BOOT CAMP

Having signed up for four years, or more if the war lasted longer; having sworn that "I will bear true faith and allegiance to the United States of America; that I will serve them honestly and faithfully against all their enemies whomsoever; and that I will obey the orders of the President of the United States, and the orders of the officers appointed over me, according to the Rules and Articles for the Government of the Army, Navy, and Marines Corps of the United States" - having, in short, put my life in hock to the most fearsome and hazardous of the country's armed forces - I boarded a special train occupied by other young men who had done the same.1

George Smith and JJ Franey at Parris Island, 1942.

Photo courtesy of George Smith.

The Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor electrified the United States. Across the nation, men stood in long lines outside of recruiting stations; in stark contrast to previous years, the overwhelmed recruiters found themselves actually turning hopeful men away. Young men from Army families wanted to follow the footsteps their fathers left in France; others, reasoning that if they were going to have to fight they might as well be dry and well-fed, lined up for the Navy. Daredevils looking for glory and adventure signed up for the Army Air Corps and dreamed of the day they would shoot down their first enemy airplane. And some chose the smallest and least-known branch of the Armed Forces – the United States Marine Corps.

Their reasons for joining the Marines were as varied as the men themselves.

Irving Schechter, the son of an Austrian immigrant, had been following the progress of the war in Europe with great interest. A graduate of the University of Iowa, he had just received his law degree from New York University, and was awaiting his admission to the appellate court of New York State. “I was listening to a late news program. One of the advertisements carried a message from the Marine Corps. It called for college graduates to send in an application to see if they could qualify for the Corps' officer training program.... I figured there was no way this country could stay out of war. So I wrote in for an application.” Schechter believed that his family was “a vital part of the American success story,” and was prepared to defend the country. When he enlisted in 1940, he was three pounds under the minimum weight requirement; turned away at first, he came back a week later and passed the physical. “Believe me, it's a lot easier to put on three pounds than to take it off.”2

Philip Emerson Wood, a first-year law student at Yale and graduate of the traditionally Quaker Swarthmore College, wrote to his mother that he felt sure he would be called up by the end of the semester, though “I still refuse to volunteer... there are some boys here who are going to.”3 He had other things on his mind – the sudden death of his father in 1940, his serious girlfriend, and his future as a lawyer. However, by April 1942, he had changed his mind and enlisted in the Marines.

George A. Smith, of Philadelphia, had wanted to be a Marine since his youth. He came from a lower-income neighborhood, and remembered that older boys looking to make extra money would join the Reserves. “Growing up, you know, we all thought the Japanese had those slitty eyes, horn rimmed glasses....” Though he would later classify this attitude as “ignorant,” Smith figured that he could “take all the short, bandy-legged fellows in the world,” and was first in line at the recruiting office at Philadelphia's court house on the morning of October 7, 1942. Smith, who had turned seventeen barely two weeks before, was in high spirits, clowning around, and looking forward to a new adventure.4

Behind Smith in line was Edward Lykins, who had “some idea of what was going on.”5 A veteran of the government-run Civilian Conservation Corps, Lykins had been exposed to unemployment, hard work, and a civilian version of military life. With the CCC being disbanded as Congress shifted funding to the war effort, Lykins was in search of a job; possibly he felt that his experiences would serve well in the armed forces.

Eddie Lykins (center left) and George Smith (center right) immediately after enlisting. On the right is "John," who also joined up; to the left is "Tom," a friend of George's who was apparently just along for moral support.

Photo courtesy of George Smith.

Robert Williams, also of Pennsylvania, enlisted just two weeks out of high school. He was only seventeen, but ready to do his part with the Marines.6

Stephen Hopkins, the son of Harry Hopkins – adviser to President Roosevelt – had a personal reason to serve when he joined in June, 1943. “My dad has believed in this war since it started, and so have his sons. I'm anxious to go overseas and back up what my father stands for because I stand for the same things.”7

Orvel Johnson never questioned his reasons for enlisting. As soon as the war broke out, he decided he needed to do his part - but had to wait a year until his seventeenth birthday. Some of his friends at home in Minneapolis did not share his enthusiasm. "Who in the hell is going to take care of our country? I want to do what I can to keep the enemy out of our country, so my family is not subjected to war."

The war would indeed wait. Before they could fight, the recruits had to be molded into Marines.

In the 1940s, the Marine Corps maintained two major training centers; the Marine Corps Recruit Depot (MCRD) San Diego, and the infamous Parris Island, South Carolina. With the exception of those (like Schechter and Wood) who enlisted directly into the Officer's Candidate School at MCB Quantico, every future Marine passed through one of these training centers. Procedurally, anyone enlisting east of the Mississippi would go to Parris Island, and those west to San Diego, a convention that remains, with occasional exceptions, to this day. While many individuals who graduated from Parris Island looked down on the “Hollywood Marines,” each center had the same purpose: to strip the men – now no longer men, but “boots” or “shitbirds” or worse - of their individual identities and re-form them as warriors.

Parris Island

When I first got here got here, I thought I would die. After two weeks I hoped I would die. Later I knew I would not die because I had become too tough to kill.

- Anonymous Marine recruit, World War One.9

Two Marines pose with Parris Island's "Iron Mike," a monument to graduates who died in World War One. It stands outside the Headquarters and Service Battalion Barracks. Photo courtesy of George Smith.

