Here is the latest chapter in the story of the courtship and early married life and times of my maternal grandparents, Emily Auble and Lyle Carringer, who married in June 1918. The background information and the list of chapters of their life together are listed at the end of this post. This is historical fiction with real people and real events, and is how it might have been.
And now we are up to the week that Lyle reported for duty in the Post Exachange at the U.S. Marines Boot Camp.
I asked my AI Assistant Anthropic Claude to tell the story of Emily and Lyle in August 1917 when he started work as a Private at the U.S. Marines Base. Here is the next chapter of Emily and Lyle's story:
(AI Google NotebookLM Infographic: Lyle's First Day at the PX)
Behind the Counter: Lyle's First
Days at the Post Exchange, August 1917
Sunday, August 6, 1917 — First Day of Duty
The bugle at the Marine Barracks in Balboa Park sounded at
five-thirty as always, but this particular morning Lyle was already
awake. He'd been awake since four, lying on his bunk in the
half-dark, watching the ceiling lighten by degrees and thinking about
what the day would bring. Boot camp was behind him now. This was real
service.
He dressed carefully, checked his uniform in the small mirror
above his footlocker, and made his way to the mess hall for breakfast
while the first fingers of August light touched the Spanish Colonial
rooftops of the park buildings. Over powdered eggs and strong coffee,
he reviewed everything he knew about his assignment. Post Exchange,
commonly called the PX. The store that served the base's enlisted
men, officers, and civilian staff—selling the things a military man
needed day to day, the small comforts that made barracks life
bearable.
It was, Lyle thought with a certain private amusement, not
entirely unlike Marston's Department Store. Smaller, less refined,
considerably louder, and with a clientele that was less interested in
courtesy than in getting what they needed and moving on. But a store
nonetheless.
His supervisor, Corporal Raymond Briggs, was waiting for him when
he arrived at the PX at six forty-five. Briggs was a compact,
efficient man of thirty with a veteran's economy of motion, a pencil
perpetually behind his ear, and the look of someone who had long
since stopped being surprised by anything.
"Carringer," he said, without preamble. "Auditor
background. I read your file."
"Yes, Corporal."
"Good. I've had privates behind this counter who couldn't add
two and two with a pencil and paper. Don't be one of those." He
gestured around the long, wood-paneled room. "You know what a PX
is?"
"I've been briefed, Corporal."
"Being briefed and understanding are different things. Walk
with me."
The Post Exchange occupied a solid building near the northwest end
of the barracks compound. Briggs walked Lyle through it at a pace
that suggested this tour would happen once and only once. Along the
right-hand wall ran a long wooden counter with three cash
registers—actual mechanical registers, not the central cashier
system Lyle remembered from his earliest days at Marston's. Behind
the counter, shelves reached to the ceiling, organized with military
precision. Tobacco products—Lucky Strike cigarettes, Bull Durham
rolling tobacco, cigars in three grades—occupied the top shelves.
Below them sat shaving supplies: Gillette razors, Williams shaving
soap, Mennen's talc, witch hazel. Then candy—Hershey bars, hard
candies in glass jars, chewing gum. Then stationery, stamps, writing
paper, envelopes, pencils.
Along the left wall, a separate section handled official needs:
uniform replacement items, insignia, boot polish, brass cleaner,
regulation notebooks. At the far end, a short soda counter offered
Coca-Cola, ginger ale, and a lemon phosphate that Briggs said was
popular with the officers.
"Money orders are behind the main counter," Briggs
continued. "We issue those from eight to six only—no
exceptions, even for officers who claim urgency. If an officer gives
you trouble about that, refer him to me." He paused. "Actually,
refer any trouble to me. Your job for the first week is the register
and restocking. After that, we'll see about the books."
"I understand, Corporal."
"The morning shift runs seven to three, afternoon one to
nine. You're on afternoons until further notice. Sundays are your
busiest day—recruits who've earned liberty spend it here before
they go into town. Officers come in before church. Everyone wants
tobacco. You will run out of Lucky Strikes by noon and it will not be
your fault, but someone will blame you for it anyway."
Lyle absorbed all of this with the attention he'd developed at
Marston's—the part of his mind that filed details automatically,
cross-referencing them against what he already knew.
"One more thing," Briggs said, stopping at the cash
register and fixing Lyle with a level look. "Your drawer opens
with thirty dollars in change. It closes at the end of your shift
with the same thirty dollars plus whatever you've taken in. I
reconcile every drawer, every shift, against the sales slips. If your
count is off, I want to know why. If your count is off more than
once, I want to know a great deal more than why."
