June 1956 - San Diego, California. The brilliant southern California sun splashed against the tan-colored artistic Spanish architecture surrounded by green manicured lawns lined with palms and pungent Eucalyptus trees. Readers who earned the right to wear the eagle, globe, and anchor at MCRD San Diego will recall the giant parade ground, "the grinder," Quonset huts on the "boot camp side," and the arcade stretching the entire length of the grinder on the other side.
It had been an arduous six months - three months at MCRD, including three weeks on the rifle range at Camp Matthews. Then six weeks at Camp Pendleton for infantry training, then a brief leave. A few of us returned to San Diego for Radio Operators School, now about half way through the course.
Our squad bay was fronted by the arcade, near the center of the east-west axis of the grinder, near the flagpole. Single racks for a change, and windows on two sides - nice digs compared to what we were accustomed. Preferable to tromping over the hills of Camp Pendleton, but the Corps made us pay the price for "plush" classroom duty.
Every morning after chow, it was a sweep down of the squad bay, then close order drill prior to classes in sending and receiving code, communications format, and procedure. Every Wednesday morning, close order drill was accompanied by a rifle inspection. Friday evening, it was a complete scrub down of the squad bay (known as "field day"), followed by an inspection of one kind or another on Saturday morning.
The most dreaded inspecting officer was a short, stocky Captain, referred to as "Little Jesus," probably from Brooklyn judging from his accent. Yeah, I know - that was irreverent. But this is how we were, not how people thought we should be. He could be seen wearing his shades, driving around the base in his spit-shined convertible, the California sun reflecting off the chrome and his shiny captains bars.
We figured that Little Jesus was frustrated at being stuck with a communications/electronics training battalion instead of commanding a rifle company. So he took it upon himself to ensure that, communications students or not, this was still the iron discipline of the Corps.
Six months in the Corps and still a bunch of teen-aged privates - no automatic promotion like the swabbies, doggies, and flyboys for getting through what passes for their "basic." The Corps doesn't give rank away. Naturally, those "other people" figured that if we were dumb enough to join the Corps, we didn't deserve promotion. But who cares what the swabbies, doggies, and flyboys thought - they weren't equipped for it.
Another Wednesday morning - rifle inspection preceded by close order drill - designed teach you to: 1) perform together as a unit, 2) pay close attention to detail, and 3) respond automatically and instantaneously to commands. But that was fancy officer talk. To a bunch of recalcitrant teen-aged privates, it was just a pain in the ass, another price we paid for the privilege of wearing the eagle, globe, and anchor.
Then there were those college boys out there, away from their Mommy's apron strings for the first time, chasing girls, drinking beer, and wasting their old man's dough while we were going through this happy horse %&*@. So, #&%* 'em.
I had already decided that if I ever got out of there, I would go to college myself. We have one of the world's premier universities, University of Wisconsin-Madison, the only place I wanted to go, about 45 miles up the road from the home farm.
Back then, it was easy enough to get into the big U. But in those days, prior to rampant grade inflation, the tough part was staying in. I was a fair, but not outstanding, student at Monroe High. A lot of good students got rolled out of the big U after only a semester or two. But I was going to give it the "old college try," no pun intended.
But whatta pipedream. When my enlistment was up, I would be 21, almost 22, an old man already. So dream on, idiot.
The immediate task was to get through Wednesday morning rifle inspection, made more ominous with Little Jesus as the inspecting officer. I had given my M-1 a final look the previous evening - took it into the head after lights out, just to double check it.
Our class NCOIC (non-commissioned officer in charge, for the uninitiated), T/Sgt. Strain, marched us onto the grinder. On the other side of the grinder the hapless saps fresh from civilian life were laboring under the tutelage of growling drill instructors. With our six months in the Corps, we felt like old salts compared to those numbnuts.
Lined up for inspection, we were trim and sharp in our summer khakis, shoes highly spit-shined, as always. Soon enough, Little Jesus, T/Sgt. Strain at his side, stepped in front of me. I brought my M-1 to "inspection arms." Little Jesus, in crisp military fashion, snatched the M-1 from my hands with that distinctive popping sound familiar to everybody who has been through that drill. With the customary deft motions of competent inspecting officers, he positioned the rifle so that he could look into the edge of the chamber.
With that, he uttered some of the most dreaded words a Marine can hear. "This man has a rusty rifle."
Total shock - I felt my legs grow weak and my knees quiver. My mind went blank.
"Get back to the squad bay," snapped T/Sgt Strain.
In near panic, I double-timed the short distance back to the squad bay with my M-1. Boot camp, infantry training, weeks of ditty dum dum ditty school, and now this. Little Jesus was going to run my ass up the flagpole. Office hours? Court martial? Brig time? I might never again see light of day.