The reputation enjoyed by Parris Island is known even by those who have never passed through its gates; it is a reputation that has been well-earned and calculatingly maintained.

The island itself was first discovered in 1562 by Spanish explorers who named the area “La Punta de Santa Elena.” It was later fortified by French Huguenots - Charlesfort, which also claimed the distinction of being the first French settlement in the New World, ended inauspiciously with a garrison that mutinied, built a boat to sail back to France, and resorted to cannibalism before being rescued. Three years later, the Spanish returned and built a town they called “Santa Elena” which served as the capital of Spanish Florida. After a series of incidents with the Orista and Escamacu natives, who burned Spanish settlements and killed Spanish soldiers, the Europeans abandoned the island. In the early 17th century, the British took control of the land – it gains its present name from Colonel Alexander Parris, who purchased land there in 1715 - and through the 1860s Parris Island was the site of extensive indigo and cotton plantations. When the Civil War broke out in 1861, Parris Island was captured by Union forces and became a home for freed slaves, as well as the site of several freedman schools. It also housed a naval coaling station – the first American military installation on the island.

The first Marines on Parris Island, a security detachment serving at the naval station, arrived in 1891. They earned a strong reputation for humanitarian efforts during a series of hurricanes and tidal waves that severely damaged the island in the following years. In 1915, the island was designated a Marine Corps Recruit Depot, and training for the most highly selective branch of the armed forces commenced. Recruits were brought by ferry to the Island, and received what has become an infamously disparaging greeting.

Pulling into the marina near the Lyceum, the recruits looked up to see standing above them a rather gruff-looking gunnery sergeant, who barked at the Navy coxswain, “Get them the hell outta here. Take 'em back to where the hell you got 'em.” [Private Russell F.] Colbert recalled that, after a momentary pause, the sergeant 'relented,' and told the sailor “Okay, you might as well bring 'em up here, and I'll try to make something of them.”10

New recruits at Yemasse Junction, South Carolina, are gathered for the short journey to Parris Island. They are wisely paying close attention to the uniformed Marine in their midst. Photo by Alfred Eisenstaedt for Life Magazine, 1942.

Though some recruits were still ferried across in the 1940s – this, they were sure, was meant solely to increase their misery11 – most were met at the train station, sometimes after a days-long journey, by scowling men wearing the coveted green uniforms of Marine non-commissioned officers. Jim Craig, who would become a platoon leader in Third Battalion, 24th Marines, recalled being marched across the street, through some barricades, and into “a sprawling 7,819-acre spread of towering moss-draped oak trees and stubby palmettos infested with thousands of rattlesnakes and millions of mosquitos.”12 The new men were greeted by catcalls and jeers from recruits farther along in the training process; departing graduates were particularly malicious, yelling “YOU'LL BE SORRY!” Nolen V. Marbrey, who would serve with Company K, 3rd Battalion, 5th Marines, explained:

These three words are often used each time you are transferred to another camp or outfit because the people who are singing those three words to you figure that they are old salts and you are the new recruits. It's their way of telling you that duty here is hell, or worse, than where ever you have been. Somebody said the same thing to them when they arrived. Anyway, you make it sound real hateful.13

No matter how they arrived, every group of recruits received the standard welcome speech from their Drill Instructor (later to be called “the DI,” never “Drill Sergeant” - instructors carrying the stripes of corporals and privates first class commanded the same respect). They were informed that they were not men, and certainly not Marines – that, as boots, they were the lowest form of life on earth, that they were not worthy to wear the globe and anchor and that the instructors would personally see to it that their lives were miserable. Henry Berry claimed,“While the term 'boot camp' was prevalent when referring to Parris Island, I did not once hear a recruit called a boot. The common term for the recruit was shitbird. There were other and more obscene words but the prevalent one was indeed shitbird.”14 Groups of recruits were not even afforded the dignity of being addressed as men: they were simply “you people.”15 A typical greeting was recorded by Leon Uris; while Uris attended MCRD San Diego, the sentiments were universal:

"Goddam Yankees," [the DI] finally hissed. "Goddamyankee is one word in my book. All right, you people. My name is Whitlock... you address me as sir. You sonofabitches aren't human beings anymore. I don't want any of you lily-livered bastards getting the idea you are Marines either. You're boots! Crapheads! The lowest, stinking, scummiest form of animal life in the universe. I'm supposed to attempt to make Marines out of you in the next three months. I doubt it. You goddamyankees are the most putrid-looking specimens of slime I have have ever laid eyes on.... Remember this, you sonofabitches - your soul may belong to Jesus, but your ass belongs to me.”16

The training process began as the shaken boots were marched to the finance officer; in January, 1944, Jim Craig's recruit platoon was “ordered to purchase an 'optional' $10,000 life insurance policy; the $6.40 premium would be deducted from their monthly pay.”17 They then received the most infamous rite of passage – the haircut. Lined up like so many sheep awaiting a shearing, the boots watched as the men in front of them were stripped of their civilian hair. Many commented how tired the barbers must have been of hearing the joke, “just a little off the top.”

