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Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781426969836 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Trafford Publishing |
| Publication date: | 05/24/2011 |
| Pages: | 128 |
| Product dimensions: | 5.00(w) x 8.00(h) x 0.30(d) |
Read an Excerpt
Yohouse from a Boot to a China Marine
By Norman G. Albert
Trafford Publishing
Copyright © 2011 Norman G. AlbertAll right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4269-6983-6
Chapter One
PARIS ISLAND, 1945
Arriving inside the base, we were met by a Marine in a sharp khaki uniform who told us to A Fall in and stand at attention. I had left my handbag with my personal items on the ground away from the line when Master Gunnery Sergeant, Lou Diamond, yelled: Whose bag is this on the ground? I stepped out of line to retrieve my bag and that is when my chest met the fist of Lou Diamond and I landed on my rear-end. I learned very fast that you do not step out of line, especially when you are at attention as I was not so gently told by Sergeant Diamond. I was later told that he was a Medal of Honor recipient as a result of his firing a mortar shell down the chimney of an enemy ship.
We were marched to the barber shop where we stood in line to have all our hair cut off. We were a sorry looking bunch of "skin heads." We were then led to the Infirmary were we received our shots (in both arms) which hurt for almost a week, then we were led to a warehouse were we were issued our green uniforms, boots, socks, skivies (green underwear not white like the Navy.) A pail and a bar of soap No Blues were issued during World War 2 We were then marched (marched?) to a building which would be our quarters for our duration at Paris Island. We were billeted on the second floor and I was assigned a top bunk that had sheets and blankets on the bunk and a wooden locker to hold our clothes and personal gear. We were instructed on how to "make-up" our bunks and the blanket was to be so taut that you could bounce a quarter off of it. We could not sit on our bunk–it had to remain in that order throughout the day. Outside of our barracks, there were sinks with faucets and we were told that this was where we were to wash our clothes (no laundry service).
We were then marched (if you can call it that) to our evening meal and told to return directly to our barracks and rest because tomorrow we were to experience our wish to be Marines. We were assigned Platoon #76 and we heard the words: "Platoon #76" loud and clear many times.
We went to sleep that evening wondering what tomorrow was to bring. It didn't take long–about 4:00 a.m., we heard these words: "Platoon 76, you have &frac; hour to prepare yourselves in your fatigues and be ready to "fall in" outside when I call." We all raced around, using the head and getting cleaned up and dressed awaiting that call. It wasn't long before it came: "Platoon 76, fall out on the double."
We raced down the stairs and assembled in front of the Drill Instructor who was a sharp looking non-com in a khaki uniform with pleats in his shirt and trousers and identified himself as our Drill Instructor and said that we were the lousiest looking bunch of "skin heads" he ever saw and wondered if he could do anything with this bunch to make us Marines. He then told us that he "owned" us for the next eight weeks and then ordered "Arms, length and Ten-hut!" Right face, forward march, with orders to keep in step to the parade grounds where we began a daily morning regimen of calisthenics.
With the Sergeant yelling at us for being so "out of shape". We were then marched back to our barracks to get cleaned up and wait for the next call of: "Platoon 76, fall in." We were then marched to breakfast and told to return to our barracks to await our next call.
When we were issued our uniforms, we were not given Marine Corps emblems and reminded often that we were just "Boots" and not worthy to wear that emblem because people would mistake us for Marines
We had to answer Sir to anyone who wore that emblem regardless of rank. We practiced Close order drill until it came out of our yin yang. If anyone really screwed up, they issued punishment when we returned to our compound. That person was to go and retrieve his pail and, in front of the Platoon, place it over his head and answer the Drill Instructor's questions with Yes, Sir or No, Sir and the usual Drill Instructor's comment. I can't hear you. and he would have to yell louder inside of that pail. This was our usual daily routine for a time until we mastered the Close Order Drill.
On one occasion, during our Close Order Drill, the Drill Instructor did not feel very well and ordered: "Albert, take over the platoon." I said: "Yes, Sir." I then ordered the Platoon to attention and then I yelled: "Dismissed." They dispersed immediately and I thought the Drill Instructor was going to do me harm but I suffered no ill effects from that situation at the time.
If one of us messed up-such as not having our cot made to specification-we were directed to the bathroom and issued a toothbrush with which to scrub the tile floor.
On one occasion, the Drill Instructor asked for two volunteers to "Ride the range." It seemed like a challenging exercise, as it was my custom during my civilian life to challenge most events and escape the pounding of "close order drill." I was stupid enough to volunteer. "Riding the range" involved sanding the top of a hot black stove, while it was still on, with a piece of wood and a sheet of sandpaper. I learned my lesson and never volunteered again during my tour of duty in the Marine Corps no matter how great the situation appeared to be.