Next week: A fortuitous escape.
- John Waelti's column appears every Friday in the Times. He can be reached at jjwaelti1@tds.net.
It had been an arduous six months - three months at MCRD, including three weeks on the rifle range at Camp Matthews. Then six weeks at Camp Pendleton for infantry training, then a brief leave. A few of us returned to San Diego for Radio Operators School, now about half way through the course.
Our squad bay was fronted by the arcade, near the center of the east-west axis of the grinder, near the flagpole. Single racks for a change, and windows on two sides - nice digs compared to what we were accustomed. Preferable to tromping over the hills of Camp Pendleton, but the Corps made us pay the price for "plush" classroom duty.
Every morning after chow, it was a sweep down of the squad bay, then close order drill prior to classes in sending and receiving code, communications format, and procedure. Every Wednesday morning, close order drill was accompanied by a rifle inspection. Friday evening, it was a complete scrub down of the squad bay (known as "field day"), followed by an inspection of one kind or another on Saturday morning.
The most dreaded inspecting officer was a short, stocky Captain, referred to as "Little Jesus," probably from Brooklyn judging from his accent. Yeah, I know - that was irreverent. But this is how we were, not how people thought we should be. He could be seen wearing his shades, driving around the base in his spit-shined convertible, the California sun reflecting off the chrome and his shiny captains bars.
We figured that Little Jesus was frustrated at being stuck with a communications/electronics training battalion instead of commanding a rifle company. So he took it upon himself to ensure that, communications students or not, this was still the iron discipline of the Corps.
Six months in the Corps and still a bunch of teen-aged privates - no automatic promotion like the swabbies, doggies, and flyboys for getting through what passes for their "basic." The Corps doesn't give rank away. Naturally, those "other people" figured that if we were dumb enough to join the Corps, we didn't deserve promotion. But who cares what the swabbies, doggies, and flyboys thought - they weren't equipped for it.
Another Wednesday morning - rifle inspection preceded by close order drill - designed teach you to: 1) perform together as a unit, 2) pay close attention to detail, and 3) respond automatically and instantaneously to commands. But that was fancy officer talk. To a bunch of recalcitrant teen-aged privates, it was just a pain in the ass, another price we paid for the privilege of wearing the eagle, globe, and anchor.
Then there were those college boys out there, away from their Mommy's apron strings for the first time, chasing girls, drinking beer, and wasting their old man's dough while we were going through this happy horse %&*@. So, #&%* 'em.
I had already decided that if I ever got out of there, I would go to college myself. We have one of the world's premier universities, University of Wisconsin-Madison, the only place I wanted to go, about 45 miles up the road from the home farm.
Back then, it was easy enough to get into the big U. But in those days, prior to rampant grade inflation, the tough part was staying in. I was a fair, but not outstanding, student at Monroe High. A lot of good students got rolled out of the big U after only a semester or two. But I was going to give it the "old college try," no pun intended.
But whatta pipedream. When my enlistment was up, I would be 21, almost 22, an old man already. So dream on, idiot.
The immediate task was to get through Wednesday morning rifle inspection, made more ominous with Little Jesus as the inspecting officer. I had given my M-1 a final look the previous evening - took it into the head after lights out, just to double check it.
Our class NCOIC (non-commissioned officer in charge, for the uninitiated), T/Sgt. Strain, marched us onto the grinder. On the other side of the grinder the hapless saps fresh from civilian life were laboring under the tutelage of growling drill instructors. With our six months in the Corps, we felt like old salts compared to those numbnuts.
Lined up for inspection, we were trim and sharp in our summer khakis, shoes highly spit-shined, as always. Soon enough, Little Jesus, T/Sgt. Strain at his side, stepped in front of me. I brought my M-1 to "inspection arms." Little Jesus, in crisp military fashion, snatched the M-1 from my hands with that distinctive popping sound familiar to everybody who has been through that drill. With the customary deft motions of competent inspecting officers, he positioned the rifle so that he could look into the edge of the chamber.
With that, he uttered some of the most dreaded words a Marine can hear. "This man has a rusty rifle."
Total shock - I felt my legs grow weak and my knees quiver. My mind went blank.
"Get back to the squad bay," snapped T/Sgt Strain.
In near panic, I double-timed the short distance back to the squad bay with my M-1. Boot camp, infantry training, weeks of ditty dum dum ditty school, and now this. Little Jesus was going to run my ass up the flagpole. Office hours? Court martial? Brig time? I might never again see light of day.
Next week: A fortuitous escape.
- John Waelti's column appears every Friday in the Times. He can be reached at jjwaelti1@tds.net.
