The four prior chapters were a long prologue to WW II. In them I tried to show our state of unpreparedness, how units were moved from everywhere to make one cohesive unit, our lack of modern equipment, the camaraderie between men, and the living conditions of the time. It was about the best I could do. This part has little to do with anything except some personal experiences you might enjoy, and it will also set you up for things to come.
In March 1942, Camp Elliott [14 miles north of San Diego] was a far cry from what we had left nearly a year before. It had become a medium-sized city teeming with humanity. We were a sorry sight as we reported in with our World War I equipment and our well-worn uniforms. Everywhere we saw men walking around in clean, starched khaki uniforms and the new-style field hat. We felt out of place.
As we checked in we were directed to a barracks (whose number I've forgotten) that had been cleared of men who'd been moved to huts that were erected east of the barracks, in the vicinity of our old heads. This didn't make these people happy, but they soon learned, not from us, that we were considered a special bunch of men who deserved a place at the table. When we got settled in, an informal company meeting was held and our new company commander, who'd not been with us in Iceland, told us almost apologetically that we were going to be broken up and most of us sent to different places to assist in the formation of new units — companies, battalions, regiments and even divisions. This did not set well with us because in our short-sightedness we'd assumed we would leave Elliott on the next available ship as a unit and head for the Pacific. It was not to be.
The orders were read and every third man received orders for transfer to someplace else. Edelstein went to the 9th Marines, Suppes went to the 22nd Marines along with eight or nine others. He had been my squad leader since I had been in K Company and I'd miss him. The Top Kick, Neilsen, was along in years and he was given an administrative job somewhere. Ted McAdam went to an outfit that was using rubber boats for something. Freeberg went to Division Headquarters, and so it went. I helped Edelstein pack his gear and when we loaded it on the truck we clasped each other; if his departure wasn't tearful, it was misty. It didn't matter to us that the "Iceland Marines" had been picked to be the foundation on which the new Corps would build.
March went by with us just getting new assignments and not doing too much except looking in awe at the number of chevrons walking around the place. After Pearl Harbor there was a rush of men, and women, to join the service. The Marines got the cream of the crop, but we jokingly called them "The Pearl Harbor Avengers," and often asked, "Where were you when we needed you?" A new movie theater had been built on base as well as a library and a rec-room with pool tables. A large PX was next to it and a bank of pay telephones had been installed along the side of the rec-room. The chaplain, a Commander Mansfield, also had his office in a corner of the rec-room.
While we had been playing around in the Atlantic Ocean, many of the new men joining the Corps were tradesmen, professional men as well as high school and college students. Many had skills that were sorely needed in the rapidly expanding Corps, so if they qualified for the openings they were given ratings almost overnight. Many a tech sergeant had worked for years to get his rating while these new men got theirs on the basis of their civilian occupations. There was a special demand for men who could type to fill the company-clown (clerk) position and for payroll clerks, muster-roll clerks and what have you. Most of these men were rated before they got their chairs warm.
As had been usual in the line companies, you damn-well had to earn the promotion and there were few sudden jumps in rank, although there were some. Not for me. I was still a Pfc. BAR man. George Freeberg stopped by the company one day and asked if I wanted to transfer out to Division Headquarters. He said there were a lot of good jobs going unfilled and, if I was interested, he'd mention it to the division sergeant major.
On 1 April 1942 I was transferred to Division Headquarters Company as part of a section called D-3. That didn't mean much to me at the time but I was soon to learn that the official title of the section was Plans, Training and Operations. That covered so many things that I soon decided that D-3 was the Marine Corps designation for Miscellaneous. That is not to belittle the men who worked there because they were some of the most dedicated Marines I ever knew, and much of their work was put into practice under fire, but we did a lot of different things.
When I found out that I was going to be transferred, I went over to see Corporal Dick Watson, who was
acting supply sergeant for
K Company. I told him I had had
the BAR gun now for nearly a
year and a half and I wanted to hang on to it even though there were not supposed to be any heavy weapons in a Headquarters Company. I asked if there wasn't some way I could report my BAR lost in the Atlantic off that fishing scow. He replied, "This conversation never took place and I don't know you. Good luck at Division." So when I reported in I had to find a place to store my weapon in addition to my '03 and the .45 sidearm I had just been issued. I was probably the most heavily armed man in Division Headquarters Company.
For the next several months I was actually in an on-the-job training program along with a lot of new men that had been transferred in, both old-timers and new recruits. One day the colonel in charge of our section saw me going into the barracks where our section was housed and said, "Bailey, how long have you been in the Marine Corps?"
"A year and a half, Sir."
"And you are a PFC?"
"Yes, Sir."
"We will have to do something about that."
Three days later I got my temporary warrant making me a corporal. Word kept filtering down that the entire 2nd Division (i.e., those units still in the States) was going to be leaving shortly. Furloughs were the order of the day. Smokey Smolikar, who had also been transferred from K Company to Division as a motion-picture operator for training films (he had been a projectionist before he joined the Marines) and who was from my hometown, said "Let's put in for a furlough. What the hell! They can't do more than say, No." So, even though it was only a few months since we had been on furlough, we both put in for one and the request was approved.