On another occasion, we marched to a building, were issued a gas mask and were told how to put it on but to not put it on until we were ordered to do so. We entered the building and gas was inserted inside so we would be able to detect a gas attack if the enemy ever used it on us. Needless to say there were many teary eyes until we were told to put on the gas masks.
After what seemed to be a long time, we were marched to a building and issued our M-1 Garand 30 caliber semi-automatic rifle inside a plastic bag which was full of cosmoline (a protective grease) and a cleaning kit and were told that when we returned to our barracks to clean our rifles and keep them clean. Each of us was recorded with a serial number on that rifle. After cleaning those rifles we were ordered to fall in with them. The Drill Instructor inspected each rifle, looking down the bore and, if a speck of dust was spotted, it was hell to pay. He told us that this piece was our best friend and protector. If anyone dropped his rifle on the ground, he was read the riot act and told to sleep with that rifle in his bed for a week. Our bunks were not very wide and it was very difficult for someone to try to sleep with that rifle in bed with him. Inspections of our rifles were done on a daily basis during our time at Paris Island. One of the men referred to his rifle as his gun. And the Drill Instructor ordered him to parade in front of the platoon shouting: This is my rifle, and this is my gun. I'm sure all of you Marines know exactly what he was doing. No one ever referred to his rifle as his gun after that. We then had to master the close order drill with our rifles from port arms to left shoulder arms, etc., with our hand slapping against the strap while marching and keeping the rhythm of these movements with the marching of our feet and, of course, all in unison.
We learned the nomenclature (every piece of our rifle, to a point where we were blindfolded, disassembled our rifles and reassembled them until we mastered the procedure).
The long awaited time came to go to the rifle range where we would finally be able to fire our rifles. When we arrived, we were taught how to fire from all three positions: standing, sitting and prone, with the rifle strapped around our left arm. Adjusting the sites for elevation and windage, and how to fire the rifle, called "dry firing" and the constant order: "Squeeze the trigger, don't jerk." The next day we were issued "live" ammunition and took our turn, in a prone position, on how to insert our eight-clip into the bolt opening without the operating rod also closing in on our thumb and firing at a target. With a "bullseye" in the middle and the usual instruction of "squeeze the trigger". After firing our eight rounds, we would then get up and were instructed never to point that rifle anywhere except where we would fire it until we were sure it was not loaded.
The order was then to "fall-in" and clear our piece to be sure there was no live ammunition in them. At port arms, we were told to pull back the lever and pull the trigger to hear a "click". Unfortunately, one of the men had not fired all of his rounds and when he pulled the trigger "POW".
This person was at least 6 feet tall, with a shorter man to his left. The bullet sailed over his head and you can imagine the verbal onslaught by the Drill Instructor to this person. I don't know what the punishment for this person was, but none of us wanted to be in his shoes.
We all took turns in the pit below the targets, lifting and lowering the target and placing a patch over the hole that the bullet had made. And, lifting the target, and placing a round piece at the top of a pole to indicate where the shooter had hit the target. I passed as a sharp-shooter and was issued a Maltese cross-shaped sharp shooter's badge.
The M-1 Garand Rifle was a semi-automatic, gas-operated rifle that weighted 9.5 pounds and had a clip of 8 rounds. It would fire as fast as you could pull the trigger. When the 8 rounds were fired, the clip would eject and a new 8-clip was inserted.
We finally finished our eight weeks of grueling training and found ourselves in pretty good shape physically. We all realized the importance of our close order drill and manual of arms because we had to learn to follow orders without hesitation. During a battle with the enemy, we would not question orders from our superiors when they were given. If one person did not respond immediately, it could mean the life of another Marine.
The last day of training, we were issued our Marine Corps emblems to be able to put them on our uniforms–which meant we were finally Marines. This was the night before our Graduation Parade before the officers of Paris Island and were told that we could go anywhere on the Base–such as the PX. Except the slop-shute (where beer was being served) and the W.R. area (Women Reserves). Apparently, some of us, feeling pretty good at this point, went to both areas. (It was a challenge.) Upon returning that evening, we were introduced to a "Sack Drill" for disobeying orders. Fully dressed in our green uniform, including our overcoat, and stood at attention near our sack (If you remember, I was issued the top sack.) and when he shouted "In" we would climb into our sack and cover ourselves with the blankets. He then shouted: "Out" and we would jump back out at attention near our sack. He would repeat those instructions of "in" and "out" until we were ready to drop from exhaustion.
We fell asleep that night with the knowledge that we were finally "Marines". The next day, we passed in review, looking very sharp.
