Rifle Range
San Luis Obispo lies north of Los Angeles along the coast. It's an old mission town, founded in the early 1800s on the coast but it's surrounded by mountains that crawl upwards into the range's misty upper reaches. Each morning they were marched up through this misty, rainy area. From their tents to the firing range was three miles along a rutted road of questionable quality. They marched in a ragged file with ponchos snapped about their necks and rifles slung with muzzles down to keep moisture out of gun barrels. The skinny Kid kept up and made no fuss about the situation. He had grown use to the daily discomfort of the training routines, and this was just another of many.
The firing line stretched to his left and right, along the slightly raised ground that faced the targets at 100 yards in front of him. This was the first test of skill. You would start at 100 yards and progress to longer yardage as the drill was completed. The old Springfield nestled against his shoulder when he was in the sitting position, as he settled into the sling that held his arm taut to better aim the weapon. His cheek nuzzled the stock as he brought his eye onto sighting along the barrel of the ancient bolt-action weapon.
Slowly he squeezed the trigger as the line coach had forcefully instructed. "Do not pull the trigger!" he'd said. "Squeeze the trigger firmly but gently, like a beautiful girl. Set the front sight just below the bull's eye and squeeze it off." The impact of the butt against his shoulder was startling. Wow! He had no idea that a rifle could kick back like that. This was the first time he'd fired a rifle of this caliber. This was no .22; more like a shotgun.
He looked up in time to see a red flag raised over his target — Maggie's drawers! A clean miss. "Oh well," he thought, "that was only my first shot. What can you expect?"
He reached back for the bolt and levered another round into the chamber. It was awkward. The bolt came back, then slid forward as it carried the round into the chamber. A quick movement oft-practiced on the rainy "snapping-in" range before arriving at this target area. He rocked forward hunching over his charge, bringing his eye again in line with the target. Another jolting round was fired and . . . Hey, hey, target hit! Not in the center! But a hit after all! One after another the slow fire continued, his rounds striking the target. The patterns were not as close together as he would have liked, but not bad. Not bad!
The first clip was fired and they made ready to fire from the prone position. Stretching out to his full length, he pulled the rifle into his shoulder and adjusted its sling to further steady the weapon. He propped up his left elbow under the rifle, pulling the sling tight against his forearm. He lay stretched taut, waiting for the command to fire. Suddenly the targets arose above the butts as the coach yelled "Targets!" setting off a din of rifle fire that permeated the air. He squeezed off his first and second shots, never letting his eye stray from the target. Holding his rifle firmly, he continued to fire in slow deliberation. Five, six, seven and eight rounds went into the large bull. Then the firing stopped. Then targets went down into the butts as they were being read and marked with a marker in each hole. He held his breath. No red flag had appeared — yet. The targets slowly arose one by one from the far left like a rising tide. As his came up, he let out his breath with a gleeful "Ha!" There it was! Two markers covering his entire grouping, and all in the twenty ring. He was getting the hang of this.
He fired his next set from a kneeling position in both slow and rapid fire. The results were adequate; not inspiring but adequate. This was not the day that they'd fire for a record. That came in the next couple of days. Now they were getting used to their individual weapons, as well as the adjustments necessary for firing their rifles accurately. Some changes had to be made to the sights — figuring windage and elevation for the yardage at hand, and testing the adjustments. He finished the day's shooting satisfied that he could do well on record day. He did — earning a Sharpshooter badge.
Reveille
February in central California is not what you'd call balmy. Often the days are misty, rainy and cool. The tent compound that housed Marines was muddy and dreary, with each tent heated by a single kerosene stove of questionable adequacy. Leaping from one's bunk at reveille was not a pleasant experience, it being cold. The little stoves were not allowed to be left on all night as the danger of fire was always present. A quick turn of the valve and a match would get them going. Alas, you couldn't get back in bed and wait for the heat to come up. Instead you had to fall out for roll call before going to the head and washing up for breakfast.
Morning chow was distributed from a field kitchen, meaning you brought your mess gear and stood in line. The mess tent was a large one, more suited for storage than eating. The tables were set crossways to the tent's length. Juggling his mess gear, each man made his way down the center to an empty place and squeezed in alongside a buddy. When the place was mostly filled, the blast of the DI's whistle would alert all to the speaker. "Now hear this!" was how he'd start. The plan of the day would be read and any other information passed along to the troops. Comments about the range and who was shooting well were also mentioned. The Kid was commended for his shooting that day, which was the day he made Sharpshooter. And, of course, the two other men who'd fired Expert were made to stand and take a bow.
