The AI-assisted biography of my maternal grandmother is in ABC Biography of #7 Emily Kemp (Auble) Carringer (1899-1977) of Illinois and California. I wrote a story about her life in 1916 in Ask AI: Describe Emily Auble's Life After the Death of Her Father In 1916.
The AI-assisted biography of my maternal grandfather is in ABC Biography of #6 Lyle Lawrence Carringer (1891-1976) of San Diego, California. I wrote a story about Lyle being a young working man in 1916 being teased about being boring in Lyle's Story: Finding Courage in 1916-1917.Then I wrote four more chapters of their life together (listed at the end of this post), the third one ending with Lyle planning to enlist in the U.S. Marine Reserves. The last post is his first two letters to his parents and to Emily after weeks one and two in boot camp in Emily and Lyle’s Story: Letters From Boot Camp – Part 1, May 1917.
I asked my AI Assistant Anthropic Claude to tell the story of Emily and Lyle in late May and early June as he experienced his next two weeks in the U.S. Marines Boot Camp in San Diego. Here is the next chapter of Emily and Lyle's story:
Letters from Boot Camp: Lyle's Next Two Weeks as a Marine, May-June 1917
Sunday, May 27, 1917 - Third Letter Home
Dear Mother and Father,
Three weeks down, five to go. I can hardly believe I've been here this long already. In some ways it feels like forever, and in others like just yesterday that I was saying goodbye on 30th Street.
This week has been particularly challenging. We've moved deeper into the refinement phase of training, which means the instructors expect us to perform drills with precision and speed. No more allowances for being new recruits—we're expected to know what we're doing now.
We've also begun wrestling and boxing in earnest. I'm not naturally gifted at either, but I'm learning to hold my own. There's something to be said for being quick and agile rather than strong and slow. I won a wrestling match against a fellow twice my size by simply being faster than he was. The instructor said it was "more luck than skill," but I'll take what victories I can get.
The guard duty training has intensified as well. We stand two-hour watches now, patrolling assigned posts, challenging anyone who approaches. It's simultaneously boring and nerve-wracking—boring because nothing ever happens, nerve-wracking because we're constantly being tested by instructors sneaking up to see if we're paying attention.
I was caught daydreaming on watch Thursday night. I won't make that mistake again. Let's just say the punishment for inattention involves a great deal of physical exercise and public humiliation. I spent Friday morning doing push-ups while the rest of the company marched past. Lesson learned.
But there was good news this week too. We received our pay for the first time—$30 for the month. It's not much compared to what I made at Marston's, but it felt like a fortune after three weeks of having nothing. Most of the men immediately went to the PX and bought more supplies. I saved most of mine, sending some home to you and keeping a little for supplies, stamps and writing paper.
The physical transformation is remarkable. When I look in the mirror now, I almost don't recognize myself. I'm still slight, still not as heavily muscled as most of the other men, but I'm harder somehow. Leaner. My face has lost its softness, and my hands are calloused and rough. Mother, I'm not sure you'd recognize your son anymore.
We start marksmanship training next week. That's what everyone is most excited about—finally getting to actually fire these rifles we've been carrying around. The instructors have been building it up, telling us that Marines are the finest marksmen in the military, that we'll be expected to hit targets the Army boys can't even see. I hope I live up to that standard.
I've been thinking a lot about what comes after training. In five weeks, we'll graduate from boot camp and receive our assignments. Some men will stay here in San Diego for more specialized training. Some will be shipped to other Marine bases. And some—probably many—will be sent directly to France.
I don't know which I'm hoping for. Part of me wants to serve where I'm most needed, even if that means combat. Part of me desperately wants to stay close to home, close to you and Emily. But as I said before, Marines don't get to choose.
Whatever happens, I'll face it with the training and discipline I've learned here. I'll make you proud.
Sunday, June 3, 1917 - Fourth Letter Home
My Darling Emily,
Halfway through. Four weeks down, four to go. Each day that passes brings me closer to the end of training and closer to seeing you again, even if only briefly before I receive my permanent assignment.
