Chapter One
Boot Camp
"I do solemnly swear to uphold and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies whosoever. . ." So began my 20-year odyssey, at the USMC Recruiting office in Atlanta, Georgia. on 9 Nov. 1943. The first sergeant asked the captain if he was going to keep us over for a couple of days to go to the Marine Corps' 168th Anniversary Ball the next night. "Not 'till they've earned it," the captain replied.
We left Atlanta on the L&N train for New Orleans to connect with Southern Pacific to San Diego. We found out we had an 11-hour layover in New Orleans, but being new to the service and in wartime, we hung around the station playing pinball machines and making ourselves obnoxious.
Between New Orleans and San Diego, the Southern Pacific railroad took a dip down into Mexico and one of our recruits bought some cigarettes through the train's window while we were stopped. When we crossed the border into the U.S. again, there were three FBI men who confiscated them and questioned the man for about an hour.
Four days after leaving Atlanta we arrived at San Diego (we soon learned to call it "Dago"). We were met by a corporal — and civilization as we'd known it disappeared. For the next seven weeks we moved at double-time, except when at close-order drill. The first morning we got our heads shaved, stripped naked, put everything we brought with us in a cardboard box (including the clothes we'd been wearing), and addressed the box to our homes. All we had left was exactly what we'd brought into the world — nothing.
We were herded down a long hall and around a corner to a counter where a sergeant and a corporal waited with stacks of clothing already stacked up; a complete issue. The sergeant said, "I hear the Marines are taking women. I sure would love to look up one day and see just a ball of fur instead of balls and pricks."
The sergeant would call out a size as each of us came to the counter. The corporal would then grab a stack of clothes and shove it at us. There were 75 of us in the platoon and we all were given a complete clothing issue (except shoes) in 15 minutes.
The next counter was where we were issued shoes. We had to step on a shoe- sizer and a Pfc. handed us two 10-quart buckets of sand. This flattened out our feet so he could get sizes both for length and width. My shoes never hurt my feet after getting the size in this manner.
After being issued clothing, we were taken to our barracks — Quonset huts with wood floors — which we had to holystone [soft sandstone] before we moved in, and at least once daily thereafter.
Our drill instructor had us fall out after we got our clothing put away (in sea bags as we had no foot or wall lockers). The man who was in charge of our detail from Atlanta to Dago was older (about 24) than the rest of us. His name was Vernon C. Mishoe (pronounced "miss-you"), and he hailed from Waycross, GA. The drill instructor stopped in front of him and barked, "What's your name?"
"Mishoe, sir" was the reply.
"I don't give a damn if you miss me or not," the drill
instructor barked.
"Sir, my name is Mishoe."
"Where are you from Mishoe?"
"Georgia, sir."
"Where in Georgia?"
"Waycross, Georgia, sir."
"Just how damn far across Georgia?"
Needless to say, Mishoe was on the DI's shit-list after that.
Each day we had to wash one set of utilities (shirt and trousers), one pair of socks, and a set of skivvies (underwear). We would fall in and hold up a pair of skivvies for inspection. Invariably someone failed get the "skid marks" out of the seat of his skivvies. The drill instructor would ask, "What's this?" The answers ran the gamut from shoe polish to ear wax. The drill instructor would then grab the skivvies and grind them in the sand with his foot. One time the drill instructor asked Private Janeolowicz this and he replied (barked very loudly) "It is shit, sir." The drill instructor coughed, snickered and walked away.
We were the envy of every other recruit at San Diego. Boots were normally issued along with Frank-Buck-type pith helmets. When we went to draw ours, they were temporarily out of them. Instead, we were issued "Smokie Bear" campaign hats. These were issued to all Marines before the war, but they stopped when so many men (500,000) came into the Corps. I kept mine for 20 years and only during our last move home lost it.
We graduated the second week in January 1944. I was supposed to go to infantry training, but when we got to Camp Elliott (CA), there were
200 or so of us in a bunch when a flamboyant major drove up.
"I'll take these men for tank training, " he said.
When told that we were assigned to infantry, he pulled out his
.45 pistol, fired a shot in the air, and told us to get our asses
aboard the cattle-car trucks to go to Jacque's Farm tank school.
This was my introduction to Major Beale. He loved to pull his pistol and point it at new second lieutenants, who were scared shitless of him.
This didn't work too well when Second Lieutenant Splain,
who had just returned from the Bougainville Operation with
a battlefield commission. Lt. Splain reported in to Major Beale
(tank school's executive officer), who pulled his pistol and pointed it at Splain. Instead of finishing reporting in, Lt. Splain did an about-face and
walked out. Five minutes later he was back with a .357 Magnum
strapped on with its holster tied down.
"Now, Major, draw your hog-leg. Where I've been when we pull our weapon, we use it." Beale never tried to bullshit Splain again.
James Stockton
career U.S. Marine,
veteran of Iwo Jima
and the Frozen Chosin
