.
Along with these close feelings came a good deal of respect for who we were, and for what we stood for. It was strange that when we walked down the street, they would often salute us as we passed. This really amazed us, especially since it didn’t make any difference if we were officers or enlisted. That went for when we rode in their trams as well, which was a major mode of transportation for us. If we traveled by tram in units, as we passed folks on the street, they would come to attention and render a salute. The same if we came into a station.
We, of course, loved the attention we got, and reciprocated their affection as best as we could. Our division even adopted their unofficial national anthem, “Waltzing Matilda,” as our own, and even today, when we have a big reunion, we go in singing the hell out of that song.44 You know, funny thing, I found out years later that the song isn’t about any gal named Matilda. It’s about a hobo going around looking for work. Weird …
Their feelings of gratitude of course went for the women as well, and with so many of their guys fighting in Europe and other places, they were often lonely and depressed, trying to keep their homes together. So they were more than happy to make us happy. And in oh so many ways.45
Several places had dances at night. And since the gals outnumbered the guys, and they were so fascinated by us healthy Marines—well, pickins were usually pretty easy. We of course, tried in turn to be polite and respectful, and since we were paid and fed so much better than Australians, we tried to be generous as well to those hard-pressed ladies. That of course, made things even easier for us Yanks as we carried out our battle plans on them, sometimes in small units, sometimes individually.
We were far from home and were sooner or later going into combat. So it was no surprise that several of the guys became “Australianized.” They picked up their accents, their expressions, their habits, everything. Buddies were “cobbers” or “mates.” The gals were “Sheilas.” One guy, Donald Peck, had that brogue down pat, and sometimes we laughed our butts off just listening to him. A lot of our guys ended up marrying Australian gals, and they would often bring local newspapers from their wives back to camp to share with us single guys.
I remember early on, when we were given liberty, a bunch of us went downtown and then split up. Soon after that, walking down the street, I heard my name called. I turned and spotted almost half of the guys in my platoon at this bar. Laughing, they yelled at me to come over and drink with them. I had different ideas, though and was not going to have any of that. I wanted to meet some sweet gal and spend time with her. These idiots were going to drink themselves silly, then go back to the base and tell everyone about how great a time they had. Hell, they could do that on base.
Again they waved me over. I looked at them, smiled, and shook my head. I yelled back, “Are you guys nuts? Man, I got a broad I gotta go see.” I had not yet found one, but I had plans to get one that evening.
They laughed and told me I could do that anytime.
I smiled at them and shook my head. “The hell with that. I have to listen to you bastards all damn day. I don’t wanna drink with you now. I can do that any time. I got places to GO!” And with that, I was off. Sure enough, that evening, I found a sweet gal that I got to spend a few happy hours with.
Besides more training, there were other things we did while in Melbourne. So often though, I would enjoy the town with my buddies. Rucker and I went so many places together that the other guys in our unit started calling us the “Gold Dust Twins.”46 A little after we got to Melbourne though, Henry went through a new experience: he fell in love.
This gal was Russian and older than Henry by a few years. All the Americans called her “Mom.” She ran her own restaurant near the cricket grounds, and it was a very popular place for servicemen, especially us Marines. Our officers often had parties at her place, but the enlisted guys were more open in our admiration for what she did for us. Mom reciprocated the feeling, and we knew and appreciated the fact that there was not a thing that she would not do for any of us. However, as crazy as she was about Marines, she had a very special feeling for Henry. He in turn went bonkers, going head over heels for her. A bunch of us would all start out together, and Henry would drop off at Mom’s. Then the Swede and I would go on into town and do our thing. On the way back, we’d stop and get Henry and continue back to the cricket ground.
At the beginning of July 1943, the commanding officer of the First Marine Division, Lt. General William Vandegrift, relinquished command of the division to take command of a new corps that was to be made up exclusively of Marines: the III Marine Amphibious Corps. Shortly thereafter, on July 10, 1943, his Assistant Division Commander, Maj. General William Henry Rupertus, took over command of the First Marine Division. His promotion would be a decision that would dramatically affect the division’s performance; sometimes positively, and sometimes negatively.
As great as Melbourne was for liberty, during the week, we continued to train. There was this group of large hills called the Dandenong Range.47 It was a rough place to train in, and although it was close to Melbourne, it was like going from Heaven to Hell. Our sergeants were ruthless, and my platoon lugged those damn mortars up and down those rough hills many times. We did get to fire them once in a while, but not enough in my opinion.
During this time, I came down with a case of blood poisoning, which happens when bacteria get into your blood. In my case, it came from a foot condition. In late June, we went on a hard one-week training mission up in those damn mountains again, just north of Dandenong, and we had been hard at it, running here and there, setting up positions, taking hills. Even though it was almost July, the weather was relatively cold, because I guess, being below the equator, Australia’s winters come during our summer, and vice versa. And up there in those mountains hiking around, it got cold. It even snowed a couple times. At night, we had to camp out in tents. After chow, until it was lights out, we would gather around the tent’s only source of heat: a small pot-belly stove. We would throw charcoal briquettes into it and try to stay warm.
With all the moving around, my feet began to develop blisters. When I went to the corpsman, he would rub some lotion on them and give me some medication pads. He finally suggested near the end of one week that I go to sick call and be sent back to camp. But pig-headed as I was, I refused to fall out, even though that last day we were facing a very long 25-mile march back to the cricket ground. See, the official word had come down that if anyone made it through the week and did the march back to camp without falling out, they would get a three-day pass, and man oh man, I really wanted that pass. So I decided to stick it out, even though I had these big blisters. That Thursday night, I went over to sickbay for some more medication. The medic gave me more lotion and gauze pads to ease the sores on my feet, although by now, they were not helping much.