Once fully stripped of their civilian appearance, the recruits were marched to the medical building for their preliminary check-ups and shots. This was a prime opportunity for more experienced men to tease the nervous boots. John Carey recalled watching with trepidation as other recruits came staggering out of the sick bay, clutching their arms, wailing about the pain, and falling over. When he got over his irritation at being fooled by their playacting, he toyed with the idea of putting on a show of his own for the next bunch of boots, but restrained himself.18 Henry Berry wrote of “a young Marine dressed in khaki, which indicated he had finished boot training, [who] spotted the group [of fresh recruits] and immediately grabbed his crotch.... 'Oh, Jesus!' the Marine yelled. 'They just gave me the square needle in the balls! It's horrible!'”19

Some of them would face their first test of bravery at the hands of American Navy corpsmen:

First of all they stripped you, right? So here are all these naked guys, and you'd walk up and [the corpsmen] would do different things. They had Mercurochrome or iodine, and they painted different numbers on you for different things. I don't know what the hell they meant. At the end, they had this station with arm rests, and they'd hit you with shots in both arms. Poor JJ [John J. Franey] walked up, put his arms out, and went out like a light! He was right out! Never knew what happened. The guy said, might as well give them to him while he's on the deck, and they punched him up, we brought him to, and away we went.20

They were led to the quartermaster's warehouse, where they were issued gear. A seabag was handed over, which would contain the recruit's personal possessions. They were issued skivvies (Marine underwear – four sets of dyed green boxer shorts and high-neck T-shirts), shirts, and trousers. They were cautioned to remember that Marines wore “trousers,” “pants” were for women.21 The quartermasters handed over a galvanized pail containing toiletries, brushes, and cleaning equipment. The recruits were chagrined to discover that these articles were NOT free, and would be taken out of their first month's pay. Indifferent figures in uniform issued the hapless new men some more-or-less fitting uniforms, field and dress shoes, a pith helmet, and other gear. They were also told to purchase their own copy of the Guidebook for Marines from the base Post Exchange. This was a red-covered volume (commonly known as “The Red Book”) that elucidated the rules, regulations, General Orders, and history of the Corps, which they would be required to study and commit to memory.22

Some recruits, like Jim Craig, were assigned to platoons consisting of future officer candidates – their training was the same, though Craig was of the opinion that the DIs were harder on the future officers.23 Others, like George Smith and Eddie Lykins, were slated to be enlisted men. Smith, Lykins, and many others from their train were designated as Platoon 849, 13th Recruit Battalion. Their indoctrination began right away, the main idea behind boot camp being the reduction of a civilian individual into a blank mold for the instructors to form into a fighting instrument. The transformation included everything from personal appearance to the very language they spoke:

The Corps had its own language, and boots were required to learn it, just as the inhabitants of an occupied country must learn the conqueror's tongue. A bar was a slopchute, a latrine a head; swamps were boondocks and field boots, boondockers. A rumor was scuttlebutt, because that was the name for water fountains where rumors were spread; a deception was a snow job, gossiping was shooting the breeze, information was dope, news was the scoop, confirmed information was the word. You said 'Aye aye, sir,' not 'Yes, sir.' The nape of the neck was the stacking swivel, after a rifle part. An officer promoted from the ranks was a mustang. Your company commander was the skipper. You never went on leave, you were granted liberty, usually in the form of a forty-eight or a seventy-two, depending on the number of hours you could be absent. If you didn't return by then, you were over the hill. Coffee was Joe; a coffee-pot, a Joe-pot. Battle dress was dungarees. A cleanup of barracks, no matter how long it lasted, was a field day; a necktie was a field scarf, drummers and trumpeters were field musics. Duffle bags, though indistinguishable from those used by GIs, were seabags. To be under hack meant under arrest. To straighten up was to square away, a tough fighter was a hard charger; underwear was skivvies; manipulating people was called working one's bolt. Lad was a generic form of address for any subordinate, regardless of age. One of my people, a twenty-eight year old Vermont school principal, was known, because of his advanced age, as "Pop." And officer five years his junior would summon him by snapping, "Over here, lad."

Some of these terms have crept into the language since World War II, but no one outside the service knew them then. Boots had to pick them up fast. They were courting trouble if they described their combat hardware as anything but 782 gear, that being the number of the form you had to sign as a receipt. It was equally unwise to call a deck a "floor," a bulkhead a "wall," an overhead a "ceiling," a hatch a "door," or a ladder "stairs." Every Marine was "Mac" to every other Marine; every US soldier was a "doggie" and was to be barked at. The Corps' patois was remarkably varied. To sight in or zero was to determine, by trial and error, the sight setting necessary to hit a bull's eye with a given weapon. Snap in could mean sighting or aiming an unloaded rifle; it could also mean breaking into, or trying out for, a new job, somewhat like the army's "bucking for." As a noun, secure described an outdated movement in the manual of arms; as a verb, it signified anchoring something in place or ending an activity - thus, when the Battle of Tarawa was won, the island was "secure." Survey was even more flexible. It could mean, not only a medical discharge from the Corps (anyone feigning combat fatigue was snapping in for a survey), but also retirement from the Corps, disposing of worn-out clothing or equipment, or taking a second helping of chow. There was even a word for anything which defied description. It was gizmo.24

