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 three 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.
I asked my AI Assistant Anthropic Claude to tell the story of Emily and Lyle in May as he started his eight weeks in the U.S. Marines Boot Camp in San Diego. Here is the next chapter of Emily and Lyle's story:
Emily and Lyle's Story:
Letters from Boot Camp - Part 1, May 1917
May 7, 1917 - Evening at Home
Lyle sat at the small desk in his bedroom at 2105 30th Street, staring at the enlistment papers he'd brought home from the Marine recruiting office downtown. His signature—"Lyle L. Carringer"—looked strange and formal at the bottom of the page.
Private Class 4, United States Marine Corps Reserve.
He'd actually done it. This morning he'd been a floorwalker at Marston's Department Store. Tonight he was a Marine. Well, almost. Tomorrow he would report to the Marine Barracks in Balboa Park to begin training.
His hand trembled slightly as he picked up his pen. Tomorrow everything would change. Tonight, he was still himself—still the slight young man who'd lived in this house almost his whole life, who'd never been anywhere but San Diego, who until four months ago had been too shy to talk to girls.
He heard his mother moving in the kitchen below, probably crying again. His father had been stoic at dinner, but Lyle had seen the worry in his eyes. At twenty-five, Lyle was their only child, and they were sending him off to war.
But he'd made his choice. He'd taken the oath. Tomorrow he would report for duty.
Lyle looked at the small framed photograph on his desk—Emily Auble, smiling at the camera, her brown hair catching the sunlight. He'd seen her today after work, and they had one last goodbye before he became something new.
He set down the pen without writing anything. Some thoughts were too big for words.
Sunday, May 13, 1917
Marine Barracks, Balboa Park
San
Diego, California
Sunday, May 13, 1917
Dear Mother and Father,
I hope this letter finds you both well. I wanted to write as soon as I had a spare moment to let you know that I have survived my first week as a United States Marine.
I hardly know where to begin. When I reported Tuesday morning, the sergeant who checked me in looked me up and down and said, "You're a scrawny one, aren't you?" I wanted to explain that I've always been slight, that I weigh only 125 pounds no matter how much I eat, but Marines don't explain themselves to sergeants. I'm learning that quickly.
They issued me a cot and a footlocker in the barracks—a long building with rows of beds on either side. There must be sixty men in here, maybe more. Some are from San Diego like me, but others have come from all over California and even beyond. The fellow in the cot next to mine is from a farm in Nebraska. He's never seen the ocean before.
The first thing they did was take away our civilian clothes. I'm writing this in my new uniform—it still feels strange, like I'm wearing a costume. Everything is khaki and stiff and smells new. They gave us two uniforms, underwear, socks, and boots that are slowly destroying my feet. I've never worn such heavy boots in my life.
The daily routine is relentless. We wake at 5:30 AM to a bugle call that sounds like the end of the world. Within minutes, we must be standing at attention beside our cots for inspection. Everything must be perfect—the blanket folded just so, the footlocker organized exactly as they showed us, our uniforms spotless. The drill instructors (we call them "hats" because of their distinctive campaign hats) find fault with everything. Nothing is ever good enough.
After inspection, we have thirty minutes to wash up and get breakfast in the mess hall. Then the real work begins. We spend hours drilling—learning to march in formation, to turn in unison, to handle our rifles (though many of us are still using wooden dummy guns because there aren't enough real rifles yet). Left face, right face, about face, forward march, halt. We do it over and over until our legs ache and our heads spin.
The physical training is harder than anything I've ever done. They have us climbing walls and ropes, doing calisthenics until our arms shake, running around the parade ground until I think my lungs will burst. I am not, I have discovered, in particularly good physical condition. The farm boy from Nebraska makes it all look easy. I struggle.
But I am trying, and I think that counts for something. The other men are in the same boat—some better conditioned, some worse. We help each other when the sergeants aren't watching. Yesterday a big fellow named Sullivan practically pushed me over the wall during scaling practice. I thanked him later, and he just grinned and said, "We're all Marines now. We look out for each other."
The food is plain but plentiful—more than I usually eat at home. Beans, bread, potatoes, some kind of meat at every meal. They're trying to put weight on us, I think. Mother, your cooking is better, but I'm grateful for every bite.
I miss home terribly. I miss my own bed, my own room, the quiet of 30th Street. But I also feel something I didn't expect—pride. When I look around at these men, all of us working to become Marines, all of us preparing to serve our country, I feel like I'm part of something bigger than myself.
Tell Emily that I'm thinking of her every day. I'll write to her separately, but please let her know I'm safe and well.
Your loving son,
Lyle
Sunday, May 20, 1917
Marine Barracks, Balboa Park
San
Diego, California
Sunday, May 20, 1917
My Darling Emily,
It feels strange to write to you knowing you're only a few miles away, yet I might as well be on the other side of the world. The Marine Barracks might as well be another country entirely.