That Friday morning, I joined my column to make the march back, and by the time we were halfway, my feet were killing me. My blisters had popped and my feet had started to bleed. I fought off the pain, which had moved up my left leg, and somehow made it back to camp. By then, my boots were soggy from me walking in blood. I managed to gently get them off, and my feet were just bloodier than hell.
So I went straight to sickbay, and when Doc saw my feet, he ordered me to take my trousers off. Evidently, some germs had entered my bloodstream from the blisters on my left foot, and after a while, the infection had spread up my leg and into my genitals. No wonder the pain had become tremendous, Doc said that I had to go to a civilian hospital, so I was taken to one in Melbourne for treatment. To my surprise, the hospital turned out to be a just a group of some plywood shacks and tents.48
I was taken to a ward, and the first thing the orderly did was to make me strip down. When I took my clothes off, I saw this big blue vein running up my leg to my crotch. Not only that, but there was a blue ball up there as well, which I figured was one of my swollen testicles. I figured that was definitely not a good sign. The orderly gave me a towel, and told me to wait on one of the wooden benches.
I had been sitting there for a couple minutes with a couple other guys, when the orderly came back and told me to go and take a shower.
I said, “Okay,” and went over to the facility where they were located. I walked in and saw two rows of these wooden shower stalls. I set my towel down and walked into one. I had just started lathering up when I heard a knock on the door. Thinking nothing of it, I continued showering. Soon after there was a second louder knock.
“Yeah?” I said.
“Tea time,” was his response.
I couldn’t believe it. “What?”
“Tea time!” And with that, the guy left.
Strange thing about them Aussies. No matter what, some traditional patterns in their life were written in stone. It seemed that no matter what, they always took time out for tea. So I had to turn off the shower, put on my robe, and walk back out to sit on a bench and have some tea before I could go back and finish my shower. I was sitting there with just a towel on with about twelve other guys, and sure enough, this guy came around with a big hot pitcher and cups, and poured each of us a cup. So we sat there chatting, drinking our tea. Weird.
After my shower I was told to go into this small examination room, and wait for the nurse. A little self-conscious of my degree of undress, I took the towel and moved it down and around, so that she could see the blue vein going up my leg and the blue ball in my crotch, but not my other “essential parts.”
A minute later, the nurse came in, a big burly gal. She brusquely grabbed the towel that was covering what little of me it could and flipped it off. She then examined me as I sat there, plum naked, really flustered. Then the doctor came in and the two of them talked about it a bit. Finally he told me that my blisters had become infected, and that the infection had gone into my bloodstream and caused blood poisoning. The clinical term was sepsis.
I stayed there in that ward while they treated me with pills. I had no problem urinating, which of course was a good thing. After four days, the inflammation in my testicle went down, the blue line faded in my vein, and I was finally allowed to rejoin my platoon. In the meantime, while I was in hospital, the other guys all got their three-day passes, but when I returned, I did not get mine. That stayed a sore spot with me, and I never forgot it.
The weeks went by, and despite the doses of heavy training in the nearby Dandenongs, we made out quite well and were in general satisfied with life. One day in August though, things changed. We had gone back to the hills and had done a number of days’ training, hiking, and toting them friggin’ mortars all over the place. Those things are heavy, and when we stopped at night, we were usually exhausted.
We finally marched back to the cricket ground on a Friday. My blisters were minimal, and I was relatively tired, but I was happy. We all began planning for our liberty. No one knew how many weekends we had left before we shipped off to war, so each one now was special to us. On this one, I was again going out with Rucker and the Swede. Henry missed “Mom,” the Swede had a gal he was planning to see, and I had a few ideas of my own. So it was like a thunderbolt hitting us when Gunny announced at the last minute that none of us were getting liberty. Surprised, we asked why.
“Because I damn well said so, that’s why,” Gunny growled us. Funny, but gunnery sergeants never seemed to say a thing. They always growled or yelled. Our surprise gave way to anger, and we insisted that we know the stupid reason we could not leave the base.
Staring us down, he told us that we had been selected to do guard duty. Command policy dictated that ten percent of the base personnel had to stand guard, and our unit had been chosen to do it. Seniority was a big thing in the Corps, and evidently those guys that had been at Guadalcanal, considered senior to us, made sure that liberty passes went to them first. It did not matter that I was older than most of them. Age was not the consideration; time in combat was. They were the veterans; we were the Samoan Rats. The bottom line was that we were not getting any weekend liberty because all of them were going instead. What infuriated me was that the sergeants had waited until the last moment to tell us, as we were getting ready to walk out the gate.
Now we were really hopping mad. What the hell! We deserved to go out on the town too! We had really worked hard for it over the last couple weeks, training, running, climbing, practicing. And anyway, we knew we were soon going to be yanked off to war and very well might get killed. We felt that we were being taken advantage of, and it really pissed us off.
The more we thought about it, the more infuriated we became. It was not long after Gunny’s announcement that the three of us had a conference, our own little private council of war. We grumbled about the situation and how unfair it all was. Finally, resentful and rebellious, all three of us—Rucker, the Swede and I—decided to go over the hill for a few days or so. What the hell, we might soon die anyway. We figured that we might as well make it worth our while.
We did some hasty planning and later slipped away into the night. We left the cricket ground and went over to Mom’s restaurant. She had a couple rooms upstairs and was happy to let us stay there, giving us food and sometimes even cooking for us. Naturally, Henry spent his time with her. The Swede and I went into town, where we wined and dined the sweethearts of Melbourne.
Although we were AWOL, no one in authority knew where we were. So we continued with our farewell festivities, and soon a few days stretched into a week. We had a great time, but by the end of the second week, after having spent all our money, the three of us started getting guilt-ridden about what we had done. We had enjoyed ourselves while the rest in our outfit had continued training and standing guard duty. We became chastened for our transgressions, hung over, broke, and sick with worry over what punishment we would get for being AWOL. I was especially worried, because this would be my second big screw-up in the Corps.