A day at Parris Island began in the cold pre-dawn darkness. The DI's whistle and howling voice woke the hapless recruits – the seeming cliché of “Drop your cocks and grab your socks” is firmly rooted in the memories of many Second World War veterans, as is the command of wanting to see only “assholes and heels, and I don't want to see them very long!”25 The boots scrambled out of bed – anyone vainly seeking a few extra minutes of peace would be dumped on the deck by the instructors – and raced to shave, relieve themselves, and dress within the prescribed ten minutes. They were fast-marched to breakfast (twenty minutes), and returned to their barracks where a final ten minutes were allowed for the making of their beds (now called “racks”) and cleaning of their platoon area before the morning roll call. The DIs were constantly watchful, urging the recruits on with a stream of invective that shocked many with its fluency and variety. Then came forty-five minutes of calisthenics, followed by close order drill. Drill took up most of the morning; each instructor seemed to have his own personal enunciation of cadence, which stuck in the minds of their recruits. Gilbert Bailey recorded his instructor's cadence thusly:

Lah flang... HAwH! Step face step. Awn awp reep fope.... fawya laf. What the hell am I counting FOR? Areep... reep.......RIp HAwH! Laf... Laf... Right flang... HAwH. Cover off theah, boy! Reep... Reep... Laf flang, HAwH! RIp-HAwH, RIp-MAwH!... Mark Time...HAwH!26

Lunch was conducted in the same in-and-out manner as breakfast; in the afternoon there would be more physical conditioning, including hand-to-hand combat training, instruction with the bayonet, and lectures on the care and maintenance of their weapon. If extraordinarily fortunate or well-behaved, more senior boots would be allowed to see a film at night; sometimes it was a Hollywood epic, and sometimes it was an instruction on the prevention of venereal disease.

The training emphasized the importance of the rifle above all things. Every Marine,no matter what his specialty, was considered to be a rifleman first and foremost. “I recall looking at my '03 rifle, all covered with cosmoline, and wondering what the hell am I supposed to do with this?” recalled Bronx native Bob Stiles, later a scout/sniper with the First Marines. “I was a city boy; I'd never fired a rifle in my life. Little did I realize I was going to fall in love with that beauty.”27 Like Stiles, George Smith, JJ Franey (at right) and the men of Platoon 849 trained with the Model 1903 Springfield, a .30-06 rifle left over from the First World War. Though renowned for its accuracy and reliability, the M1903 was obsolete by the early 1940s; John Garand's rifle, the now-famous M1, was in production, but most of the available rifles were going to the Army. By the time Jim Craig went through boot camp in 1944, enough Garands were available for issue to the recruits. At any time, he could be called out by his instructor to recite his rifle's serial number and use: “Yes, sir. This is my .30 caliber, gas-operated, clip-fed, air-cooled, semiautomatic M1 rifle, serial number 532989, sir.”28

Though the rifle-range portion of their training – eagerly anticipated by every trainee – was still weeks away, the recruits were indoctrinated from the very beginning to treat their rifle with the utmost respect, to be able to strip and reassemble it blindfold, and never, absolutely never, refer to it as a “gun.” After the DI's welcome speech, the most often recalled moment for many Marines is the first time one hapless shitbird forgot the word “rifle.” With a few individual variations dependent on the instructor, the offending recruit was made to march around a public area, with rifle in one hand and genitals in the other, chanting “This is my rifle, this is my gun, this one's for Japs, this one's for fun” - and vigorously indicating which was which. This was the sort of mistake that was only made once, and recruits learned that “gun” was only to be used when referring to a mortar, artillery piece, or naval cannon.

The punishments meted out by the instructors were sometimes physically damaging, often humiliating, and always effective. They were not limited to additional drill, marching, or extra push-ups. A common punishment for infractions during drill was to stand with the rifle held straight out for up to fifteen minutes – with a rifle weighing between 8.6 (M1903) and 9.5 pounds (Garand), the physical strain was considerable. Jim Craig once dropped his M1. He was ordered to sleep with the rifle; this was uncomfortable when one's rack was barely big enough for oneself, and the sergeant made sure to check in during the night to see that Craig wasn't cheating..29 Bill Mager's assistant DI, “a PRICK with capital letters” once struck Mager with the flat of a sword for failing to recite a passage from the Guidebook for Marines. Ralph Slaughter was wrongly accused of whistling at a female while in formation – to question the DI was to invite all the torments of Hell itself, so he accepted the punishment of running about the parade ground while flapping his arms and shouting “I'm a gooney bird!”30 Boots were invited to wear their wash buckets over their heads, stand at attention in the sand while the infamous Parris Island fleas and mosquitos bit them mercilessly, or lean “nose to toes” at a forty-five degree angle against a convenient wall. For being caught with hands in their pockets, boots would be made to fill their pockets with sand and sew them shut, resulting in raw, abrasive sores. If caught sneaking “pogey-bait” without the proper authorization, one's pockets would be filled with chocolate for two days.31 Being sent for extra details such as kitchen patrol was to be expected, but hapless eight-balls could be expected to pull this duty more often than others.

“I am told that corporal punishment has since been banned on the island, but in my day it was quite common to see a DI bloody a man's nose, and some boots were gravely injured, though I know of none who actually died,” wrote William Manchester.32 He recalled “the worst discipline I ever saw” as occurring during a particularly sadistic exercise. Trainees were paired off, and one would place the butt of his rifle against the other's head. At a given signal, the second recruit would touch the rifle, and try to duck before his comrade could hit him. “Since you knew you were going to reverse roles, the sensible course was to let him get out of the way,” said Manchester. This, however, was contrary to the uncompromising principles of training. “Enter the vengeful noncom. He put a rifle butt against the offender's forehead and slugged him before there was time to dodge. The boot who merely suffered a concussion was lucky.”33

Reporting for the inevitable mess duty, Parris Island, 1942. From left: George Hall, Howard Kerr, Joe Seamer, John Franey, Robert McCabe.

