It Was Our World War Too

Boot Camp

How those in charge who were also recruits ever got us all to California in one group I’ll never know. We arrived in the middle of the day. Soon after we got off the train we had roll call. We were all there.

Then a Navy bus, painted battleship gray, appeared. We loaded up for the short ride to the Marine base, where we were again subjected to a roll call and all our papers were turned over to a Marine officer.

Here is where I lost my second and last colorful civilian shirt. This was a favorite of mine, full of oranges and green leaves.

One of the Marines in charge of us at the time thought it was pretty wild and assured me that I would not have any more use for it. He accepted it from me as I stood there in my T-shirt.

I remember him holding it at arm’s length as he showed it off. I think the arm’s length was due in part to my having worn it for too many days on the train.

The rest of our civilian clothes were to be disposed of by the Marine Corps unless we wanted to send them home. I left mine. However, there were times later that I wondered why I didn’t keep the colorful shirts for Anita.

Marching along the roadway were platoon after platoon of Marines in various stages of basic training, offering a familiar bit of information and advice. They chanted, “You’ll be sorry.”

We learned that chant quickly and gave the same advice to new arrivals as we passed them in the weeks to come. Boot camp would be tough, but I was never sorry.

We were immediately assigned a serial number and told to remember it forever. I still remember mine: 849139.

According to the rules for conducting wars, one is only required to give their name, rank, and serial number if captured by the enemy. My number, 849139, meant that I was the 49,139th Marine in the New Corps. The 8 designated that I was only in for the duration of the war. Those that signed up for a regular four-year hitch had a serial number that started with the number 3. They were salty Marines, and we were just Marines.

Our serial number was stamped on our dog tags along with our name, blood type, and preferred religious affiliation. These tags were given to you to wear, never to be taken off until someone cut one of them off. This one was made part of your record; the other remained with the body.

As was the case with all active-duty servicemen, I was able to mail all my letters without a stamp, just by including my address and the word “Free” in the corner that was usually stamped. If I wanted to use airmail or special delivery, a stamp had to be purchased.

The address put on my letters was Pvt. Thomas Kolesa, Platoon 366, Recruit Depot, Marine Corps Base, San Diego, California.

Those of us who took our training in San Diego were referred to by Parris Island Marines as Hollywood Marines. This title was accepted good-naturedly, as it was given because of the proximity of the base to Hollywood, California. More importantly, if anyone needed photos of Marines, thousands were here.

The relatively small, one-half-square-mile Recruit Depot is located in the urban confines of San Diego, California, as it was years ago. The base itself is located on Nimitz Highway and faces San Diego Bay. I was certainly impressed with the facility.

The city, the airports, and other military installations surround the base, which is about twelve miles from the Mexican border.

Marines first saw the region in 1846 when a detachment landed in the area and planted the 29-star United States flag. In 1914 Col. Joseph H. Pendleton established a Marine barracks there. In the early 1920s permanent buildings were built in the Spanish Colonial style and a large parade ground was developed. The buildings endured and still stand. Prior to 1923 recruits were trained at several locations along the coast. At that time it was decided to consolidate all such training of recruits west of the Mississippi at the San Diego location.

When I arrived in May of 1943, the base was precision-tuned to take raw recruits and turn them into Marines in eight weeks.

We were issued a sea bag to keep our clothes in. The bag stood three feet high when it was full. It was always full. We were told that after boot camp, if we were lucky enough to get an assignment at a specialty base, we would be issued a footlocker. But for now, it was the sea bag. Our name and serial number were stamped on it.

We also had to mark all of our clothing.

Our name was everywhere. That made it easy for the drill instructors and any other officers to identify us.

Hair was cut to the scalp shortly after arrival. Physical, mental, and academic testing was done. Dignity was stripped instantly.

Our fatigues and underclothes were issued by a supply Marine who judged your size as you walked up to him. Shoes and dress clothes were issued in the size you requested, if available.

We were not Marines at this point. We were civilian clowns, the dregs of the country.