We talked it over a few times, and finally, after agonizing analysis, we decided that we were going to go back to camp, voluntarily give ourselves up, and take what we had coming to us like men. Whatever punishment we were to get, we knew it would be softened, at least a bit, by the fact that we returned on our own, and were not brought in kicking and screaming by the shore patrol. Besides, once in combat, it all might be swept under the rug. Well, at least we hoped that it would.
The next morning, the three of us made our way back to the Melbourne Cricket Ground and turned ourselves in at the main gate. We told the sentries that we had been AWOL and requested that we be taken to the brig. We figured that we were going to be sent there soon enough, so we thought this might be seen as a good gesture, and also to just get the process started. Maybe we would spare some sergeant the effort of screaming at us.
Sure enough, they took us to the brig. About an hour later, our platoon leader, Lt. James Haggerty, came to see us. The lieutenant was about a year older than me. He was a mustang,49 having gone through boot camp about the same time as I had. But then he had gone into OCS50 and had received a commission. Lt. Haggerty had bright red hair, hence, the nickname “Red,” although only the officers ever called him that; we never did, partly because it was inappropriate, but mostly just out of respect.
The lieutenant was a burly guy and did not take crap from anyone. Still, he did not seem to be a mean man. He was soft spoken, but authoritative. And he had this quirk. Most of the time, he loved to wear this plain, dark-blue baseball cap, and he was wearing it now as he came in. Part of the reason he wore it I think because he was in sports. He had played football and baseball in college in New York, and the blue must have been one of his team’s colors. I also think he wore it just to stand out and to make a statement; sort of like telling all of us that he was not scared of us, and that he was the guy in charge.
We talked to him, told him we had seen the error of our ways and had surrendered ourselves. He assured us that he would have us out in no time. We smiled when he told us that they couldn’t lock his men up. After all, we had a war to win. With that, he left, on his way to get us released, and our spirits rose.
After he left, we talked over our situation, relieved by what he had said. It looked like things would not be so bad after all.
That good feeling did not last for long, though. The lieutenant came back a while later, and wow, was he a changed man. Glaring at us, he started to really chew us out.
“But lieutenant,” the Swede said, “you told us …”
“I don’t give a shit what I told you!” he shouted. “You assholes really screwed up this time, and as far as I’m concerned, you clowns have found yourselves a new home.” With that he spun around and stomped out. We just looked at each other.
They kept us in the brig for 30 days on bread and water. Still, it really was not too bad. Somehow I had smuggled in a pound of butter, and the few of us there were going to make the best of it. That is, if we could keep the butter hidden. Always the quick thinker, I came up with a solution. In the middle of the floor was a drain. So I wrapped the butter in protective cloth. Using a piece of twine, I tied one end to the middle of the butter and the other to the drain cover. In the corner of the brig was an old water heater. One of us had an old mess tin, so we fashioned an edge out of the lid. When we received our daily ration of bread, we would take the butter out, cut some thin slices off it, spread them on the bread in the tin, and then put the tin under the water heater. I have to say, that was some of the best toast I had ever eaten. Well, it seemed so at the time.
We did this for a few days, and then the next day, we had to fall out for inspection. Which to me was dumb, because we were in the brig. How clean could we be? We stood there in line, and in strode our company commander, Captain Frank Simpson, escorted by a few Marine guards. Now this Simpson was a big burly so-and-so, and he always had a really mean look on his face. He came in and slowly walked down the line, glaring at each of us as he passed by.
One or two of the others must have given something away, either with a glance or a look, because as he stared at me, looked down at the drain, then back up at me again. He turned to one of the guards and told him, “Pull that thing up down there and let’s see what’s down there.” When the guard looked at him, he repeated, “There seems to be something down there.”
Two of the guards managed to get the drain cover off, and up with the cover came the package of butter dangling there on the string.
The guard handed it to the captain, who was standing right in front of me. When I saw him take the cover with the butter dangling from it and hold it up with a puzzled look on his face, I don’t know why, but the whole thing suddenly just struck me funny. I grinned and then I started to laugh. Simpson started glaring at me, and as his eyes began to bulge and the blood rushed to his face, I could not help but laugh even harder. Now he was getting enraged, and the more he did, the more hysterical it seemed. Even while I was laughing though, I was wondering if he was going to whack me or kill me or something. And yet, to save my life, I just couldn’t stop. By now I was in tears, struggling just to breathe, I was laughing so hard. Finally, he just gritted his teeth and stormed out of the cell …
The rest of the time passed quickly, and one day, it was time for the charges to be read. They walked me in for the SCM proceedings with a guard on each side, along with my other two brig mates who had also gone AWOL. I stood there at attention as the captain overseeing our court martial came in. I took one look at him and realized it was the same burly Captain Simpson, the guy that I had had the sewer drain incident with in the brig. He came in, sat down, and began swearing in the other officers for the proceedings.
I remembered the incident with the butter, and before I realized it, I was smiling again, a big broad grin. A few moments later he looked up at the three of us and he saw me standing there grinning. Sure enough, just like back in the brig, he began to get angry again. I stood there trying hard not to smirk, but the more I tried, the funnier the memory became, and thus, the funnier the situation now. I could just see him turning livid. This guy was really pissed off.
The charges were read, and the punishments were allotted. Rucker and the Swede each received extra policing duties. They would have to scrub floors and take double shifts in the galley and the mess hall. But I got the full brunt of his wrath. I was sentenced to 30 days—this time in solitary confinement—on only bread and water, with a meal every third day. In addition my pay was reduced by half for six months—all because I smiled at that SOB. I knew I was guilty and deserved punishment for going AWOL but after all, I had surrendered voluntarily. However, because I had remembered the drain incident and the whole thing now seemed like a sort of comic opera, I had just smiled at the guy, and so he had thrown the book at me. I later found out, there was such a thing back then called silent insolence. You could look at an officer mean, and he could charge you with that. I think I got charged under that, too. It cost me dearly.51 I did not think it was fair, but I kept my mouth shut and did my 30 days without a squawk.