Photo courtesy of George Smith.

Physical conflict could go both ways. Movie star Sterling Hayden told his DI not to touch him; when the provoked instructor did, Hayden stepped out and knocked the man down. (Hayden would become a DI himself, and put future boots through the same paces). Another Marine, Nile Darling, claimed “We were allowed at any time to challenge our two DIs to hand-to-hand combat, with a bayonet or unloaded rifle. Injury to the challenger was usually very severe, which made anyone think twice.”34 Somehow, though, the instructors always seemed to get the last word. William Manchester vividly remembered his “leathery corporal [Coffey] from Georgia” as saying “God gave you the face you were born with, but I'll give you the face you die with.” Coffey once challenged a recruit in his platoon to demonstrate the stripping and nomenclature of the M1 Garand. He was confident that the “college kids” under his control would be stymied. By chance, the recruit he picked had worked as an assistant to John Garand himself, and was able to strip and reassemble the rifle with “blinding speed.” “Coffey turned the color of a song then popular: deep purple,” wrote Manchester.

His loss of face was immense, but being a DI he could strike back in many ways. He quickly chose one. “OK, wisenheimers,” he said in a pebbly voice, balancing the weapon on the palm of his hand. “If he can do it, you all can do it. Fall out here at 0500 with your pieces ready to fieldstrip.”

We were stunned. Our asses were in a sling.... We couldn't even tell the difference between the trigger-housing group and the barrel-and-receiver group.

The platoon sat up all night learning from the offending recruit; by 0450, everyone could at least muddle through the process of field-stripping the Garand. The “cheated and smarting” Coffey rewarded his platoon with “an hour of calisthenics, a second hour of close-order drill, a third hour of lunging, with fixed bayonets, at straw-stuffed dummies; a session of throwing live hand grenades and then rolling out of a fall... another session of instruction in how to use short-bladed Kabar knives... a cruel hundred-yard sprint wearing gas masks, suffering from inadequate oxygen....” Though the recruit who had landed the platoon in the jam lost “a lot of popularity,” the experience taught Manchester's platoon the value of working together.35

In addition to the obvious physical benefits of tough training, the recruits were also learning how to operate as a group and to depend on one another. Banding together against the common adversary of their instructors was one method of learning the most important facet of life in the Marines; the elusive, indefinable ideal of espirit du corps that sets the Marines apart to this day. As hard as their lives were, recruits were learning bit by bit that they could take and stand the abuse, and by taking it and standing it for long enough, they would be among the elite – and they would know that the men next to them had taken the same harsh training, and could be relied upon. A history of the Marines stated:

The Marine Corps has never been deceived by the fiction that modern war is fought exclusively with machines; that technical training alone makes a man a soldier.... This was especially true in the Pacific, where the conditions of combat were primitive and the element of individual resourcefulness and stamina a prime necessity. There were places... places that had to be taken by men, alone and willing to die. It was for this eventuality that the Marine was trained. 36

Famed war correspondent Robert Sherrod, who embedded with the Marines and reported on battles at Tarawa, Saipan, Iwo Jima, and Okinawa, pondered the idea from the perspective of one who was close to the Marines, but was not one himself. “I never knew what caused it,” he said, speaking of the espirit du corps, “unless it was this: From the time he underwent the severe discipline of boot camp, until he died assaulting a Japanese pillbox, the Marine had it drummed into his head: 'You are the best fighting man on earth, and you'd better not do anything to disprove it.'”37 Another Marine, Murl Bright, said “The only thing I can think of that might cause us to do this is that the Marine Corps has a reputation to uphold, and we didn't want to mar that record.”38

Knowing and trusting in the character of the men beside them made a profound impression on the recruits. However, before they could prove themselves in combat, there was the culmination of boot camp – the rifle range. After several weeks of physical training, lectures, abuse, and close order drill, the recruits told to fall in with their seabags packed and rifles ready. They were then marched from their regular barracks to a second facility set up near the firing range. Before being allowed anywhere near live ammunition, recruits spent a week “snapping in” with their rifles – dry-firing from the by-the-book stances of standing, kneeling, and prone. Instructors were always ready to pounce on the slightest mistake – those who knew about firearms from civilian life were forcibly taught “the Marine Corps way,” and woe betide any man who was caught with the muzzle of his rifle pointed anywhere but at the target. Jim Craig's platoon was issued .22 caliber rifles to accustom the men to firing live ammunition; the first time he actually fired his M1 he thought it had exploded.39 Trainees could expect to spend equal time on the firing line (where the instructor's cry of “Ready on the left! Ready on the right! All ready on the firing line! Commence firing!” would burn into their memories) and “working the butts,” or tending to the targets. They would sit in a protected bunker and watch as another recruit fired his rounds, then tally the score. The most humiliating moment was to shoot “Maggie's drawers” - missing the target entirely – and have a red stick raised next to your target for all to see. Each recruit received instruction in the operation and care of his service rifle, the M1911 Colt .45 automatic pistol, the Browning Automatic Rifle, and other infantry weapons.

