It's well past sunset, crossing the Mojave Desert on I-10, the temperature still in the high 90's. Southern California, a world onto itself, brings back memories from decades ago.
Along with a few other Marines with whom I had shared Boot Camp and infantry training, it was back to San Diego for Radio Operators School. This surely would be easier and a change from what we already had gone through.
I was half right - it was a change, physically anyway. But this still was the Corps - no letup from pressure and discipline.
MCRD San Diego is the showplace of the Corps - tasteful Spanish architecture, spit-shined and polished barracks and classrooms - guess who had to keep them that way? - manicured lawns with the pleasant scent of Eucalyptus trees bordering the streets - all drenched in brilliant southern California sunshine. The Corps was not going to let a bunch of teen-aged privates off easy for the privilege of going to school in these scenic surroundings.
It was close order drill every morning, followed by polishing the barracks, then marching to class in formation, blue notebooks in left hand, and learning the basics of military communication, including hours of ditty-dum-dum-ditty, the international Morse code that, once mastered, would be with us forever. There was rifle inspection every Wednesday morning, and a major inspection every Saturday morning, usually "junk on the bunk," with all uniforms and gear laid out in prescribed manner.
We dreaded when that stocky Captain with the thick Brooklyn accent, known to low ranking enlisted types as "Little Jesus," was the inspecting officer.
With a piece of gear inevitably a hair out of line, he would invariably ask, "Where's da stick?"
"The stick, Sir?"
"Da stick you used to stir dis ---- up wid."
OK, he was just doing his thing keeping a bunch of spirited teenagers in line, maintaining the iron discipline of the Corps. And maybe he was a bit chafed at being assigned to a Communications and Electronics training battalion instead of commanding a rifle company where he could make rank faster. But he provided some comic relief, driving around the base wearing his shades, the brilliant California sunshine glinting off his gleaming convertible and his Captain's bars.
"Hey! There goes Little Jesus again. Wonder who he got to spit-shine those wheels for him."
While we were going through this routine, we figured those spoiled college boys on the outside were just drinking beer, chasing chicks, and spending their old man's dough.
Yes, there was a gulf between the military and civilian world even then. But that gulf is much deeper and wider today because such a small proportion of our younger population has experienced military life. The practical public policy implication is that those with the power to decide to go to war - the political and economic elite - largely are insulated from its terrible human cost. Broader participation, especially among our economic and political elite, would be cause for deeper reflection.
But these thoughts never occurred to me at the time. There was trouble brewing in Vietnam. But President Eisenhower, pressured to take up where the French left off, believed another Asian land war to be a bad idea. Consequently, compared to a later generation, my generation got off very easy. If the worst we had to put up with was "Little Jesus," we have no cause for complaint. And it might even have done some of us some good.
Approaching Palm Springs, the temp still in the high 90s, I return to the present. I wonder where "Little Jesus" and the Marines in that Radio School class are now, decades later.
Near midnight, we finally reach our destination, the Radisson, where Johnny has secured a room, via computer, for a measly $45.
Next morning, we visit my cousin in Pomona and retrieve J's car, a primary purpose of this junket. Johnny says he could use some exercise, perhaps a hike up the Runyan Canyon Trail, and diplomatically suggests that maybe I could, too. He's right; last time I was at the "Y," Sandy and Reid welcomed me as if I were a new member.
The hike up that trail is considered "the LA thing to do," or as the natives would say, "It's so very LA."
I guess it is - gorgeous, tanned women with strong looking athletic legs, and well-conditioned guys, some actually jogging up that steep trail. How did I get so out of shape?
The top of the trail affords a panoramic view of the Los Angeles Basin - the skyscrapers downtown, the distant coastline and, 180 degrees to the rear, Hollywood and that schlocky Hollywood sign erected in the 1930s, intended to be temporary, but remaining to this day a landmark of Tinsel Town.
The trail down is - what else? - more gorgeous women and muscular men hiking, some jogging, up the trail. Where do they all come from?
Evening, and Johnny's landlady drives us to a fine Thai restaurant. On the way back she takes us past the "walk of stars," a major Hollywood tourist Mecca. People are milling about in the cool evening air and a crowd gathers around the Michael Jackson site.
Tall waving palms, warm air cooled by sea breezes, insane freeways, ghettos and poverty, glamour and glitz, an incredible ethnic mix, and the noise, madness and mayhem that goes with teeming millions of people.
It's a cliché, but it's all "so very LA."