In addition to being dehumanizing, training was pretty harsh and rigid. Its sole purpose was to wipe out everything we believed about ourselves and reconstruct us physically and emotionally. We learned to follow orders. There was nothing else to learn.

We didn’t know it then, but the timetable for recapturing the Philippines had been set and plans were in outline form for the invasion of Japan.

These included taking many islands in between, including Iwo Jima and either Formosa or Okinawa, prior to taking the Japanese mainland. The push was on for as many trained Marines as fast as they could be trained.

Of the 75 men that made up Platoon 366, twelve washed out in the eight weeks of training. We were told this was not unusual and it was the way it had to be. It was necessary, during combat, that the Marine on your left and the one on your right be as good as you, or better.

We were too important to have our lives depend on someone who couldn’t even make it through basic. Ninety-nine out of a hundred wasn’t good enough.

It had to be 100%. As Platoon 366 grew smaller, we were convinced that it was better to find out on the San Diego parade ground who could take it than in a foxhole while under attack.

We had one recruit collapse during basic. He was a young, healthy-looking Marine. He was immediately carried away by two other Marines that were probably on standby duty. He returned for one day. We never saw him again.

Every recruit is trained to be an infantryman; therefore he was issued a rifle and a bayonet. There are no “guns” in the Marine infantry. It is a rifle or a weapon. Calling it a gun got you in big trouble.

The rifle issued to each recruit was the Garand Mark 1, more affectionately known as the M-1.

It was issued to become a living part of us. There were endless practice sessions where we took it apart, put it back together, sometimes blindfolded.

That wasn’t as hard as you might imagine. It was designed to be done by touch if necessary.

This was done working against time but never compromising accuracy. When it was put together it had to fire.

All M-1 rifles had a serial number stamped on them. We were required to remember our rifle number as well as our serial number.

Mine was easy. It was 849439, exactly 300 digits more than my serial number.

This M-1 Garand rifle was the weapon of choice of the Marine Corps infantry during World War II. Canadian-American John C. Garand was the inventor.

It provided Marines with a considerable advantage over the Japanese infantryman. This .30-caliber semiautomatic rifle was reliable, easy to maintain, and accurate, with exceptional firepower.

When first issued it felt like it weighed twenty pounds. By the time you finished boot camp you guessed it weighed about half that, which it actually did. When push came to shove it didn’t weigh anything. It was part of you.

As part of Platoon 366’s basic training, Cpl. Tuttle required us to learn the Marine’s Rifle Creed. It read, in part, “This is my rifle. There are many like it, but this one is mine. My rifle is my best friend. It is my life.”

Learning it was not mandatory; it was just suggested. That meant it was mandatory. All platoons didn’t require it; Cpl. Tuttle did.

We also learned the Marines’ Hymn. We sang it often to keep our spirits up and to remind us why we were in the Marine Corps.

There are three official verses and many unofficial ones. Many of the unofficial verses would be rated R.

The first and most often sung official verse goes like this:

From the Halls of Montezuma to the shores of Tripoli,
we fight our country’s battles in the air, on land, and sea.
First to fight for right and freedom and to keep our honor clean,
we are proud to claim the title of United States Marine.

Contrary to some misconception, Marines aren’t trained to be cannon fodder during the taking of an enemy position. We are trained to survive under the worst of conditions. Wars aren’t won by being killed. They are won by staying alive while accomplishing the goals set for you.

Most of the things you have heard about boot camp are true. You may think that some of them are made up to impress civilians. Some are, but if a Marine boot-camp drill instructor hears one of these unbelievable stories he often sets about trying to work it into his next platoon of recruits.

Our day could start anytime. Usually it didn’t start before 3:00 a.m. (0300 hours), but most of the time it started at 0530. By 0600 we were dressed and on the parade ground.

After specific instructions and exercise, we fell out for chow. I loved Marine Corps food. It was the first of the all-you-can-eat era for me.

Then it was usually time to police the area and square everything away for a day of close-order drill and long walks in the countryside. It is important to note that our drill instructors did everything we did. When we ran, they ran. They ran with us, around us, and back and forth.