Well, maybe one. Soon after going into the brig, I did complain to the Officer of the Day, Lt. Haggerty, about Captain Simpson, and how he had cruelly confiscated our butter. Haggerty’s reaction? He just shook his head and smiled.
Enjoyable as our time in Australia was, we knew it had to end sooner or later, and that the reality of war would come to us. As luck would have it, by the time my 30 days in the brig were up, the division was given orders to ship out to Goodenough Island in New Guinea.52
I was determined to have me one last fling in Melbourne before we left. My boss though, Captain Simpson, must have read my mind, because when my time was served, instead of being released, I was put in a holding cell. I was back to three square meals a day, but I had not been released. Of course, if they had, I would have headed straight for town to have one last memorable liberty. In my mind, I had served my sentence, and continuing to hold me was unfair.
So back to the cell I went, depressed, but still determined. No sir, I was not through yet. There is an old saying in the Marine Corps: “Don’t beat your gums to me; tell it to the chaplain.” So, I followed that theme and requested to see our man of the cloth.
The next morning, the regiment’s Catholic chaplain arrived.53 Under his arm he had several books on Catholicism, and proceeded to talk to me about the faith and how I should use it to correct the error of my ways. Obviously, he had totally missed the whole point of me wanting to see him. I had never been religious anyway, so I could see he was not clear on what I wanted. I tried in vain to correct any misconception he may have had about my asking to see him. I told him that I had served my time, and that I wanted him to intervene on my behalf. He finally got the gist of my complaint, and a sour look came over his face. He frowned, slowly shook his head, and waved his hand at me in disgust. I do not recall his exact words, but they were not very sympathetic. We talked some more, and then he left. I was played out at this point. I mean, when even the chaplain turns you down, you’ve pretty much hit rock bottom.
Okay, so I had one more recourse. As far as I was concerned, what Captain Simpson was doing was not even legal, keeping in my cell past the appointed time. So as a result, I requested to see the Colonel himself.54 This privilege, afforded any Marine at any time, was duly granted to me. That though, did not go well. The C.O. was not happy with me at all, and took Simpson’s side completely. In fact, he used some rather choice words about me, and yelled at me in no uncertain terms that I was incorrigible.
“D’you know what that IS?” he roared with a furious glare.
I did not, so I told him, “No, sir.”
He angrily stared at me and growled, “It means you ain’t gonna change, dumb shit. Hell, if there wasn’t a war going on, I’d have you shot.”
I sighed, said humbly, “Yessir,” and resigned myself to my fate.
After a few moments, he grumbled “Get outa my sight.”
The guards took me back to my cell. Luckily, I did not have to wait too long.
Goodenough Island
The next day, October 10, 1943, two Marine guards, one on each side of me, escorted me in shackles to the pier and we boarded the USAT Steinmetz,55 along, as it turns out, with my entire regiment. We were going to sail the next day for a place called Goodenough Island. Funny thing, though. Capt. Simpson did not go with us. I figured that to be a good sign.
Now out of the brig, the first thing I did after chow was to look up my good buddy Henry Rucker. I found him at his rack, and we caught up. I told him what had happened to me. He had pulled some light duty, and he told me the astonishing news that as part of his extra duty, he had incredibly been assigned guard duty for all of the officers’ liquor and smoking items. It was all stored in a couple big lockers, and he was the custodian. Which meant that old Henry had the keys. Naturally, being a good Marine, he had decided to “liberate” some of items. He had managed to confiscate a couple jugs of rum, as well as helping himself to several cartons of cigarettes. After he had stuffed his pack full, he had also secretly crammed my own pack with a couple of cigarette cartons as well. The problem with that was that old Henry did not tell me about the cartons that he had slipped me, and I would unfortunately not find out until it was too late.
It was a beautiful night, and after a nice chow, we sat on the fantail of the transport under the stars, staring at the ship’s foamy wake. Rucker generously shared a bottle of rum with me, and we proceeded to get stinking drunk. We sat there on the stern all night, singing and recalling memories, and by dawn, we were asleep, definitely feeling no pain.
That morning, as hangover set in, the theft of the booze and cigarettes was discovered, and soon after that, we were all ordered to our quarters as the whole ship was searched. When they went through my pack, they found the missing cigs. I was dumbfounded, but quickly realized what had happened. Naturally, all my pleas of innocence were not believed, and I was confined to my rack. This time I was lucky enough to go before the battalion major. Thank God I was not going up before the regimental colonel again.
Early that evening, when they held “office hours,”56 I made my case again and once more told them that I was innocent. I tried to explain to the XO that I had no idea about the cigarettes; hell, I didn’t even smoke! But that just made him furious. Clearly he did not believe me. So as a consequence, good old Rucker got off light again: he was given a few hours of EPD scraping paint.57 Me though, I got a deck court martial and was given five days’ confinement to the brig on bread and water. In my mind though, I had the last laugh, because they later found out that there was no brig to put me in. Liberty ships did not have brigs. Still, some wise-ass figured out that a good equivalent was a coal bin on the upper deck, so I spent the next five days in that damn coal bin. In the meantime, on October 11th, exactly five months and one day since we had come to Melbourne’s fair shores, the Steinmetz left Melbourne Harbor and sailed off to war.
I did my time in the coal bin on bread and water, and the sentence actually turned out to be eight days. Luckily for me, my buddies Henry and Skoglie would slip some food to me whenever I went to the can and they would stand guard for me while I ate. You know, there is an old saying in the Corps: if you want a good combat soldier, get one out of the brig.58 If there was any truth to that, then I must have been quite the soldier. Maybe our platoon leader, Lt. James Haggerty, had heard the saying and taken it to heart. One day after I was out of the coal bin, he called me aside. We sat down, and he told me that he thought I was not a bad fellow and was not beyond salvaging. He said now that we were away from liberty ports and booze and women, I might turn out to be a good Marine. Maybe, he added, I could straighten up my act and try to be a good Marine.