This week we finally got to fire our rifles. Emily, I wish I could describe the feeling adequately. There's this moment of perfect stillness just before you squeeze the trigger—your breathing slows, your heartbeat steadies, the whole world narrows down to just you and the target. Then the explosion of sound and recoil, and a split second later, the satisfaction of seeing your bullet strike home.
I'm good at it. Better than I expected to be. The drill instructor said I have "natural talent," which might be the first compliment I've received since arriving here. Apparently all those years of detailed work at Marston's—checking orders, balancing accounts, spotting tiny discrepancies in numbers—has given me the kind of focused attention and steady hands that make for good marksmanship.
Who would have thought that being a floorwalker would prepare me to be a Marine?
But even as I learn these skills, I'm troubled by what they mean. I'm learning to put bullets into targets shaped like men. I'm being trained to kill efficiently and without hesitation. The instructors talk about "the enemy" as if they're not really people, just problems to be solved with bullets and bayonets.
I understand the necessity. We're at war. Men are dying in France. If I'm going to survive combat, I need these skills. But it still feels wrong somehow, like I'm losing a part of myself that I valued—the part that believed in kindness and avoiding violence.
Do you think less of me for admitting that? Do you wish I was braver, more eager to fight? Because I'm not brave, Emily. I'm scared. I'm good at following orders and executing drills, but underneath the discipline and the training, I'm just a young man from San Diego who'd rather be walking with you by the harbor than learning to kill.
But I can't be that person right now. Right now, I have to be a Marine. And Marines don't doubt, don't hesitate, don't question their training or their mission.
I received your letter asking about the other recruits, wanting to know if I've made friends. I have. Private Keller remains my closest companion here—he's a good man, honest and strong and deeply homesick for Nebraska. There's also Private Martinez, who worked in his family's restaurant in Los Angeles and dreams of opening his own place someday. And Private Sullivan from San Francisco, a former dock worker who's built like a bear and has a surprisingly gentle personality.
We help each other through the hard moments. When Keller was ready to give up during a particularly brutal physical training session, Martinez and I practically carried him through it. When I was struggling with bayonet training, Sullivan showed me a trick for using my smaller size to my advantage. When Martinez received a letter saying his grandmother had died and he couldn't go home for the funeral, we all sat with him in the barracks and shared stories about our own loved ones.
This is what the Marines don't tell you in the recruitment posters. It's not just about individual courage or strength. It's about the bonds you form with the men beside you. We're being forged into something together—not just individual Marines, but a unit that functions as one.
Your letter mentioned that you've been walking past my parents' house on 30th Street sometimes, just to feel closer to me. That image—you standing outside the house where I grew up, thinking of me—it breaks my heart and heals it at the same time. You're keeping me alive, Emily. Not physically, but spiritually. You're the reason I get up every morning and face another day of training.
I've been thinking about our future a lot lately. The house in North Park with the garden and fruit trees. Children, maybe? We've never talked about that, but I find myself imagining a little girl with your brown hair and blue eyes, or a boy we could teach to be brave and kind. Is that too much to hope for?
Or maybe I should just focus on surviving the next four weeks of training first. Then surviving whatever assignment I receive after that. Then surviving the war. One step at a time.
But it helps to have dreams, Emily. It helps to imagine a future worth fighting for.
Four more weeks. Then I'll see you again, even if just for a day or two before I'm sent wherever Marines go next. I'll hold you and kiss you and remind myself why all of this matters.
Until then, I remain completely and eternally yours.
P.S. - I'm enclosing a photograph that we all had taken this week. I'm the one the left of this picture. Look how different I appear from just four weeks ago. I barely recognize myself.
Here is the Video Overview of this post by Google NotebookLM:
This is historical fiction based on the facts that are available for the life and family of my maternal grandparents, Lyle and Emily(Auble) Carringer. It is based on my research, social history and society norms at the time and place, and it is likely realistic. It might have happened this way.
Stay tuned for the next chapters in this family story.
Here are the previous chapters:
- Emily and Lyle's Story: The Dance.
- Emily and Lyle’s Story: A San Diego Romance In 1917.
- Emily and Lyle’s Story: The Promise Made.
- Emily and Lyle’s Story: Letters From Boot Camp – Part 1, May 1917
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