To be continued:
- Monroe resident John Waelti is a native of Monroe Township. He can be reached at jjwaelti@charter.net.
Along with a few other Marines with whom I had shared Boot Camp and infantry training, it was back to San Diego for Radio Operators School. This surely would be easier and a change from what we already had gone through.
I was half right - it was a change, physically anyway. But this still was the Corps - no letup from pressure and discipline.
MCRD San Diego is the showplace of the Corps - tasteful Spanish architecture, spit-shined and polished barracks and classrooms - guess who had to keep them that way? - manicured lawns with the pleasant scent of Eucalyptus trees bordering the streets - all drenched in brilliant southern California sunshine. The Corps was not going to let a bunch of teen-aged privates off easy for the privilege of going to school in these scenic surroundings.
It was close order drill every morning, followed by polishing the barracks, then marching to class in formation, blue notebooks in left hand, and learning the basics of military communication, including hours of ditty-dum-dum-ditty, the international Morse code that, once mastered, would be with us forever. There was rifle inspection every Wednesday morning, and a major inspection every Saturday morning, usually "junk on the bunk," with all uniforms and gear laid out in prescribed manner.
We dreaded when that stocky Captain with the thick Brooklyn accent, known to low ranking enlisted types as "Little Jesus," was the inspecting officer.
With a piece of gear inevitably a hair out of line, he would invariably ask, "Where's da stick?"
"The stick, Sir?"
"Da stick you used to stir dis ---- up wid."
OK, he was just doing his thing keeping a bunch of spirited teenagers in line, maintaining the iron discipline of the Corps. And maybe he was a bit chafed at being assigned to a Communications and Electronics training battalion instead of commanding a rifle company where he could make rank faster. But he provided some comic relief, driving around the base wearing his shades, the brilliant California sunshine glinting off his gleaming convertible and his Captain's bars.
"Hey! There goes Little Jesus again. Wonder who he got to spit-shine those wheels for him."
While we were going through this routine, we figured those spoiled college boys on the outside were just drinking beer, chasing chicks, and spending their old man's dough.
Yes, there was a gulf between the military and civilian world even then. But that gulf is much deeper and wider today because such a small proportion of our younger population has experienced military life. The practical public policy implication is that those with the power to decide to go to war - the political and economic elite - largely are insulated from its terrible human cost. Broader participation, especially among our economic and political elite, would be cause for deeper reflection.
But these thoughts never occurred to me at the time. There was trouble brewing in Vietnam. But President Eisenhower, pressured to take up where the French left off, believed another Asian land war to be a bad idea. Consequently, compared to a later generation, my generation got off very easy. If the worst we had to put up with was "Little Jesus," we have no cause for complaint. And it might even have done some of us some good.
Approaching Palm Springs, the temp still in the high 90s, I return to the present. I wonder where "Little Jesus" and the Marines in that Radio School class are now, decades later.
Near midnight, we finally reach our destination, the Radisson, where Johnny has secured a room, via computer, for a measly $45.
Next morning, we visit my cousin in Pomona and retrieve J's car, a primary purpose of this junket. Johnny says he could use some exercise, perhaps a hike up the Runyan Canyon Trail, and diplomatically suggests that maybe I could, too. He's right; last time I was at the "Y," Sandy and Reid welcomed me as if I were a new member.
The hike up that trail is considered "the LA thing to do," or as the natives would say, "It's so very LA."
I guess it is - gorgeous, tanned women with strong looking athletic legs, and well-conditioned guys, some actually jogging up that steep trail. How did I get so out of shape?
The top of the trail affords a panoramic view of the Los Angeles Basin - the skyscrapers downtown, the distant coastline and, 180 degrees to the rear, Hollywood and that schlocky Hollywood sign erected in the 1930s, intended to be temporary, but remaining to this day a landmark of Tinsel Town.
The trail down is - what else? - more gorgeous women and muscular men hiking, some jogging, up the trail. Where do they all come from?
Evening, and Johnny's landlady drives us to a fine Thai restaurant. On the way back she takes us past the "walk of stars," a major Hollywood tourist Mecca. People are milling about in the cool evening air and a crowd gathers around the Michael Jackson site.
Tall waving palms, warm air cooled by sea breezes, insane freeways, ghettos and poverty, glamour and glitz, an incredible ethnic mix, and the noise, madness and mayhem that goes with teeming millions of people.
It's a cliché, but it's all "so very LA."
To be continued:
- Monroe resident John Waelti is a native of Monroe Township. He can be reached at jjwaelti@charter.net.