I was surprised. How could the guy be so insensitive? I thought to myself I was probably the best-trained Marine in the whole damn outfit. I had been in the Corps for two years now and had trained a good part of the time. I had accrued no less than five different specialties. First and foremost, I was a rifleman, and a crack shot at that. However, I had also qualified as a mortarman, a forward observer, a chemical warfare school NCO, and a machine gunner. I was proficient with all small arms, and had completed jungle warfare school in Samoa.
Still, as I thought about it more, I conceded that perhaps he was right. And despite all my training, I had never actually been in combat, something we were now on our way to. Maybe the lieutenant was right. I guess that it was time to get serious. Haggerty then told me that he knew I could be a great Marine. I guess that he must have seen some promise in me. He also said that if I straightened up my act, he would not hold my past against me. I have to admit that made a sizable impression on me.
He also said that he had thought about my role in the mortar platoon, and had concluded that with my outdoor background, I would make a good forward observer, despite the fact that I was a little small for the job.59 He told me that he needed a good runner; someone who could act as his scout and be a lead forward observer. As I thought about it, he added that he needed someone that he could depend on, and that I could be a great OP man. He said that he would see to it—that is, IF I got my act together and got squared away.
I must admit that my first impression was that maybe he was just trying to get me killed. On second thought though, it seemed a great opportunity to redeem myself for my past indiscretions. I told him I agreed and then asked him one favor: that he assigned Rucker as an OP as well.
Haggerty thought about it and agreed. We had a deal.
Then he looked at me and said gently, “I’m not gonna hold anything against ya. That is, as long as you turn over a new leaf.”
I told him I would. And for the rest of my time in the Corps, because he gave me another chance, I swore never to fall out of a formation or miss a day of duty if I could help it.
And I never did.
We rounded the southeastern tip of Australia, sailing northward, putting into Sydney and Port Moresby. Finally on October 23th, after a voyage of some 2,500 miles, we pulled into a Goodenough Island in New Guinea.
The division was using the island as a staging and planning area for our next operation, whatever that was going to be. Unfortunately, for our own purposes, Goodenough definitely did not live up to its name. It was infested with thousands of these dark sand crabs that crawled around at night all over the beaches and over to our tents. They would crawl around on top of the tents, and inside them, and sometimes they would crawl into our boots. We had to shake our boots out in the morning to make sure none of the little bastards were in there. The crabs were hard to spot coming towards the tents, because they were usually hidden in the high grass that grew all over the island, grass that was well over eight feet tall and thick.60
Unfortunately, rats and mice of all kinds also lived in that tall grass. The worse part though, was that these vermin also lugged around these small ticks that carried a deadly typhus germ called scrub typhus.61 We were told that it was 50 percent fatal. We might have been able to avoid the rats, except that we were always training, which involved a lot of crawling through that damn high grass.
Many of us began to catch this disease, and one morning, my buddy Rucker did as well. He came down with a fever, and was immediately admitted to the base hospital, which was actually just a bunch of mess tents. He lay in the tent for several days, feverish, with severe abdominal pain. A couple times early on when I went to see him, he did not even know who I was. The deadly typhus had done its work. We were preparing to leave for Finschhaven farther up the coast of New Guinea and to support the Australians as they captured it. Rucker though, would have to miss it. He would have his hands full just staying alive.
During that time there, I drew duty on an Australian vessel, the Manoora.62 For a couple of weeks, we practiced night landings somewhere in New Guinea.63 On that ship was the first time I ever had to sleep in a hammock. And I mean, that sonuvabitch was really deep. I had all kinds of trouble navigating into the damn thing.
After each exercise, we returned to Goodenough Island. As we continued to prepare for our operation, several of us worried about how Rucker was doing. Christmas was by now a few weeks away, and we were told we were going to leave the island soon. So I picked up a package from the Red Cross to take over to Rucker. It was partly a premature Christmas gift, and partly a goodbye gift to my friend. When I arrived at the hospital, which was in truth just a row of tents, I asked the corpsman on duty to see Henry Rucker. He took me to one of the tents and pointed to a lonely cot about midway down the ward. I saw my friend lying there. His eyes were closed and he was wearing nothing but a diaper. The poor guy had lost control of his bodily functions, and the overpowering odor of crap and pee was gut-wrenching. I stood there next to his cot and said hello. He smelled terrible, and as his eyes opened, he looked up at me, delirious. I was shocked to realize that he did not even recognize me.
I gritted my teeth in anger. Holding back, I tried to tell him that things would be okay, and that he was going to get well soon. But inside, I knew better. I stayed with him for a short while, and after a few minutes, I left the Red Cross box and walked away.
Seething, I went over to the corpsman. Had I been armed, I’d have shot that damn bastard, and I told him so. He told me that he understood, but assured me that there was nothing he could do for my friend. Poor Henry would have to lie in that pitiful state for another couple weeks, and like the others, only had a 50–50 chance of surviving. The corpsman told me that Henry was going to be transferred to a Red Cross hospital in New Guinea.
With a heavy heart, I finally left. I felt really depressed. Henry and I had gone through so much together. He had started to become part of me, and by now I knew him so well. We had shared so many good times down in Melbourne. I remembered him with that older gal he had fallen in love with, and the crazy things we had done.
I sighed, and returned to camp. I knew that I would never see Henry Rucker alive again.
1 In November 1940, two months after the Selective Service Act was passed and some 13 months before Pearl Harbor, the first American draftees were scheduled to be inducted into military service. It was soon realized by the War Department that not all of the 800,000 selected for service by mid-June 1941 could get sworn in. This was partly because the American government was not yet spun up to receive, handle, and process so many men, and partly because there was a definite upswing in volunteers for the military at that time. Added to this of course was the uncertainty of when or even if the United States would go to war, although it was seen by all that entry would not be long in coming. Thus some individuals, like Alex Peto, although declared fit for military service, would not immediately be notified to report for duty.
