Something about Camp Elliott (above) attracted the rain. April 1, 1941, was no exception. When the trucks pulled up to the barracks the place was a sea of mud. The order came down that shoes would be removed at the entrance and only stocking feet would be allowed on the new softwood floors. After several hours of unloading and storing gear and furniture, we finally took possession of our quarters.
Everyone tried out the tiled showers first. Plenty of hot water. The heads were excellent —10 commodes in a row without partitions. One could shake hands, play cards or whatever with your buddy on the next stool. The smell of new wood, paint, tile grout, etc. was nearly enough to overcome the smell of those beer farts, but not quite.
Behind the last two commodes were two signs affixed to the bulkhead that read, VENERAL. That came as a surprise to nearly everyone, but they were for real. I watched those two commodes very carefully for about 10 days. They were never used. From then on I had use of my own private stool — to a chorus of barbs: "Dick's got it!. . .Stay away from Dick; he's got something. . .Where'd you get it, Dick?" Still, no one else used those two stools. As a result of our cold, wet feet on arrival day, many got a chance to try out the new sick bay.
For a couple of months we had been hearing that before long it would be our job to fight the Japs. All our training was directed to the perfection of amphibious assault landings. However, we did not have any boats, and the Navy Department's budget did not include boats for the Marine Corps. We solved that problem by making our own boats.
Northeast of our barracks was a large open field where we paced off 50~60 feet and drew the outline of a launch (no Higgins boats yet) in the dirt, then we would get inside the "boat" and crouch down until we hit the "beach." Then we'd "roll" over the side and charge up the "beach." We did this two or three times a week for about three weeks. No one got seasick.
In early May things began to heat up. We were ordered to pack our gear and get ready to go aboard ship. The whole barracks resounded to the "Song of the Marines." Early the next morning we boarded trucks and headed for San Diego. Spirits were high as we passed the Base and headed south toward Broadway Pier. At the foot of Broadway the trucks turned right, onto the pier. There was much singing and laughter and general horsing around, then we were assigned to the various parts of the ship — the USS William S. Biddle. Rumors were rampant about our destination. About an hour after we completed boarding, the ship's horn let out a blast, whistles blew and we slowly moved away from the dock. At last we were going to do something constructive.
We watched San Diego fade away just before sunset. For most of us, this was our first trip aboard a troop ship and the excitement lasted for hours, until the old salts used to this sort of thing took over and ordered everyone to knock it off and hit the "rack." What the hell is a "rack"? We knew what a fart sack was — but a rack? Soon most were in our racks and the ship's gentle sway either lulled us to sleep or encouraged some to head for the rail. About 0400 all hell broke loose with lights blinking, horns blasting and whistles blowing as some asshole yelled:
"Reveille! Drop your cocks and grab your socks! Get the hell out of those racks! Uniform-of-the-day is overalls (we wore one-piece overalls
as fatigues), helmets (WW I issue), full packs (WW I issue), rifles, belts and bayonets! Chow in 20 minutes."
How order comes out of bedlam I'll never know, but in a few minutes everyone was dressed, shaved and in the chow line. After chow we assembled at our previously assigned places on the boat deck. Cargo nets hung over the sides and soon we were going down the nets heading for the 50-foot launches that were rolling and heaving at the same time alongside the ship. I remembered I'd heard an instructor somewhere once say, "Drop just before the launch gets to the top of the wave."
I was in the rear rank of the Third Platoon with my BAR, so there were plenty of men down that net before me. As I descended I kept one eye on the net and the other on the launch. When I got to a point that appeared to be close enough to the launch, I waited for it to get near the top of its rise and let go of the net. I went well past the point where the launch should have been and found myself falling after a rapidly descending launch. Suddenly I was brought up short by making contact with something hard, but at the same time mushy. Immediately voices surrounded me. "Bailey, you SOB! Get that stock out of my ass," and "Bailey, you skinny bastard! How can you weigh so much?" Piled in the bottom of the launch were men, packs and rifles in disarray.
No one landed clean, and due to the rolling and pitching of the launch, no one could get to his knees or sit up. We were all still entangled as the launch pulled away from the ship. Finally our platoon leader extracted himself from the pile and began to restore order. After we got to our rendezvous point, we were told we would circle about 20 minutes then head for the beach on San Clemente Island. An hour later — many pounds lighter due to sea sickness and with men fighting to get to the rail — we started toward the beach. We had been taught to roll out of the make-believe boats at Camp Elliott, and now we could practice that roll. We came to within 20 feet of the shore and were given the order to disembark. Several guys tried rolling over the gunwale and landed flat on their backs or their guts and immediately sank in about five feet of water, or were rolled onto the beach by the incoming tide. I rolled over the side without difficulty (except the family jewels have never been the same). I hit the water with my feet down and, because I was tall, had no difficulty landing standing up.
Off to my left I saw a body being rolled up and down the beach as the breakers crashed in then rolled back out. I grabbed the helpless creature and pulled him ashore to gasps of, "Let me die. Let me die." It turned out to be Larry Card (right) who, two years later, nearly to the day, was best man at my wedding in Wellington, New Zealand. Like so many things in life, it was decided that we should do the landing until we got it right. For the next three days we assaulted San Clemente 'til we could do it in our sleep. Then we boarded the transports for San Diego — or so we thought. We pulled into Long Beach Naval Station and were given a 48-hour pass, so I visited my uncle's home in San Gabriel (photo, below-right). When we returned to the ship we learned we were going out to San Clemente for another week. The few strains of the Song of the Marines sounded weak and forced.