Having fired the range, they all packed up and were sent back to boot camp at Camp Elliot. The next few days were spent sharpening their combat skills before they were graduated, then dispersed throughout the division.
Assignment
The Kid was sent to D Company, a machine gun outfit. Machine gunners are required to be an exceedingly well-trained and hardened group of Marines. Its officers were well versed in the manner of training necessary to produce this kind of Marine. Much time was spent on gun drills and nomenclature. They became adept in field stripping their weapon under varying conditions, then reassembling them — in the dark, in the rain or otherwise. If you have a misfire or a jam in the middle of a firefight, there is only one thing to do — field strip and repair the weapon.
They also took long hikes across the boondocks with heavily loaded carts of ammunition and guns. That was before the arrival of the air-cooled machine gun, so they had to carry cans of water used to cool gun barrels. The skinny Kid was hard pressed to pull the carts up and down the hills and ravines. His lean body put all its strength into the task. Fortunately he had a mate to pull with, and often extra men to attach ropes to the cart and assist in the job. After a day in the field he knew he'd had a rugged day.
Fortunately the Kid was chosen, due to some previous experience, to go to demolition school. There he learned the how-to of demolition and sabotage. The course was a fun thing, mostly field work with learning by actually doing the blasting. He learned how to figure the amount of TNT or dynamite it took to do a specific job, and about the different kinds of blasting material used in the military — TNT, dynamite, C4 and primacord. He had handled dynamite in the CCC (Civilian Conservation Corps) before the war and knew a bit about it. He learned that TNT, the more powerful of the two, was the safest to handle. It could be thrown about and never go off and could be used under water as well.
He enjoyed the training and passed the test with no trouble. He became a genuine "demolitions expert"; well, maybe not an expert, but at least a well- trained Marine. The sabotage part of the training came in the way of a trip to Los Angeles. The class was taken to a railroad round house where the engines were lined up in the repair bays. It was pointed out that to sabotage a number of machines, be they engines or other such machinery, it was proper to render inoperable the same part or section on all target machinery, thereby preventing the enemy from interchanging the parts. The kid thought that was very clever. Made sense.
New beginning
At the start of the schooling, the Kid had been transferred to a company of antitank weapons. He was intrigued by the weaponry, which consisted of 37-mm antitank guns, .50-caliber machine guns, and 75-mm half-track gun carriages. His demolitions training fitted in with the company's "basic table of organization." He fell into the routine of the company and learned about each weapon. As an independently assigned specialist, he was to be used as an extra crewman on any of the company weapons that might need a replacement member. Should something happen to a crew member, it would be his task to replace that man. That was not likely to happen, but it made him feel like he was at least slightly important in the scheme of things. Thus began the "Regimental Weapons Company 2nd-2nd" (i.e., 2nd Regiment, 2nd Division).
The war in the south Pacific was moving along at a rapid pace. Much of the area that the Japanese had wanted had been occupied and fortified. Many islands were in their hands. Their occupation threatened Australia, New Zealand, the New Hebrides and most other friendly island nations. CincPac command felt it was time to launch an offensive to reclaim the islands that were essential to our march across the Pacific to Japan's homeland. So, orders were given to board ships to begin training for landings. This was essential both for the men but also for the logistics of such a maneuver. The Kid thought this would be fun.
Except for a week before they themselves sailed, the troops were used to load the ships. Down in the hold the Kid along with his mates worked their tails off. It was hot and not much air circulated into the working holds. Pallet after pallet was swung over the hold as the Kid pulled and lifted the cargo into place, bending his aching back to the task. He longed for the shift to end, and he longed for a cool drink. He longed to get the hell out of that damned hold and take a break.
The seriousness of the operation was brought home to him and to the others by the loading of coffins into the hold. These long grey boxes were stored among the rest of the cargo of beans, coffee and other diverse items. He reflected on their use and felt the weight of their implication.
Squeeze — don't pull. . .
The joy of rising early on a winter's morn. . .
Humpin' firepower — A member of a Marine heavy machine gun crew humps the tripod of his gun up a steep hill on Tinian Island during WW II.
A second Marine carries the barrel, while others follow with ammo.
The road ahead — leads to Guadalcanal, Tarawa. . .