2 Today it is known as the Akron Porcelain & Plastics Company, and is still located at 2739 Cory Avenue.
3 Before the war, the Marines were issued the M1916 helmet, copied off the British Army design. Other nicknames included the “doughboy helmet,” “tin hat,” or more pejoratively, the “dishpan hat.” It was replaced in early 1942 by the more familiar looking M1 helmet.
4 “General issue drill instructor from Parris Island,” what the drill instructors liked to refer to themselves.
5 The “Casual Battalion” was where misfits or other recruits that could not pass boot camp were temporarily placed. Within the first 90 days, if a recruit was diagnosed as mental, too out of shape, ill, captured after going AWOL, or otherwise not able to finish basic training, he was transferred here and assisted in his problems. If the recruit could not or would not make it within those 90 days, he was considered unacceptable. He was then processed out of military service by reason of “enlistment rejection” from boot camp without a discharge (and of course, without veteran benefits) and reclassified by the Selective Service, probably as 4-F (not qualified for military service). Naturally, many who ended up this way were elated to get out of what they no doubt had not expected; but surprisingly, many recruits were devastated by the experience.
6 Construction of the New River base began at the beginning of May 1941 on an 11,000-acre-section of land alongside in Onslow County, North Carolina. In 1942, the base was renamed Camp Lejeune in honor of John A. Lejeune, a hero of the Spanish-American War, decorated at the battle of Soissons in World War I, and later the 13th commandant of the Marine Corps from 1920 to 1929.
7 Slang Navy and Marine jargon. “Pogey bait” referred to sweets such as candy bars, and “belly wash” was vernacular for soda pop.
8 About two miles off Quonset Point, between it and Prudence Island. It was established in 1939 as a munitions storage area, so that the explosives for safety purposes not be stored on the base.
9 The Springfield single bolt-action rifle, model 1903 .30-03 caliber, which became the official standard rifle of the armed forces on that year. It was heavily used in World War I and was finally replaced by the M1 Garand in 1937, although the Springfield did see extensive use in World II as well.
10 The Croix de Guerre fourragère (a braided cord) was a French military decoration awarded a unit to recognize its actions in a war that France was involved in. Since the 5th Marines and 6th Marines had distinguished themselves in several battles defending France in 1918 (including the famous battle of Belleau Wood), U.S. Marines in those two regiments who had fought in those battles were authorized to wear the red and white braid. Alex of course, had not fought in World War I and was with the 7th Marines, so was not authorized to wear the braid.
11 Richard Milhous Nixon, the 36th president of the United States, was at the time 29 years old. Having accepted a commission as a U.S. Naval officer, lieutenant junior grade (O2) in mid-June 1942, he began his initial naval officer indoctrination at the Naval Training School at Quonset Point. Following its completion, he entered Naval Officer Candidate School (OCS) and graduated in October, accepting a commission as a U.S. Naval officer, lieutenant junior grade (O2). Because of his prominence as an attorney, he was able to bypass the entry rank of ensign (O1).
12 Looking at Aquidneck Island and Prudence Island.
13 The Davisville Naval Construction Battalion complex was created in early December 1941. The facility was used to train the Navy’s new Construction Battalion, which would go on to become the Seabees.
14 A type of popular combination beer bar and restaurant with a Germanic theme or pattern located below the street level.
15 George is mistaken, because no evidence was found of the USS Hornet (CV-8) ever going to Rhode Island. Quonset Point had become officially operational as a Naval Air Station back on July 12, 1941. The Hornet was commissioned later that fall in Norfolk but trained in that same area until March 1942. At that time, she left for the West Coast via the Panama Canal, on her way westward to undertake the famous Doolittle Raid on April 18, 1942. Similarly, five of the seven U.S. aircraft carriers in commission at that time never traveled up to Rhode Island. One though, the USS Ranger (CV-7), did indeed steam up to Quonset Point on April 17, 1942, loaded with the Army’s 33rd Pursuit Squadron, which included 68 Army P-40 planes. She then put to back sea on the 22nd, and delivered the squadron to Accra on the Gold Coast of Africa on May 10th. She returned to Quonset Point on May 28th and then made a patrol to Argentia, Newfoundland. She came back to Newport on July 1st, loaded 72 Army P-40 pursuit planes and sailed again for Accra on the 19th. So George had stood guard for the Ranger.
16 Assistant Inspector General. A senior member of the Marine Corps’ Inspector General Office, charged with the inspection of all Marine units within his jurisdiction to ensure that Marine Corps instructions, policies, and doctrines are followed, and that all unit components are functioning in accordance with U.S. military policies. The inspecting AIG representative must ensure that all individuals in every unit, from the commanding officer down to the enlisted personnel, “promote Marine Corps combat readiness, institutional integrity, effectiveness, discipline, and credibility through impartial and independent inspections, assessments, inquiries, investigations, teaching, and training.”
17 A term derived from the acronym “CB” for “Construction Battalion,” referring the Navy’s construction units that were created immediately after Pearl Harbor in 1941. They were created to perform many and various construction projects for the military in forward areas, such as clearing land, constructing airfields, and building makeshift harbor facilities. Their first training facility was at Davisville, RI, which became operational six months later.
18 A mostly informal hearing, usually by just one officer, it is held for minor offenses.
19 The charge is a violation of the Uniform Code of Military Justice, Article 113: Misbehavior of a Sentinel or Lookout. In the Marines, today is normally punishable by up to ten years of hard labor at Portsmouth Naval Prison. One of the gravest offenses even in peacetime, if it occurs during a time of war (which the U.S. was in at that time), maximum punishment could be death, and George could ostensibly have been executed by firing squad (although during the war, no service member was executed in the U.S. for this charge). In George’s case, the charge might have been the lesser charge of Article 92: Dereliction of Duty.