They covered more distance than we did. Our drill instructors were quite easy to please, as were all drill instructors. All they wanted was perfection.

They had a little incident with me. A letter home indicated that I fell off of a training ladder on May 7th. I have no recollection of the event, so it must have been routine.

Aside from unusual days, each contained time for sleeping, meals, exercise, lectures, resting, classroom study, combat techniques, marksmanship development, close-order drill, inspections, mail call, and colors. We also had some free time.

During this free time you could write letters, do your laundry, shoot the breeze, read, get ready for the next day’s program, or take a nap. I did some of all of the above. Lights-out came at 2100 hours, 9:00 p.m. In boot camp there were no exceptions.

On May 8th we were told we would get a ten-day furlough after boot camp if we were still living. Activities during the week included my having several teeth filled. I also received several more shots.

Mail call for me was always a good experience. I could depend on one or more a day from Anita. Mom wrote regularly, as did some of my aunts and friends. Some of the recruits didn’t receive mail for weeks at a time.

We were told we may not remember who our buddies were in boot camp, but we would never forget our drill instructors.

They were right. A good example of this is that I did not have to look at my records to see who they were. I still remember them. Sgt. R. M. Simonson was in charge, assisted by Cpl. J. E. J. Tuttle.

Both were seasoned veterans with hash marks. Sgt. Simonson was the professional Marine. He knew the book and he knew men. Cpl. Tuttle was the “#%#.” Together they were a perfect team that turned us into Marines.

Physical toughness was important, but it took a back seat to learning how to shoot accurately and fast. I had been exposed to firearms before, using Frank’s rifle for target practice.

I didn’t think it would be a big step for me to learn to shoot the M-1 accurately. They soon taught me that everything I learned or had done before was wrong.

There were no facilities for firing on the base, so we were taken to nearby Camp Matthews. We started with the .22-caliber rifle, learning how to fire safely. We then learned on the .30-caliber carbine. I qualified with the .22 on May 9th and on the .30 on May 10th. We also had some snapping-in sessions with the World War I Springfield bolt-action rifle. Then we advanced to the most important piece of equipment a Marine would ever own, the M-1 rifle.

The recruits that had never fired a weapon, or those that just had a hard time developing accuracy, were given special attention until they mastered the M-1. Every Marine had to qualify as a marksman. I was impressed by the fact that the instructors were able to teach everyone to fire accurately at such extreme distances.

Hitting the bull’s-eye at 100 yards—that is the length of a football field—was easy to learn. Now try two football fields away. How about five? Would you believe ten? Yes, each of us had to learn to calibrate our sights to hit our targets a thousand yards away.

On May 19th I qualified as a sharpshooter with a score of 297 out of a possible 300. I received my medal on June 17th.

Accuracy was important. Missing the target altogether was given the designation Maggie’s drawers. It was announced to everyone at the range that you missed the entire target by the waving of a big red flag back and forth until everyone saw it.

We also learned what to do if our target suddenly appeared only a few feet away.

Close-range moving targets were hit using your reflexes and training. If the target was too close or if you were out of ammunition, your bayonet was part of your rifle and you learned to use it.

One day after firing, we had an inspection in the boondocks. As Cpl. Tuttle looked each rifle over, he threw it in the sand, with the chamber open. We were given an unspecified amount of time to strip it down, clean it, and reassemble it for another inspection.

When most of us were through he yelled, “Ten seconds.” Then we had our inspection. We all passed.

There were also a lot of other events and activities related to boot training. We had to designate our next of kin, fill out insurance forms, allotment forms, and keep ourselves clean. We did our laundry, tailored our clothes, ironed them, and marked them.

We swabbed the decks, cleaned the bulkheads, policed the grounds, listened to scuttlebutt and spread some around, trained on the parade ground, in water, on land, and swinging through the air, stood for morning colors and evening colors, squared away our quarters, did mess duty, guard duty, fire duty, and anything else our drill instructors could think of.

We also practiced with hand grenades, gas masks, and special weapons. Each of these items has a story to go with them. Some, more than one.