Record Day was much anticipated by all recruits. After three weeks of “snapping in” and live-fire practice, one shot for a score and a rating as a Marksman, Sharpshooter, or Expert. It was rumored that anyone who failed to qualify as at least a marksman would be doomed to the inglorious assignment of Cooks And Bakers School. The score was out of 330 possible points; those qualifying as sharpshooters would receive a $3 per month pay increase, while those scoring at least 305 – expert – were paid $5 a month more.40 There was also the added incentive of wearing specialized badges. On the eve of Record Day, each recruit hoped and prayed for clear weather and little wind.

William Manchester recorded his pride on the rifle range:

My Parris Island triumph came on the rifle range. On Record Day we fired sixty-six shots, all but ten of them rapid fire, at targets two hundred, three hundred, and five hundred yards away. Each shot was worth a maximum of five points, for a bulls-eye. Riflemen could qualify in three categories: marksman, sharpshooter - and very rare, requiring 305 points out of a possible 330 - expert rifleman. I knew I would do well. My M1 was zeroed to perfection. I had steady hands; I could hold my breath indefinitely, steadying the muzzle; I could fold my right ankle under my buttocks for the kneeling shots; and I had 20/10 vision.... Record Day was clear and windless. I hardly missed anything. My score was 317. A colonel congratulated me and told me 317 was unprecedented.... My world brightened a little.41

Individual bars were also issued for each weapon with which the recruit qualified; they could be earned for pistols, small-bore weapons, automatic rifles, bayonets, and more.

Click here for a video clip of recruits on the Parris Island rifle range in 1943. Notice the different firing positions, swatting away the persistent sand fleas, and - rarest of all - some Drill Instructors clowning around at the end.

Typically, after the heady spell on the range, the platoon would spend a week or so pulling “kitchen patrol” - though the ritual of “walloping pots” was usually detested and reserved for minor disciplinary infractions, in this case, “a tiny bit of salt was beginning to appear” wrote Henry Berry. “Your return from the rifle range meant you had spent seven or eight weeks on Parris Island. You could tell the newcomers to keep moving on the chow line.” Berry also remembered that recruits took pride in the fact that their hair was starting to grow back; this further differentiated them from the fresh faces just starting their training.42

The recruits were finally approaching the day when they would become Marines. Berry wrote “You took your final inspection; almost everyone passed this last test; they wanted to get you off the island at this point.”43 The recruits were called out in formation – the instructors still watching with eagle eyes for the slightest breach in decorum – and were addressed by the camp's commander. They were congratulated on the completion of the course, and, like high school graduates moving their cap tassels, were permitted to affix the coveted globe and anchor emblem to their caps and lapels. For the first time in weeks, they were addressed as men – and for the first time in their lives, they were addressed as Marines. Many looked back on the day of their graduation as the proudest of their lives.

Following graduation, the instructors called their platoons together one final time. In some instances, the recruits took up a collection for their DIs – no matter how hated they were, the new Marines were beginning to understand the importance of the strict training.44 The instructors read out the platoon roster, assigning each man to a specialty. Assignments were based on a process of qualification cards, tests, and personal interviews – those with civilian experience in construction might be sent to an engineering unit, those who could type might be sent to be clerks, and those with electrical training would become radiomen. As always, the Marines were subject to the needs and requirements of the service; sometimes their assignments were given based solely on their names – one rifleman, surnamed Werts, found himself alongside Wade, Wegman, Wenze, Westmoreland, and White.45 Some received promotions to Private First Class – those with a college education or who demonstrated leadership potential, like Jim Craig, were sent as PFCs to Officer Candidate School at Quantico, Virginia. Private First Class Bob Williams stayed on at Parris Island as a drill instructor. Most recruits were called out by name and serial number, and told to report with full individual equipment to the infantry. They were on their way to the Pacific.

MCRD San Diego

[The DI] put his hands on his hips and looked us over contemptuously. "You people are stupid," he bellowed. From then on he tried to prove it every moment of every day. "My name is Corporal Doherty, I'm your drill instructor. This is Platoon 984. If any of you idiots think you don't need to follow my orders, just step right out here and I'll beat your ass right now. Your soul may belong to Jesus, but your ass belongs to the Marines. You people are recruits. You're not Marines. You may not have what it takes to be Marines."

No one dared move, hardly even to breathe. We were all humbled, because there was no doubt the DI meant exactly what he said.46

Despite its creation only four years after Parris Island, the Marine Corps Recruit Depot, San Diego, seems to play second fiddle to its more famous counterpart in South Carolina. To this day, the San Diego facility is commonly referred to as “M-Crud.” No female recruits are trained there, and despite the traditional divide of the Mississippi River, potential recruits from the western United States are allowed to request to train at Parris Island. It is unclear if the same option for transfer is available to those assigned to Parris Island; in a military culture that requires the rejection of individual choice, the very fact that one is allowed to opt out of MCRD would seem to be a snub.47 During the World War Two years, Marines training at Parris Island were fond of deriding their comrades training in California as “Hollywood Marines,” envisioning weekend liberties spent rubbing elbows with Marlene Dietrich and Ingrid Bergman, while Tommy Dorsey played them to sleep each night. In reality, the training received by boots at MCRD was every bit as challenging and thorough as that at Parris Island. When Philip Wood complained that “half the outfit... is still somewhat of an unknown quantity,”48 he was playing into the stereotype of the glory-seeking Hollywood Marine; he would later find in combat that those same men he had derided served just as well as those from Parris Island.