20 General Court Martial. The highest of the three types of military charge for an offense, reserved for the most serious of infractions, with the severest of sentences allowed. The intermediate level charge would be a Special Court Martial, and the least serious being a Summary Court Martial (for minor infractions, not considered a criminal trial, an SCM is presided over by only one officer, and punishment is quite limited).
21 George was probably charged with either UCMJ (Uniform Code of Military Justice) Article 113 (Misbehavior of a Sentinel or Lookout) or Article 92 (Dereliction of Duty). Each of these charges normally carries a General Court Martial. Under the circumstances, he perhaps should only have been charged with Article 134 (the General Article), under wrongfully sitting down on post.
22 Originally 1st Raider Battalion, and later designated 4th Battalion, 1st Marines.
23 Actually, the entire base was named Camp Lejeune in a ceremony on December 20, 1942. The New River barracks section was named after the river the base was next to.
24 This short railroad spur, called the Camp Lejeune Railroad, became operational at the beginning of 1942 and connected to the Atlantic Coast Line Railroad in Jacksonville, SC.
25 This back then was what was known as a hopper toilet or a drop-chute toilet, available on the more modern trains. The bowl allowed the waste to fall directly into the holding tank, which would periodically be flushed automatically via an electric solenoid whenever the train reached a preset minimum speed. Because of the external health risks that this type of removal system posed, these types of waste removal were largely replaced in the 1950s, although many trains in parts of Europe still use this type of disposal.
26 Absent Without Leave. After being AWOL for 30 days, an individual was declared a deserter, one of the severest charges that could be brought upon an individual, punishable in wartime by firing squad.
27 The USS Wharton (P-7, later AP-7) left San Francisco on March 5th and arrived in San Diego on March 7th. An attack transport, commissioned December 7, 1940, with a crew of 566, plus a combat force of 181 officers and 2,130 men, and a top speed of almost 17 knots, the Wharton had a distinguished war career, earning three battle stars, and was finally decommissioned in late March 1947.
28 The Wharton was armed with an open 5-inch/38 main gun, four 3-inch/50 guns, two twin 40mm AA mounts, and eight .50 cal machine guns.
29 For some reason, the Marines being transferred to the Pacific on this vessel did not have to submit to the Line Crossing Ceremony, which all officers and crewmen undergo when they are crossing the equator for their first time. Perhaps it was because the Wharton was a converted luxury liner. George mentioned that there were several senior Marines onboard, and this might have been a contributing factor. At any rate, he never underwent the ceremony with King Neptune.
30 Western Samoa was a New Zealand territory. Eastern Samoa belonged to the U.S.
31 Several dozen USMC replacement battalions were created as an administrative means to transfer replacements to combat units in the field. They included the 1st through 12th and the 14th through 69th, which were all raised in San Diego, and the 13th, created on Samoa.
32 Pago Pago, est. population then was about 2,500.
33 Known as the Fita Fita Native Guard.
34 A lavalava is a common Polynesian garment worn below the waist. It typically is a long rectangular piece of cloth (cotton for the better quality, calico for lesser ones) made of wrapped around and worn as a skirt. It is tied at the top by tying into a knot the upper corners of the cloth.
35 Christened on July 12, 1932, the American SS Lurline was a lavish luxury liner. She could make 22 knots carrying 475 1st class passengers and another 240 in tourist class. Famous passengers included Australian Prime Minister John Curtin en route to America for a meeting with President Roosevelt, and in December 1934, this vessel took Amelia Earhart to Hawaii, along with the Lockheed Vega (strapped securely to the deck) that she had flown in across the Atlantic, and would soon fly out of Honolulu on her epic last, tragic flight. Pressed into wartime duties, the Lurline spent most of the war ferrying troops and war supplies across the Pacific. After the war, the vessel was sold to a Greek shipping company and renamed the Ellinis, she returned to being a passenger liner. She was finally broken up for scrap in Taiwan in 1987.
36 Ships in those days used ejector pumps to dispose of degradable food scraps in a sort of early recycling.
37 New Caledonia was a French territory until it gained independence in 1999.
38 The brothel, aptly named La Maison Rose or “The Pink House,” was leased from the French Army, and run by one Madame Benitier. It became renowned during the war (and for many years after) throughout the armed forces of both the United States and the British Commonwealth. While the house was allowed to remain open for business, ostensibly for “morale purposes,” it was strictly patrolled by military police and monitored by the island’s medical facilities. Interestingly, the officers had their own entrance. Its reputation became so widely known that even James Michener after the war mentioned the Pink House in his epic Pulitzer Prize winning book Tales of the Pacific.
39 Emergency Prophylactic Treatment Kit or Pro-Kit, No. 9118000, issued during the war to prevent or treat venereal diseases. The active component was a tube of ointment with calomel and sulfathiazole.
40 Through the years, a tradition has been instituted that Marine regiments, regardless of their type, are referred to by their numerical designator and simply the word “Marines.” Thus, the 1st Marine Regiment, a rifleman regiment, is referred to as the 1st Marines. Likewise in the 1st Marine Division, the other two rifle regiments, the 5th Marine Regiment and the 7th Marine Regiment, are referred to as the 5th Marines and 7th Marines respectively. The division’s artillery contingent, the 11th Marine Regiment, is similarly referred to as the 11th Marines. It is also common for Marines to so designate their units, by company/battalion/regiment. Thus for example, Company F, 2nd Battalion, 5th Marines would be noted as F/2/5.
41 Observation Post. That component of a mortar or artillery group responsible for directing the unit’s fire onto the enemy and observing the results.
42 All national and state cricket matches in Australia were suspended during the war.
43 Several other towns were hit as well, such as Broome in March 1942, Horn Island several times, and Townsville, which was bombed several times later in July. All in all, the Japanese conducted nearly a hundred air raids on Australia, from the first most destructive raid over Darwin on February 19, 1942, to Parap on November 12, 1943.