Betty Jane Fletcher, Anita’s best friend, married Al Paul on June 19th. Anita was a bridesmaid.

The wedding group consisted of three men, three women, and a flower girl in addition to the bride and groom.

Anita had a chance to dress in a formal, something she didn’t get to do at our wedding.

The letters continued to flow between San Diego and Edwardsville. Some of my earlier cartoons used Mickey Mouse as the main character that conveyed messages about my haircut, drill instruction, keeping the barracks clean, holiday greetings like Mother’s Day, and how tired I got.

These continued through May. In June I switched to using a baby who was several months old, using her (she had a curl on top of her head) to convey messages.

The inside messages were a bit personal and covered important information relating to love. These included comments like:

“My dearest darling baby, I can hardly stand being apart from you. You are so beautiful. I wish you could be with me right now. I love you so much!”

There were also comments about things like how we would survive without each other and plans for after the war was over.

She wrote to me about her mom and dad and other relatives and about her visits with my mom and dad and some of the antics of my younger brothers John and Roy.

I wrote about what I did during the day. Anita saved most of the envelopes she received from me during this period. After boot camp we knew there was more training to come.

Some of us would be assigned to infantry units for intense combat training. Others of us would be sent to various schools, depending on the results of our test scores. More importantly, we would have our name back. I would become “Kolesa” once again instead of “You stupid …”

A picture was taken of our platoon on graduation day. Somehow I was placed in the second row directly behind and in between Sgt. Simonson and Cpl. Tuttle.

When Anita showed her dad a copy of this picture he exclaimed, “It’s a picture of noses!”

The sun was almost directly overhead, just slightly behind us. This put our faces in the shadow of our foreheads, with our noses sticking out into the sun. Her dad was right; it is a picture of noses.

I have just looked at the picture very carefully trying to identify the recruits that I spent these eight weeks with. I can put first names on a few and last names on some, but I cannot put full names on any of the noses even though I remember events surrounding many of them. Graduation day was strictly Hollywood, with a lot of color and music.

We were all dressed to perfection, knew our drills, and made it through without a hitch, or so our instructors told most of us. That was the last I saw of them.

Overseas troop ships were already loaded and prepared for an assault on New Georgia that was to take place during June. By the last week of boot camp, I was notified that I had scored high on my academic tests and showed a high aptitude for electronics.

I was told I would be assigned to a school in North Carolina. That meant I would be separated from Platoon 366. It had been notified it was scheduled for a combat mission.

Before my school was to start I was to receive a ten-day leave, and upon my return to the Marine Corps base in San Diego I would be assigned to the boot-camp mess hall as a monitor for at least thirty days. There was some kind of scheduling delay in obtaining the needed equipment for the classes.

Anita and I discussed the situation and she decided to quit the job she had taken in St. Louis and come to California. This decision meant that I would not get to Edwardsville, but we thought it was the most practical one.

Anita quit her job, packed a suitcase, and bought a train ticket to San Diego. Even though her allotment checks had started to come and she had worked for several weeks, money was limited and her trip was made by coach and with restricted funds.

I was not able to obtain a pass to meet her, as I was scheduled to start my furlough the next day.

She asked an officer for directions to the base and caught a bus in front of the train station.

When she arrived, she was directed to a reception area and a call was placed for me. I was expecting it. Even though I could not leave the base, we were required to be in our dress greens to greet visitors.

They put me in a little room and she was sent in. We had our reunion among tears of joy and frustration at having been separated for months.

Tired from having been on the train for almost four days and not sleeping in a bed, she was glad to accept the simple accommodations provided by the base for such situations.

I returned to my quarters. The next day I received my first promotion to PFC, private first class, and started my furlough. The first order of business was to find a place to live.

We located a furnished room on Broad Street in San Diego and settled in, only to find that the house was full of unattached girls and young women.

On our first night there we were interrupted by one of the women wanting to hide in our room, away from her husband. She never told us why she was hiding.

She didn’t think he would look for her in our room because we were married. That didn’t stop him from pounding on every door in the place. We didn’t let him in and she was safe that night.