Perhaps the most well-known graduate of MCRD is Eugene B. “Sledgehammer” Sledge, author of With The Old Breed. Sledge, who signed up for the Corps' V-12 officer training program at the urging of his parents and his Citadel-educated brother, soon became disillusioned with life on the Georgia Tech campus. He wasn't alone. “At the end of the first semester, ninety of us – half the detachment – flunked out of school so we could go into the Corps as enlisted men.”49 After receiving a pep talk from the captain in charge of their class – they were designated the “best men and best Marines in the detachment” by the Guadalcanal veteran – Sledge and his comrades boarded a train for the long cross-country trip.50

Orvel Johnson, a Minnesotan, enlisted in October, 1942. He had until early November to report for transport to MCRD; he spent that time visiting with relatives. One of his final acts before heading to boot camp was to visit his grandfather:

...he was living alone in the little town of Cyrus, Minnesota. The bus stopped at the general store which was a half block from the corner where grandpa's white 2 story house stood. He was at the general store to meet me as I got off the bus and we went to the cafe next door where he introduced me to the proprietor and a couple of his retired farmer friends. I remember we had a hamburger with onions, apple pie and a cup of coffee before crossing the street and walking the half block to his house.

We didn't do anything special, just talked about things that happened during the summers my mother, brother and I had spent with him and grandma on the farm. Sunday the cafe was closed so we didn't get back to the cafe until Monday morning and had a little to eat while waiting for my bus to arrive. He didn't cook, neither did I, so on Sunday we had his favorite meal - milk and sugar over broken slices of bread. I still enjoy bread and milk this way once in a while.51

Johnson also recalled the group he traveled with: seventeen other recruits from the Dakotas and Minnesota, the majority Native American. They were sworn in during a perfunctory ceremony, one was designated as the leader, and they were placed aboard a train that would take them from Minneapolis to Omaha, then Texas, and finally San Diego. The trip took three and a half days; boredom was the prevalent emotion, and they lost two from their group on an ill-advised search for liquor – the train pulled out before the unfortunate inductees could return from town. Johnson never learned what happened to them.52

Sledge and Johnson had similar experiences when alighting in San Diego. They were met at the train station by impressive looking senior sergeants, who took roll call – there was some anxiety with Johnson's group about the two missing men – and assigned to buses that would take them to the base. For Sledge, the torment began right away. His platoon, numbered 984, was addressed by one Corporal Doherty, who told them in no uncertain terms that they were no longer men, but recruits. Sledge described the man who held their fate in his hands:

Corporal Doherty wasn't a large man by any standard. He stood about five feet ten inches, probably weighed around 160 pounds, and was muscular with a protruding chest and flat stomach. He had thin lips, a ruddy complexion, and was probably as Irish as his name. From his accent I judged him to be a New Englander, maybe from Boston. His eyes were the coldest, meanest green I ever saw. He glared at us like a wolf whose first and foremost desire was to tear us limb from limb. He gave me the impression that the only reason he didn't do so was that the Marine Corps wanted to use us for cannon fodder to absorb Japanese bullets and shrapnel so genuine Marines could be spared to capture Japanese positions.... He shouted in an icy, menacing manner that sent cold chills through us. We believed that if he didn't scare us to death, the Japs couldn't kill us. He was always immaculate, and his uniform fitted him as if the finest tailor had made it for him. His posture was erect and his bearing reflected a military precision.... One fact emerged immediately with stark clarity: this man would be the master of our fates in the weeks to come.53

Orvel Johnson was luckier; his train arrived late at night and the new men were posted to the Receiving Barracks, told where the facilities were, and given fifteen minutes until lights out. “Sleep came quickly,” wrote Johnson, but soon enough the work would begin.

Our comfort was short lived, maybe 4 hours when we needed 20. Suddenly the lights were back on and a shrill whistle announcing reveille shook the walls. A graveled voice barked for us to "Drop your - - - and to grab our socks, get up and at 'em, pull those sheets off the bunk and fold them like they were when you got them last night. Roll the mattress like it was when you arrived, place the folded sheet on the end of your bunk. Today is going to be a busy day, so don't dally. Get yourselves washed up. Leave your suitcases on your bunk and fall out in 5 minutes, and line up in a column of twos."

It was still dark outside as we were urged to run toward the mess hall. There we were required to stand in formation and wait our turn.. In the semi light of the early morning we heard for first time the greeting, "You'll be sorry!" Naturally we adopted the greeting and used it ourselves on every appropriate occasion while in Boot Camp.54

The basic structure of training followed the prescribed Marine Corps pattern: intense and thorough physical training, while simultaneously suffering through the breaking down of individual personality. Recruits turned in their civilian articles to the quartermanster, were poked and prodded by corpsmen, shorn of their civilian hair, issued gear (Johnson, who wore a size 7.5 shoe, was issued a size 9; he was told that, in time, he would realize that this was his correct size), fed victuals that were more plentiful than nutritious, and harassed at every turn by their instructors. Bernard Elissagaray, of Recruit Platoon 932, was instructed by Platoon Sergeant A. L. Pinegar; though small in stature, Pinegar (along with PFCs Neiweem and Bradford) commanded total respect from more than seventy men – and would wash out nearly twenty of them. Those that would endure learned that “a difficult job was one that a Marine would perform immediately, and that an impossible job would take a Marine a little longer.”55

Recruit Platoon 932 after graduating. The instructors are seated at the center of the front row. Elissagaray has labeled himself "Me" in the second row.

