Chilly, gray, drizzly - these drab November days remind me of my first trip to California. My mother dropped me off at the Janesville bus depot. Tech Sgt. Foxwirth, who had recruited me and previously administered an initial bunch of tests, was waiting to see me off to the Milwaukee Induction Center.
His parting words that meant little to a naive teenager were, "Remember, the man who is successful in military life will be successful in civilian life."
In Milwaukee, the day passed with physical exams and more written exams. The raggedy bunch of kids being inducted that day was an unimpressive lot. What were these guys - high school dropouts? Drifters? Rubes straight out of Wisconsin's Northwoods for the first time? All prime draft bait enabling local draft boards to reach their monthly quota. Not that I, as a class weakling fresh off the hay wagon, had anything to enhance America's security during the Cold War.
With the aid of a Marine Major, I would soon distance myself from this scruffy looking bunch. As we lined up to be sworn in, the Major called me out of line and took me into his office. He individually swore me in, ending with, "Congratulations. You are now a United States Marine." Which, of course, wasn't true - it wouldn't be that easy to get to wear the eagle, globe, and anchor. But his job was merely to swear me in and get me off to San Diego. Someone else would introduce me to reality.
He invited me to sit down and handed me a bunch papers, some airline tickets, and a dime. When I got to San Diego, I was to use that dime to call a number at MCRD, the Marine Corps Recruit Depot.
How about that? I was already getting special treatment. Those other saps were boarding a bus to Ft. Leonard Wood, Mo. - it must be a great place in November. In contrast, I was to get my first commercial airline flight, out to sunny southern California, no less. I silently congratulated myself on superior decision-making.
I enjoyed my first commercial airline flight, from Milwaukee to Midway Airport, Chicago. Late evening, I was awaiting the overnight flight to Los Angeles. A soldier, looking razor sharp in his summer khakis, strolled down the concourse - he looked familiar. It was Bill Blum, who had graduated from Monroe High School a couple years ahead of me.
I hailed Bill down and we chatted a couple of minutes before he hustled off. It was over a half century before I saw Bill again. He distinctly remembers coming home on leave from the Caribbean and going through Midway Airport. But he doesn't remember our conversation. Why would he? He was anxious to get back home.
It was an overnight flight to Los Angeles. I remember waking up early morning to the drone of airplane engines and drowsily looking down on the dry barren rangeland of the Southwest. I wanted to someday travel that country at leisure.
Los Angeles, a brilliant sunny morning, I boarded another plane for San Diego. By some coincidence, the First Marine Division of Camp Pendleton was conducting major amphibious exercises. I had a perfect view of dozens of landing craft, trailed by white, frothy wakes, heading for the beaches. It could have been out of any of those WWII movies depicting those landings in the Pacific. They must do those exercises all the time, I thought. It was a colorful view from the air.
The short flight ended - San Diego Airport. As I wandered into the waiting area, I spotted a couple other guys standing around, holding some papers just like mine. Sure enough - same situation. One was a scrawny looking kid from the piney woods of central Louisiana. He later told me his recruiting sergeant had him eat bananas and drink milk until he attained minimum weight to enter the Corps. The other guy was an Okie, taller, but couldn't have weighed more than my 155 pounds. Very few Marines are 6-foot barrel-chested hulks with stovepipe arms - the product of fiction writers who don't know their subject.
If "teen age" and "dumb" are synonymous, I was dumber than most. If either of us three dummies would have had a functioning brain cell, we would have had a last civilized meal before calling that number the Major in Milwaukee had given me. But then, it would not have served us well had some sergeant, expecting three saps to arrive at the airport, come looking for us, only to find us lollygagging over breakfast. After all, we were already on the Defense Department payroll at the princely salary of 78 bucks a month. Leave busting the Defense Department budget to the real pros.
So, as ordered, I used that dime the Major gave me to call MCRD. I was answered by an unfriendly voice, curtly telling me to stand fast.
Sure enough, a few minutes later a trim looking buck sergeant strode in, obviously knowing exactly what to look for - three teen-agers standing around looking stupid.
I handed the sergeant my papers and started to say something, only to be cut short. "Shut up and stand at attention when you're talking to me."
Attention? I figured that meant standing up straight. So, I stood straight and paid attention.
He grabbed the papers from the other two kids. "Get into the back of that truck and keep your mouths shut. You people have nothing to say."
We three stooges climbed into the back of that olive drab pickup for the short ride to the base. We went under the arch that read MCRD San Diego, just like that scene from the movie "Battle Cry," like Tab Hunter, Aldo Ray, and the Hollywood heroes.
Sure, just like the Hollywood Marines, totally innocent regarding the fate awaiting us.