The remainder of May was spent hiking over every inch of northern San Diego County. Day-long hikes, overnight hikes, three-day hikes to Black Mountain and back. Many times I was thankful that I had four years of long-distance cross-country running behind me before I joined the Corps. Those hikes made shin splints plentiful, blisters were the order of the day, feet rubbed raw and aching backs were common. I managed to sail through it all with only a sore right shoulder from carrying my BAR. Then in the midst of all this came the order to pack up and be ready to leave as soon as the orders arrived. The next day they arrived — the Sixth Marines were moving out as the official orders read, "For temporary shore duty beyond the seas with the 1st Division." The "Song of the Marines" rang loud and clear all day.
The next morning, 31 May 1941, we boarded the trucks and once again headed for Broadway Pier. There were three transports tied up and we in the 3rd Battalion were once again ready to board the Biddle. It was not to be. There were four World War I destroyers tied together a short distance from the docks. These vessels, which had been converted into what became known as "destroyer transports" (APDs), were the USS Manley, Little, Stringham and McKean. Each of them had their forward boilers removed and those compartments were made into troop quarters. They were the hottest, most uncomfortable area on such ships; worse even than the working area of the ship's coal-shoveling "black gang." Each ship was capable of carrying one rifle company. K Company was assigned to the USS Little. As the ships' captains were given orders to shove off, the USS Manley made too sharp a turn and her aft section hit the Little, causing damage to one of the propellers and its shaft. We hadn't even left port and had become a casualty.
The convoy finally formed out at sea and proceeded to head South. We were trailing far behind. Eventually we learned we were heading for Panama. Soon the convoy was out of sight and we were cruising leisurely down the Mexican coast, while observing a black-out at night. The original order was that Third Platoon was to board the Biddle at the Gulf of Panama and the convoy would go through the canal at night.
As we approached the gulf in the late afternoon, the skipper received orders to proceed immediately to dry-dock for repairs, and that the Marines aboard would be picked up there by some launches. All went well except there were no launches at the dry dock. The ship had been scheduled to enter dry-dock at a specific time, so it was decided that we would remain aboard while the ship was in dry-dock. The ship entered and the dry-dock's crew proceeded to pump the water out of the dock while the ship was lowered, and supporting planks installed between the hull and the side of the dry-dock. This was very interesting to us Marines, who had never seen anything like it. To get the planks in the proper place, a man was lowered from a crane by a cable with a large hook on the end. He seemed to be doing a great job, but about every fourth or fifth pass he was lowered too far and would disappear in the water until the guy directing the crane operator gave him a thumbs-up signal. Every time the guy broke water on the way up we all gave him a big cheer.
About a half hour after the water had been pumped out of the dock, the smell, heat and humidity became nearly unbearable. We Marines lay on the deck like fish out of water. Just about that time we got word that the launches had arrived and would take us to the Biddle. We gathered up our packs and gear and filed single file up a very long, narrow flight of steps to ground level. The launches were there and we got aboard without a word being said (SNAFU). We headed out into the gulf looking for the Biddle. Our coxswain and crew had never seen the Biddle, so it became an exhaustive search. It was about 2200 hours and very dark. Finally we came upon a ship with cargo nets over the side and a minimum of lighting. We pulled alongside and several of us started up the nets.
A couple of us were actually on deck with the rest rapidly ascending the nets when we heard all sorts of shouts and running and we found we had boarded a Japanese ship [pre-Pearl Harbor]. We had a hell of a time getting the rest of the platoon to go back down the net and we were facing some very angry Japanese topside. None of them spoke English it seemed. Finally we got down the nets and into the launches. The coxswain said, "F*ck it! I'm taking you guys back where I got you." We had nearly precipitated an international incident.
About this time our Asiatic corporal, a guy named Russell, ["Asiatic Marines"
-- those who'd seen years of duty in China before WWII] said, "I think I left my pack on that Jap ship." Everyone suggested he go back alone to see if it was there, but he didn't take the dare. He kept muttering, "I had a pack when I left the Little and I'll have a pack when I get back." We kidded him a bit but let it ride. When we got back to the dry-dock and told our story, it was decided that we'd better board the Little and sleep there overnight. So we climbed down the narrow staircase into that hot, humid, smelly place and onto the deck of the ship. There lying in full view was Corporal Russell's pack.
The next morning, after clearing the dry-dock, we learned that the convoy had gone through the Panama Canal the night before with all troops below decks and with all ships darkened -- because Washington did not want people ashore to know that a troop convoy was going through, especially from west to east. The Little (DD-79, later APD-4, 1918-1942) went through that day and we were the only members of the Sixth to see the canal in daylight. (Note: For you doubting-Thomases, if any, authentication of this full account can be made by one Vernon Adams of Hurst, Texas, who was next to me on the net while boarding the Jap ship). We found the Biddle on the east side of the canal and climbed aboard. (The four destroyers were supposed to be turned over to England as Lend Lease, but I learned later that they had not been turned over, and that the Little had been sunk in one of the early naval battles at Guadalcanal). After boarding the Biddle east of the Panama Canal, live ammunition was issued to all hands and we learned that our mission was to invade the French-owned island of Martinique.
The island government was sympathetic to the Germans and had become a haven for German submarines that re-supplied and repaired there. This threat to shipping in the Caribbean and near the canal was more than Washington would accept, therefore the decision was made to invade while negotiations were still being carried on between the French government and Washington. We were to team up with the 1st Division that was holding practice landings in the Caribbean, as we had been doing at San Clemente.
We no sooner got excited about landing on Martinique than the operation was canceled as an agreement had been reached with the French government to halt assistance to Germany from Martinique. We had to turn in all the live ammunition. On 11 June the convoy turned north. On 15 June we arrived in Charleston (SC) Navy Yard. The 1st Division had also put in to Charleston and for about a week most of the combat-ready Marine Corps was reposing in Charleston, South Carolina.
Not a woman under 60 could be found on the streets.