Our next assignment was to be transferred to Camp LeJeune, North Carolina, for advanced training. Upon arriving, we were assigned to a Quonset Hut with all single bunks. We continued close order drills and calisthenics to keep us in shape. We were also issued a tobacco rationing card for cigarettes.
We continued to fire our rifles, including firing grenades. We learned how to throw grenades from a bunker. The instructions were: "Pull the pin, hold for about 4 seconds, prepare to throw–THROW!"
One time, as one of the men threw the grenade, it slipped from his hand and it landed not too far from the bunker. The order was: "Hit the deck!" And we heard it explode. This man was made to throw grenades which were not live to be sure he mastered how to throw a grenade. We fired carbines, 45 handguns, and 30 caliber machine guns. And with a rope, we swung over water (about 3 feet deep) and some would lose their grip of the rope and land in the water. We drilled with our bayonets attached to our rifles and practiced thrusting our bayonets into a bale of hay with the proper footsteps. We then learned how to avoid being "bayoneted" by the enemy when we were without a weapon. Our bayonets were scabbard and, as the person came toward us, we would slap the bayonet to the side with our left hand and then, hitting down on it with our right hand, driving the weapon with the bayonet to the ground.
While on bivouac, we were kept busy on work details such as policing the area or digging a latrine trench. We camped out with our "pup-tent," learning the buddy system on how to assemble it. My half of the pup-tent was connected to my buddy and we were told to set the tents up in this area.
My buddy and I spotted a high ground and pitched our tent there. We then dug a trench around the tent to divert the water in case it rained. Some pitched their tents in a nice grassy area and suffered the consequences when rain did come that night and we were able to stay dry. We were happy to have our ponchos and our rain hats as we went to chow which was set up under a large tent. Our cup was fitted under our canteen and we would use it for heating water or to hold the coffee served at chow. During some of these maneuvers, we had a small shovel attached to our backpack and used it to dig fox holes, not always in soft sand. We hiked in the rain with our rifles slung upside-down on our left shoulder beneath the poncho. When the weather cleared, it was the utmost necessity to clean our rifles so they would be ready to fire. At times, during our bivouac, we were issued only C or K rations. On one weekend, I had a 24-hour pass and went to the beach. I remained in the sun too long and ended up with a real bad sunburn. As a Marine, you were government property and did not report a sunburn because that made you a damaged government property. Unfortunately, the next morning we were scheduled for a 20-mile hike with full field pack and our rifle. I was glad I was not assigned a B.A.R. (Browning Automatic Rifle).weighing 18.5 lbs that held a clip of twenty rounds. I never hurt so much but I said I'm a Marine and I can see this through as painful as it was.
The next day we were brought to a theater and shown films of Japanese atrocities committed on our captured servicemen, torturing and on one film the beheading of a captured Airman. These films were to harden our minds against the Japanese soldiers when we went into battle. We were also told that the Japanese soldiers would not surrender and they would fight until the last man and it was an honor to die for the Emperor. At this point I felt that I was properly trained for combat. We would spend liberty in Washington D.C. and if we missed the last train back to the base which was about 11:00 o'clock we would stand at the corner of Pensylvania Ave. and 14th street where some non-com with an automobile would stop there and pick up any stragglers and drive us back to the base for a donation to pay for the gas of course.
Upon completion of our advanced training, we awaited orders to be deployed and a list was posted and I looked forward to be sent to Camp Pendleton as a jumping-off point to the Pacific. However, my name was not on that list but on another list to be transferred to Quantico, Virginia, for some sort of duty. I didn't join the Marine Corps for additional state-side duty, but there was nothing I could do except follow orders and be transferred there. Arriving at Quantico, I was issued "KP" duty–what a waste of my training!
One day, we were slicing cantaloupes and I reached over to grab one when the man across the table from me also reached for one at the same time but holding his knife in his hand. He stabbed me between two of my fingers. I was told to report to "sick-bay" and have a few stitches taken. (Should I have been given the Purple Heart? No! It was not combat related.) I was given 48 hours off and told not to report for KP and wait for my next assignment.
We were billeted at the rear of the Base and could not go to the main area unless we were dressed in full uniform. Our assignment was to be the "enemy" for the men at the Officers' Training School to learn how to attack the enemy. Of course, we would always lose ... because we WERE the enemy. Again, my stubbornness came into play and I convinced the rest of us to finally win an encounter. The officers who were training came charging at us and we responded by being the victor. I threw one of them over my shoulder and pointed my empty gun at him–at which time he responded: "You're not supposed to do that!" I replied: "Is that what you will tell the enemy?" We were instructed to not do that any more–but I felt good. It may have been a Awake-up call" for them to always expect the unexpected.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Yohouse from a Boot to a China Marine by Norman G. Albert Copyright © 2011 by Norman G. Albert. Excerpted by permission of Trafford Publishing. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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