I've survived my first two weeks, though "survived" might be generous. I'm exhausted in ways I didn't know were possible. Every muscle in my body aches, and my feet are covered in blisters from these awful boots. But I don't want you to worry—I'm managing, and I'm told it gets easier.
Or rather, we get stronger. I'm not sure it actually gets easier.
The strangest part is how quickly civilian life feels distant. It's only been thirteen days since I kissed you goodbye, but that moment already seems like it happened to someone else. The man who walked you home from Marston's, who held your hand by the harbor, who made promises about gardens and fruit trees—I'm still him, but I'm also becoming something new. Something harder.
The drill instructors are constantly yelling. I don't think I've heard a single sentence delivered in a normal tone of voice since I arrived. Everything is shouted, every word is an accusation, every moment is a test. "Carringer, you call that a salute? My grandmother salutes better than that, and she's been dead ten years!" This sort of thing, all day, every day.
But there are good moments too. The other recruits are decent fellows, mostly. We share stories in the barracks after lights out, whispering so the sergeants don't hear. There's a man from Los Angeles who worked as a streetcar conductor, another who was a fisherman in San Pedro, a college student from Berkeley who enlisted the day after war was declared. We come from different places, different lives, but we're all here for the same reason.
I think of you constantly. During the endless drilling, I imagine you at Marston's, helping customers select gloves. During physical training, when my arms are shaking from holding myself up on the rope, I think about walking with you through Balboa Park. During mess hall meals, I remember our picnic at Ocean Beach.
These memories keep me going when I want to collapse. Because every day I survive here is one day closer to coming home to you.
Your letter arrived on Wednesday, and I must have read it twenty times. Knowing that you think of me as often as I think of you makes this separation almost bearable. Almost.
I may be slowly transforming into something that resembles a Marine. We finally received real rifles this weekend—Springfield Model 1903s. They're beautiful weapons, heavy and solid, and I'm learning to handle mine with something approaching competence. We haven't fired them yet (that comes in the final three weeks), but we've been drilling endlessly with them—learning to present arms, to shoulder arms, to order arms. There are at least a dozen different positions, each with its own specific movements, and woe betide the recruit who mixes them up.
I thought of you particularly during bayonet training. The instructors were teaching us to be aggressive, to attack with determination, to think of the enemy as something less than human so we can do what needs to be done. It troubled me, Emily. I've never been a violent person. The idea of deliberately hurting someone, even an enemy soldier, feels wrong.
But then I remembered why I'm here. I'm not fighting because I want to hurt people. I'm fighting to protect people. To protect you, and Mother and Father, and everyone in San Diego who deserves to live in peace. When I think of it that way, the training makes more sense. I'm not learning to be cruel. I'm learning to be capable of defending those I love.
The physical training continues to challenge me. I'm still the smallest and slightest man in my unit, but I'm no longer the weakest. There's a fellow from Sacramento who's even less athletic than I am, if you can believe it. We encourage each other, which helps.
We had boxing this week. I was terrible at it, but I tried my best. The instructor said I have "more heart than skill," which I choose to take as a compliment. I landed a few good punches and only got knocked down once. I'm counting that as a victory.
I've made a friend—Private Keller, from Nebraska. He's never been to a city before, never seen the ocean, never used indoor plumbing until he enlisted. Can you imagine? He's homesick for his family's farm, and I'm homesick for San Diego, so we commiserate together. He reminds me a bit of you, actually—straightforward, honest, kind. He doesn't understand why I enlisted when I could have waited for the draft, and I tried to explain about wanting to choose my own service, about wanting to prove myself. I don't think he entirely understands, but he respects it.
Your letter mentioned that work at Marston's continues as usual. I'm glad. It comforts me to know that the ordinary world is still there, still functioning, while we prepare for war. Tell me more about the everyday things—what the weather is like, what customers say, what you had for dinner. These details keep me connected to the life I'm fighting to return to.
You asked if I regret enlisting. The honest answer is: sometimes. When my whole body aches and the drill instructors are screaming and I haven't slept enough and all I want is to be holding your hand by the harbor—yes, in those moments, I regret it.
But then I remember that this war is happening whether I'm part of it or not. American boys are going to fight and die in France. By enlisting, by training to be a Marine, I'm at least trying to be ready for what's coming. And maybe, if I'm well-trained enough, skilled enough, strong enough, I'll survive to come home to you.
That's what keeps me going, my love. Not the shouting or the discipline or the pride of wearing this uniform. It's the thought of you, waiting for me, believing in me. It's the promise of our future—the house in North Park, the garden with fruit trees, a life of quiet happiness together.
I will come home to you, Emily. I will survive this training, survive this war, and come home. And then we'll begin the life we've planned.
Until then, I remain wholly and completely yours.
All my love,
Lyle
...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:
- 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.
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