Letters from Boot Camp: Lyle's Next Two Weeks as
a Marine, May-June 1917
Sunday, May 27, 1917 - Third Letter Home
Marine Barracks, Balboa Park
San
Diego, California
Sunday, May 27, 1917
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.
Your son,
Lyle
======================================
Sunday, June 3, 1917 - Fourth Letter Home
Marine Barracks, Balboa Park
San
Diego, California
Sunday, June 3, 1917
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.
All my love,
Lyle
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.
(Lyle Carringer and friends at Boot Camp in 1917 - from family sources)
...to be continued
==============================
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:
==============================================
Copyright (c) 2026, Randall J. Seaver
Please comment on this post on the website by clicking the URL above and then the "Comments" link at the bottom of each post. Share it on X, Facebook, or Pinterest using the icons below. Or contact me by email at randy.seaver@gmail.com. Note that all comments are moderated, so they may not appear immediately. Subscribe to receive a free daily email from Genea-Musings using www.Blogtrottr.com.