In a few days we were on our way, with a lot of things we weren't going to need later, neatly packed away in our Gladstone bags [light hand luggage consisting of two hinged compartments]. Our first stop was a bar close to the AT&SF depot in San Diego, so we wouldn't miss the train if we got too busy celebrating. The trip was uneventful until we got to Kansas City, where we were informed that the Rock Island Rocket from Houston was going to be about 12 hours late due to the heavy freight traffic hauling war materials. We had a couple of drinks and decided to hitchhike. We got a ride out of Kansas almost immediately from a salesman who was going to Des Moines.
When we left Des Moines we got another ride as far as Lake Mills, Iowa, about 10 miles south of the Minnesota border. Now it was about 2100 and black. It had started to rain, the weather had turned cold and our luck had run out, so we decided to stop in a small coffee shop not far from where we were standing alongside the highway. There we ran into two truck drivers who were hauling two truckloads of grain to Minneapolis. They said it was lonesome driving alone so if we wanted to split up (one to a truck) they would take us to Minneapolis. We agreed and shortly thereafter took our bags and followed them to their trucks.
One of them said that our bags were too big to fit in the cab, so we could toss them on top of the canvas covering the grain. We had doubts about that but, not wanting to look a gift horse in the mouth, we agreed. We drove most of the night and about 0400 stopped for gas and some coffee. A check of the top of the truck revealed that my bag had blown off. I don't know who felt the worse, me or the truck driver. He was so upset that he suggested we retrace our route and see if we couldn't find the bag. We did but to no avail.
In those days it was not uncommon for people in rural areas to leave ads that they wanted to put in the newspaper at places like gas stations or general stores along with the cost of the ad for a representative of the local, or closest, newspaper to pick up whenever he came by. We were going through a small town in southern Minnesota when the idea struck me that this might be a way to recover my lost bag. We stopped at a small general store and I arranged to pay the owner for a phone call to the nearest newspaper, which happened to be in Rochester. I told the editor I wanted to place an ad and that I would leave the money at the store if he would tell me how much it would cost. He agreed so I paid the grocer for the call plus the ad and we started on our way.
We arrived in our hometown sooner than we would have had we waited for the trains. The first thing my mother said was, "You have to call the chief of police immediately. They've been looking for you all day."
"Hey, Mom! Hello."
Now I must digress for a moment. Unknown to Smokey and me, who hadn't seen a newspaper since we left KC, there was a soldier who'd escaped from the stockade back east somewhere and was working his way across Michigan and northern Wisconsin. His name was Richard T. Bailey. He'd raped and murdered two women in Wisconsin (I believe) and all local police were on the alert for him and, of course, the FBI was looking for him.
The day we were working our way up to northern Minnesota my mother, who was a very gentle woman, answered the door bell to find herself confronted by the FBI and 10~12 local police officers wanting to know where I was, when she expected me and whatnot. With her protesting profusely, they stationed several policemen in the house, some in the garage, two or three in the trees surrounding the house and some in the homes of the neighbors.
The FBI had been tipped off by the editor of the Rochester newspaper after a proof-reader had read the story about the soldier and shortly after read my ad. He assumed that was one-and-the-same person. I'd given the newspaper my parents' home address in case the bag showed up. By the time I got home the Wisconsin State Police had found the guy and arrested him. But the chief of police was so concerned that my mother would be adversely affected by what had happened that he wanted to tell me the story himself. I was still without my bag.
The next morning we got a call from the FBI office in Minneapolis. The woman asked me to hold the line and shortly a voice came on that I recognized immediately — it was my older brother. He'd joined the Navy in Washington, D.C., where he was going to law school at Georgetown, and had been made a 3rd Class yeoman on the staff of the Chief of Naval Intelligence. For unrelated reasons he'd been detached to the FBI and sent to their Minneapolis office. A driver had seen my bag alongside the road and when he opened it and found it was a Marine, he turned it into the FBI office in Minneapolis.
Subsequently the bag was given to my brother, unopened, and he began going through it. He yelled, "For Christ's sake! This is my brother's!" He was calling to tell us that he'd been given a five-day leave to deliver the bag in person and spend some time with me while I was home. When he got there my mother insisted that we have a family picture taken because no one knew what was going to happen. So we did and, now that I had my suitcase, I had my blues so I wore them for the picture. When the Rochester Post- Bulletin found out that I wasn't the guy they thought I was, the editor sent me a letter to my parents' home. I have kept it all these years. An excerpt:
Dear Sir:
Undoubtedly by now you have had your luggage returned to you, since the inclosed (sic) clipping from the Post-Bulletin states that it was turned in to the FBI in Minneapolis, but to make doubly sure, I thought I should send this information to you. It was quite exciting in the office on Saturday afternoon as the proofreader, after reading the story and the advertisement, thought there might be some connection and notified the FBI in Minneapolis and very shortly afterward a long-distance call came through as to your ad, and the address you gave us. I, personally, thought that it was a case of mistaken identity, because there seemed to be nothing of the figitive (sic) about you that I could detect, but the fact that you did want to place the copy without coming to the office did give the situation a slightly suspicious nature.
Signed,
Homer E. Rouske
I keep telling 'em — War is hell.