Needless to say we started to look for another place. Anita had made friends with a girl she met on the train. She told Anita about the place where she was living. We decided to check it out. It turned out to be very nice, a one-room efficiency, perfect for my ten-day furlough.

It was near the San Diego Zoo and was built with the room positioned around a courtyard full of flowers and tropical plants.

We celebrated my 19th birthday at the San Diego Zoo, eating and drinking picnic food and acting like we were in love and living in Edwardsville.

After my furlough we continued to live there. I was lucky to be able to spend my nights off base. The hard part was that I had to be ready to leave at 0500 to get back for mess-hall duty.

Don’t feel sorry for me. That turned out to be a good deal. Anita took a job with the same time schedule. We left together, me in my dress greens and Anita with her hair secured by her required bandanna.

We did attract some attention, but we sort of enjoyed it.

Anita’s job was with Convair, working on B-24 Liberator bombers that were being built in their San Diego plant. These bombers were well suited for service in both the European and Pacific war zones.

Every time I saw one flying over me to or from Japan while I was overseas I wondered if Anita worked on that one as a Rosie the Riveter. Anita’s bandanna looked like the one the woman illustrated in the recruiting poster wore.

The B-29 Superfortress long-range bombers were being built north of us.

These are the ones that would be flying over me in great numbers on their bombing missions to and from Japan.

After my ten-day furlough was over I assumed my duties as mess-hall monitor. After opening the mess hall at 0530 and working until after 1800 I was permitted to go home and be with Anita.

I was off on weekends and we were able to do quite a bit of sightseeing in San Diego and nearby areas.

The Pacific coast was beautiful and bus and streetcar service was excellent. As a serviceman in uniform I was allowed to ride free on most lines.

One evening in downtown San Diego we were walking near a small park when a sailor came toward us swinging a shiny machete from side to side as he staggered down the sidewalk.

We escaped his swings and helped round up the Shore Patrol to take him into custody.

We did not see that he hurt anyone, but it could have been a very serious situation as the sidewalks were filled with people from the curb to the buildings.

There were many other events taking place around the world concerning the war effort.

New Georgia was the scene of a memorable event in the war in the Pacific during July and August 1943. A part of the Solomons, it was of great importance to both Japan and the United States.

Lt. John F. Kennedy commanded PT-109, one of fifteen torpedo boats providing support for the operation.

The plywood boats, 80 feet long, carried four torpedoes. During the night his boat was rammed and sliced in two by a Japanese ship.

Lt. Kennedy’s heroic action and concern for his crew members’ safety resulted in their eventual rescue after a long ordeal at sea by PT-157. Many years later Lt. Kennedy became our commander-in-chief when he was elected president of the United States.

During May 1943, United States troops retook Attu in a hard-fought three-week battle. The Japanese had evacuated Kiska before a task force of Marines and Canadians landed there on August 1, 1942.

The original plan was to commit three divisions to reclaim the islands that the Japanese had secured after Pearl Harbor.

The delayed invasion started. The Japanese army had retreated and the United States landed 2,000 troops. More were to follow.

On May 29th the battle for the island began. Of the 2,600 Japanese defenders it was reported only a few survived.

When I was in boot camp learning how to pick up cigarette butts, clean a rifle in a minute, put on a gas mask in seconds, follow orders instantly, and anticipate what will happen before it does, there was a lot going on.

Across the pond the fighting had spread to Africa and almost every corner of eastern, western, northern, southern, and central Europe.

Italy had surrendered and the Allies had begun making plans for Operation Overlord, the invasion of Europe.

On the other side of the world the Marines, Navy, and Army had their hands full.

General MacArthur and Admiral Halsey had ended the threat to Australia by clearing the way to advance up the New Guinea coast to the Solomon Islands. The last Japanese combat troops had left Guadalcanal.

Our success during the Battle of the Bismarck Sea was a big morale boost and a favorable turning point in the war for the United States.

Our Air Force had intercepted a seventeen-ship Japanese convoy of reinforcements and supplies. Japan lost eight transports and four destroyers. We lost two bombers and three fighter planes.