Photo from the collection of the webmaster.

There was the eternal emphasis on discipline; Sledge's Corporal Doherty would drill his platoon in deep sand and punish anyone who fell out with double-timing them through the same sand, before chewing him out in front of the entire platoon. Sledge, like the rest of his group, “preferred the pain to the remedy.”56 Their typical day began at 0400 and ended at 2200; the intervening hours were filled with activity, and the sleeping hours were tainted by the knowledge that the DI could demand an inspection, drill session, or conditioning run around the parade ground at any time he saw fit. Though at the time he felt this routine sadistic and cruel, Sledge would later credit his ability to awaken and perform his duties immediately in combat to this portion of his training regimen.57 Other DIs would punish the entire platoon for one man's infraction; one Sergeant Pratt of Recruit Platoon 646 was fond of running his boots around the parade ground with their weapons above their heads until he was satisfied. Platoon 646 also suffered through several instances of “holy-stoning” the deck – each boot would run to the beach, fill his galvanized bucket with sand, dump it on the deck, then return with a bucket of salt water. The boots would be tasked with scrubbing the deck and, of course, removing all traces of sand and salt water when they were done. It was, thought James Doyle of Milwaukee, “a pain in the ass!”58

Sledge also recalled an unexpected benefit of some early morning training. His platoon would run through the fog in the dark (fog was a perpetual curse of life at MCRD) for morning calisthenics. While a gramophone played “Three O'Clock In The Morning,” Sledge and company would perform jumping jacks, sit ups, push ups, and more while cursing their overenthusiastic instructor. DIs maneuvered through the ranks to make sure no one slacked off – the future Marines developed “superkeen hearing from listening for the DIs as we skipped a beat or two for a moment of rest in the inky darkness,” which would serve them well when listening for Japanese infiltrators.59

John Barry, a recruit from Illinois, described a training exercise that came close to being enjoyable. The six squads of his platoon were divided up; two squads dug shallow trenches in the sand and defended against their comrades in “a modern game of cowboys and Indians.” The defenders dry-fired their rifles until the attackers drew too close, then rushed out to meet them with covered bayonets. “We won!!... We had sun, wind, and sand in our faces... my lips are getting pretty messed up, but it's fun out there, working with other coming Marines.”65

Like Parris Island, boots at MCRD San Diego looked forward to their time on the rifle range. Sledge recalled firing at targets at distances from 100 to 300, and 500 yards – the maximum effective range of the M1 was considered to be 600 yards.66 He commented on the discipline of the firing line:

One man next to me turned around slightly to speak to a buddy after “cease firing” was given; the action caused his rifle muzzle to angle away from the targets. The sharp-eyed captain in charge of the range rushed up from behind and booted the man in the rear so hard that he fell flat on his face. The captain then jerked him up off the deck and bawled him out loudly and thoroughly. We got the message.67

Leon Uris recorded the daily course schedule:

Five Hundred Yards: Ten rounds slow fire, prone.

Three Hundred Yards: Ten rounds rapid fire, prone. Five rounds slow fire, kneeling. Five rounds slow fire, sitting.

Two Hundred Yards: Ten rounds rapid fire, sitting. Ten rounds rapid fire, offhand.68

Qualification Day (called Record Day by Parris Island Marines) was awaited with anticipation. In contrast to the Parris Island system, the San Diego course was scored out of a possible two hundred and fifty points - Uris wrote that a marksman scored 190, a sharpshooter 215, and an expert required a minimum of 225.69 Seventeen year old Elissagaray was rated a Marksman on the second anniversary of the attack on Pearl Harbor, while nineteen year old Sledge shot only two points short of Expert. The boots were feeling salty and the end was in sight; though the instructors were as hard on them as ever, Sledge heard one of his assistant DIs mutter that his platoon “might become Marines after all.”70

And become Marines they did. Sledge remembered his graduation ceremony in great detail:

Finally, late in the afternoon of 24 December 1943, we fell in without rifles and cartridge belts. Dressed in service greens, each man received three bronze Marine Corps globe-and-anchor emblems, which we put into our pockets. We marched into an amphitheater where we sat with several other platoons.

This was our graduation from boot camp. A short, affable-looking major standing on stage said, “Men, you have successfully completed your recruit training and are now United States Marines. Put on your Marine Corps emblems and wear them with pride. You have a great and proud tradition to uphold. You are members of the world's finest fighting outfit, so be worthy of it.” We took out our emblems and put one on each lapel of our green wool coats and one on the left side of the overseas caps. The major told several dirty jokes. Everyone laughed and whistled. Then he said, “Good luck, men.” That was the first time we had been addressed as men during our entire time in boot camp.71

The fledgling Marines were given their assignments – Sledge commented that many friendships ended right there as each name was called and Marines moved forward, to whispered remarks of “So long, see you, take it easy.” Those designated as specialists turned in their treasured rifles, bayonets, and cartridge belts; most were labelled infantry and sent to Camp Pendleton (Johnson and Elissagaray) or Camp Elliott (Sledge) for additional training. The last thing most Marines saw at MCRD was eerily similar to their first vision of the place:

After all assignments had been made, the trucks rolled out, and I looked at Doherty watching us leave. I disliked him, but I respected him. He had made us Marines, and I wondered what he thought as we rolled by.72

NOTES AND CITATIONS

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