"It won't be off, Corporal."
"Good." Briggs almost smiled. "Private Hennessey
will show you the ropes until noon, then you're on your own."
Private First Class Hennessey turned out to be a red-haired
Californian from Sacramento who'd worked in a hardware store before
enlisting and had a gift for rapid, cheerful service that Lyle
immediately recognized as genuine retail talent. He moved behind the
counter with practiced ease, called out product locations without
looking, and kept the line moving with a brisk cordiality that never
tipped into familiarity.
"Watch for the old sergeants," Hennessey murmured to
Lyle between customers. "They know the stock better than we do
and they'll tell you if you shortchange them. Watch for the new
recruits—they're nervous and they'll try to buy everything at once
with money they haven't got. And watch for the officers who come in
during the evening. After a long day, some of them aren't at their
most patient."
"Noted," Lyle said.
The first hour was manageable. A steady trickle of men—mostly
enlisted, a few sergeants, one lieutenant who wanted a specific brand
of pipe tobacco that turned out to be on the second shelf behind the
cigars. By mid-morning the trickle became a stream. Sunday meant the
recruits who'd earned liberty were coming through before heading into
San Diego proper, and they came with lists: cigarettes, writing
paper, stamps, a candy bar or two, sometimes a money order to send
home. They came in their good uniforms, still awkward in them, their
faces showing that particular mix of pride and uncertainty that Lyle
recognized from his own boot camp experience just weeks before.
"First week?" he asked one particularly young-looking
private who was buying a pad of stationery and three stamps with the
careful deliberation of a man counting every penny.
"Yes, sir," the boy said, then caught himself. "Private,
I mean."
"Don't worry about it." Lyle bagged his purchase. "Get
a letter home soon. Your family wants to hear from you."
"Yes sir—Private." The boy grinned and moved on.
By noon the line was constant, and Lyle found his rhythm. The
movements became automatic—greet the customer, locate the items,
work the register, count back the change, next man, next man, next
man. His hands moved with the confident precision of someone who had
handled money and customers for over a decade. Briggs watched from a
distance during the early afternoon and said nothing, which Lyle
recognized as approval.
The soda counter saw its heaviest traffic in the late afternoon,
when officers stopped in after training sessions. Two lieutenants and
a captain occupied the three stools for forty minutes, discussing
aircraft they'd seen demonstrated at Rockwell Field across the bay on
North Island. Lyle caught fragments while restocking tobacco—Jenny
biplanes, a new training program, pilot candidates arriving from
across the country.
By seven o'clock, the evening rush was in full swing. This was
when the men who hadn't gone on liberty spent their Sunday evening at
the PX—buying cigarettes, reading the newspapers tacked to the
wall, nursing sodas at the counter, exchanging the informal currency
of gossip and complaint that lubricates life in any institution.
At eight-thirty, Lyle began his end-of-shift reconciliation. He
cleared his register methodically, sorted the bills and coins,
counted twice, checked his sales slips against his totals, and
prepared his report. When Briggs came to check, Lyle's count was
exactly correct—not off by a cent.
Briggs counted it himself without comment, then made a notation in
his ledger. "Tomorrow you start at one," he said. "Get
some sleep."
"Yes, Corporal." Lyle began restocking the candy
display, which had been decimated by the evening traffic.
"Carringer." Briggs paused in the doorway. "Good
first shift."
Lyle allowed himself a small smile at the shelf of candy bars.
High praise, from Corporal Briggs.
Sunday Evening — The Letter
Back in the barracks, Lyle sat on his bunk and opened his writing
kit. The noise of the barracks filled the air around
him—conversation, laughter, the occasional argument—but he'd
learned to write through all of it.
He dated the letter and began:
My Darling Emily,
My first day at the PX is behind me and I'm pleased to report
that no one went without their tobacco on my account, and my cash
drawer was precisely correct to the penny at the end of shift. I
believe Corporal Briggs found this almost disappointing — I think
he expected a new man to make at least one error he could document.
My next day off is Thursday. I'll be at your door by nine
o'clock if that suits. I want to hear everything about your week —
the customers, the weather, what your mother has been cooking. Tell
her I'm hoping for gingerbread.
I love you more than a Sunday evening in these barracks can
diminish. Which is saying something.
Forever yours,
Lyle
To be continued...
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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.
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Copyright (c) 2026, Randall J. Seaver
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