44 After Guadalcanal, the 1st Marine Division was transferred to Melbourne in the spring of 1943. The song was soon taken up by the division’s band, and they began to play it frequently. Eventually, as gratitude to the care and affection that the Australians had shown them, the division officially decided to make the song its battle anthem. Since that time, whenever the division ships out on a campaign, they play this song.
45 By 1943, there were a quarter of a million American servicemen stationed in Australia.
46 The term originally referred to a logo (racist by today’s standards) depicting a pair of Black brothers (“Goldy” and “Dusty”) on a popular cleansing product, Gold Dust Washing Powder. The term was broadened over the years to refer to two inseparable individuals who did most things together.
47 The Dandenongs are a low rolling mountain range about 25 miles east of Melbourne. Although they only rise up to 2,000 feet, they are renowned for their steep gullies, thick rainforest, and heavy undergrowth.
48 Early in 1942, with the United States now in the war, construction began on a new medical facility to replace the hundred-year-old downtown Royal Melbourne Hospital. The new location was about a half mile up the road in the suburb of Parkville. At that site, while construction was going on, the Fourth General Hospital of the U.S. Army, which had disembarked in Melbourne in February, set up a temporary hospital at the construction site. As work on the hospital continued over the next two years, patients were slowly moved into the new facility. When George was admitted in July 1943, the new hospital was only half finished.
49 “Mustang” is a slang military term for an individual who entered military service as an enlisted man and had served for a time as one before entering into some officer training process (such as OCS) or had somehow converted (such as a battlefield promotion) to a commissioned officer. Mustangs were generally older and more experienced than other officers of their rank, and they were generally popular with the enlisted men, who felt that they could better relate to them because hey had once been one of them.
50 Officer Candidate School. For Marines, this was an officer training school in Quantico, Virginia that screened and trained Marine candidates who showed superior leadership potential to earn a commission in the U.S. Marine Corps. The rigorous course was anywhere from 11 to 13 weeks long.
51 Also called “silent contempt.” Covered by Article 89 of the UCMJ, disrespect towards a superior commissioned officer, which includes contemptuous language or, here, behavior.
52 Goodenough Island is part of the D’Entrecasteaux Islands, located off the eastern tip of New Guinea in the Solomon Sea, and about 590 miles west of Guadalcanal. After being recaptured by the Australians, Goodenough Island, as of June 1943, became a supply center, and later a staging point for the conquest of New Guinea and New Britain.
53 Early in World War II, one Protestant and one Catholic chaplain were assigned to each Marine regiment, a few more chaplains for the division’s support units, and one divisional Jewish chaplain. The chaplain George refers to was probably Father Matthew Keough, since he was the regiment’s Catholic chaplain on Guadalcanal.
54 The 1st Marines commanding officer at that time was Colonel William J. (“Wild Bill”) Whaling. Formerly the executive officer of the 5th Marines, he took over command of the 1st Marines on February 10, 1943 and held it until February 28, 1944, at which time he was succeeded by Col. Lewis “Chesty” Puller.
55 Charles P. Steinmetz was a Liberty cargo ship classified as a U.S. Army Transport (USAT) vessel, one of a total of 2,700 Liberty ships built between September 1941 and September 1945. Commissioned in the Kaiser Shipyards in Richmond, California on March 4, 1943, it could only do at most about 11 knots. Armament consisted of a stern-mounted 4-inch gun and a few light antiaircraft weapons (interestingly, the armament was manned by U.S. Navy personnel, who had their own independent command aboard the ship). The Steinmenz, scrapped in May 1962, was one of eight dozen transports and cargo vessels manned by Army personnel of the ATS (Army Transport Service), a division of the U.S. Army Quartermaster Corps. After the war, the ATS was absorbed into the Navy’s Military Sea Transportation Service (MSTS), which in 1970 became the Military Sealift Command (MSC).
56 Marine equivalent of the Navy’s Captain’s Mast.
57 Extra Punitive Duties. This is a form of non-judicial punishment assigned to an individual to perform cleaning duties after working hours, or in lieu of liberty.
58 Many Marines claim that a good Marine is one who has once been in the brig. Others embellish by adding “and has had the clap, and has gotten crabs”.
59 George was only 5'6" and weighed 125 lb.
60 Called kunai grass (imperata cylindrica), it was once only indigenous to the Western Pacific. The long, thin leaves grow to a point; the longer grass is often used by natives for thatched roofs.
61 A deadly form of typhus predominant in the Western Pacific, caused by tiny mites, and contracted in areas of heavy vegetation. Symptoms include fever, intense headache, muscle pain and gastrointestinal problems. Even today it is common in certain areas.
62 HMAS Manoora (F-48) was an Australian passenger liner that was built in Scotland and commissioned in 1939. When war broke out, she was requisitioned by the Australian Navy and converted into an armed merchant cruiser. In 1942, she was reconverted into the first Australian Landing Ship Infantry (LSI). She served the rest of the war as a training vessel for landing exercises and saw combat in several operations. With her twin screws, she could make almost 16 knots. She had a crew of 345, but could land an additional battalion of 1,230 men in 17 LCVP (Landing Craft-Vehicle & Personnel) and two LCMs (Landing Craft, Mechanized). Main armament was a 6-inch gun, and she also carried two 3-inch AA guns, eight 20mm Oerlikon AA guns, and six 40mm Bofors AA guns. From March 1943 until mid-June, she undertook landing exercises with U.S. Marines.
63 All three regiments of the Marine 1st Infantry Division engaged in practice landings on the Taupota Bay beaches. Ringed in by jungle, they were located on the northern shore of Papua in New Guinea, to the leeward side of the D’Entrecasteux Islands. The exercises were to train units on landing procedures, to test out new equipment, and to observe and improve unloading techniques.