Next week: Shock treatment.
- John Waelti of Monroe can be reached at jjwaelti1@tds.net. His column appears each Friday in The Monroe Times.
His parting words that meant little to a naive teenager were, "Remember, the man who is successful in military life will be successful in civilian life."
In Milwaukee, the day passed with physical exams and more written exams. The raggedy bunch of kids being inducted that day was an unimpressive lot. What were these guys - high school dropouts? Drifters? Rubes straight out of Wisconsin's Northwoods for the first time? All prime draft bait enabling local draft boards to reach their monthly quota. Not that I, as a class weakling fresh off the hay wagon, had anything to enhance America's security during the Cold War.
With the aid of a Marine Major, I would soon distance myself from this scruffy looking bunch. As we lined up to be sworn in, the Major called me out of line and took me into his office. He individually swore me in, ending with, "Congratulations. You are now a United States Marine." Which, of course, wasn't true - it wouldn't be that easy to get to wear the eagle, globe, and anchor. But his job was merely to swear me in and get me off to San Diego. Someone else would introduce me to reality.
He invited me to sit down and handed me a bunch papers, some airline tickets, and a dime. When I got to San Diego, I was to use that dime to call a number at MCRD, the Marine Corps Recruit Depot.
How about that? I was already getting special treatment. Those other saps were boarding a bus to Ft. Leonard Wood, Mo. - it must be a great place in November. In contrast, I was to get my first commercial airline flight, out to sunny southern California, no less. I silently congratulated myself on superior decision-making.
I enjoyed my first commercial airline flight, from Milwaukee to Midway Airport, Chicago. Late evening, I was awaiting the overnight flight to Los Angeles. A soldier, looking razor sharp in his summer khakis, strolled down the concourse - he looked familiar. It was Bill Blum, who had graduated from Monroe High School a couple years ahead of me.
I hailed Bill down and we chatted a couple of minutes before he hustled off. It was over a half century before I saw Bill again. He distinctly remembers coming home on leave from the Caribbean and going through Midway Airport. But he doesn't remember our conversation. Why would he? He was anxious to get back home.
It was an overnight flight to Los Angeles. I remember waking up early morning to the drone of airplane engines and drowsily looking down on the dry barren rangeland of the Southwest. I wanted to someday travel that country at leisure.
Los Angeles, a brilliant sunny morning, I boarded another plane for San Diego. By some coincidence, the First Marine Division of Camp Pendleton was conducting major amphibious exercises. I had a perfect view of dozens of landing craft, trailed by white, frothy wakes, heading for the beaches. It could have been out of any of those WWII movies depicting those landings in the Pacific. They must do those exercises all the time, I thought. It was a colorful view from the air.
The short flight ended - San Diego Airport. As I wandered into the waiting area, I spotted a couple other guys standing around, holding some papers just like mine. Sure enough - same situation. One was a scrawny looking kid from the piney woods of central Louisiana. He later told me his recruiting sergeant had him eat bananas and drink milk until he attained minimum weight to enter the Corps. The other guy was an Okie, taller, but couldn't have weighed more than my 155 pounds. Very few Marines are 6-foot barrel-chested hulks with stovepipe arms - the product of fiction writers who don't know their subject.
If "teen age" and "dumb" are synonymous, I was dumber than most. If either of us three dummies would have had a functioning brain cell, we would have had a last civilized meal before calling that number the Major in Milwaukee had given me. But then, it would not have served us well had some sergeant, expecting three saps to arrive at the airport, come looking for us, only to find us lollygagging over breakfast. After all, we were already on the Defense Department payroll at the princely salary of 78 bucks a month. Leave busting the Defense Department budget to the real pros.
So, as ordered, I used that dime the Major gave me to call MCRD. I was answered by an unfriendly voice, curtly telling me to stand fast.
Sure enough, a few minutes later a trim looking buck sergeant strode in, obviously knowing exactly what to look for - three teen-agers standing around looking stupid.
I handed the sergeant my papers and started to say something, only to be cut short. "Shut up and stand at attention when you're talking to me."
Attention? I figured that meant standing up straight. So, I stood straight and paid attention.
He grabbed the papers from the other two kids. "Get into the back of that truck and keep your mouths shut. You people have nothing to say."
We three stooges climbed into the back of that olive drab pickup for the short ride to the base. We went under the arch that read MCRD San Diego, just like that scene from the movie "Battle Cry," like Tab Hunter, Aldo Ray, and the Hollywood heroes.
Sure, just like the Hollywood Marines, totally innocent regarding the fate awaiting us.
Next week: Shock treatment.
- John Waelti of Monroe can be reached at jjwaelti1@tds.net. His column appears each Friday in The Monroe Times.
