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 five 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 fourth 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. The fifth post for Weeks 3 and 4 are in Emily and Lyle’s Story: Letters From Boot Camp – Part 2, May-June 1917.
I asked my AI Assistant Anthropic Claude to tell the story of Emily and Lyle in June (weeks 5 and 6) 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:
Emily and Lyle’s Story:
Letters From Boot Camp – Weeks 5 and 6
Sunday, June 10, 1917 - Fifth Letter Home
Dear Mother and Father,
Week five is complete, and we are now firmly into the marksmanship phase of training. Every day is spent at the rifle range—learning positions, breathing techniques, trigger control, sight alignment. My world has narrowed to the space between my rifle and the target downrange.
I am becoming quite proficient. This week I qualified with both rifle and pistol, scoring well enough that the instructors have stopped criticizing my shooting (though they still find plenty of other things to yell about). There's something deeply satisfying about the precision required—it reminds me of accounting work, actually. Every variable must be controlled, every movement must be exact, or the result will be off target.
The pistol training was particularly interesting. The M1911 Colt .45 is a powerful weapon with substantial recoil. The first time I fired it, the kick nearly knocked it out of my hand. But by the end of the week, I was placing shots consistently in the center mass of the target. The instructor said I have "surprisingly good pistol marksmanship for a man your size." I'm choosing to focus on the compliment rather than the qualification.
Private Keller continues to outshoot everyone in our unit. He grew up hunting, and it shows. But I'm holding my own, which is all I can ask for. Some of the other men—particularly the city boys who'd never touched a gun before—are struggling. We help them when we can, offering tips and encouragement during breaks.
The physical training has become almost routine now. What seemed impossible five weeks ago now feels merely difficult. I can scale the wall without assistance, climb the rope to the top, run the course without stopping. My body has adapted to the demands being placed on it, though I'm still the slightest man in the unit.
We had our uniforms tailored this week. Everything was too large when they issued them—standard sizes don't account for men of my build. Now my uniforms actually fit properly, and I must admit, I look more like a Marine than I did before. Mother, if you saw me now in my dress blues, you might not recognize your son. I certainly don't look like the floorwalker from Marston's anymore.
There's been increased talk this week about assignments. Rumors fly constantly through the barracks—we're all going to France, we're all staying in San Diego, half will go overseas and half will remain for specialized training. No one actually knows anything, but that doesn't stop the speculation.
The truth is, I'm torn. Part of me wants to serve where I'm most needed, even if that means combat in France. But part of me desperately hopes to remain close to home, close to you and Emily. Is it cowardice to hope for a safe assignment? Or is it just human nature?
Three more weeks. Then we'll know.
The weather has been beautiful lately—classic San Diego June, with morning fog burning off to warm, sunny afternoons. It seems strange that such pleasant weather can coexist with preparation for war. But I suppose the world goes on regardless of human conflicts.
I think often of our home on 30th Street, of the garden, of quiet evenings on the porch. Those memories sustain me when the training feels overwhelming. I know that whatever happens in the coming weeks and months, I'm fighting to preserve the possibility of more such evenings in the future.
Thank you for your continued letters and support. Knowing that you're proud of me makes this all worthwhile.
My Darling Emily,
Expert. I shot expert this week. Out of sixty men, only twelve of us qualified at that level. The drill instructor—the same one who called me "a scrawny excuse for a Marine" on my first day—actually congratulated me.
I should feel triumphant. And I do, in a way. But mostly I feel... complicated. I'm proud of the accomplishment. I'm proud that I started from nothing and achieved something that most men can't. But I'm also aware that these skills exist for one purpose: to kill efficiently from a distance.
Do you think less of me for being good at this? Does it change how you see me, knowing that I've become proficient at something so violent?
I'm sorry. I promised myself I wouldn't burden you with these doubts, but they keep surfacing. The closer we get to the end of training, the more real it all becomes. Soon this won't be practice anymore. Soon I might be in France, using these skills in actual combat. And I'm scared, Emily. Not of dying, exactly, but of what killing might do to me. Of whether I'll be able to live with myself afterward.
But let me tell you about something good that happened this week. We had a visiting chaplain come speak to us about the moral dimensions of military service. He talked about just war theory, about the difference between murder and legitimate combat, about how soldiers can maintain their humanity even while doing difficult things.
He said something that stuck with me: "You're not learning to kill. You're learning to protect. Every skill you master, every capability you develop, exists to defend those who cannot defend themselves. That's not murder. That's duty."
I want to believe that. I need to believe that. Because otherwise, what am I becoming?
Your letter this week was full of news about Marston's and San Diego life. Please keep writing about these ordinary things. Tell me about difficult customers and sunny afternoons and what you had for dinner. These details keep me connected to the real world, the world I'm supposedly fighting to preserve.
You mentioned that you and my mother had tea together last week. That image—you and Mother sitting in our parlor, talking about me—it fills my heart. My two favorite women in the world, supporting each other while I'm away. Thank you for that, Emily. Thank you for being there for my family while I cannot be.
Private Keller received devastating news this week. His father fell from the barn roof and broke his leg badly. The farm work is falling behind, and there's no one to help his mother and younger siblings. Keller wanted to request emergency leave, but boot camp is almost over anyway, and the Marines don't grant leave for non-fatal family emergencies. He's beside himself with worry and guilt, feeling like he abandoned his family when they needed him most.
I tried to comfort him, but what could I say? He did abandon them, in a sense. We all abandoned our families to be here. That's what service means—putting duty before personal desires, even when it tears your heart out.
Is that noble? Or just cruel?
Private Martinez's grandmother's estate has been settled, but not in a way that helps his family. The house they'd been living in was sold to pay debts, and now his mother and siblings need to find a new place to live. He's sending most of his pay home to help, but it's not nearly enough. He talks about deserting, about going AWOL to help his family, but we all know he won't. The consequences would be too severe, and it would dishonor everything we've worked for here.
These are the hidden costs of war that no one talks about. Not the bullets and the battles, but the families struggling at home, the emergencies that happen while we're away, the lives that continue without us while we're frozen in this military world.
But in two weeks, I'll see you again. We'll have a few days together before I receive my permanent assignment. I'll hold you and kiss you and remember why all of this matters. And maybe, just maybe, I'll be assigned somewhere close to San Diego and we won't have to be apart for long.
I'm trying not to hope too hard for that. Hope can be cruel when it's disappointed. But I can't help it. The thought of remaining near you, of being able to see you regularly even while serving—it's almost too good to imagine.
Two more weeks. Fourteen more days. Then I'll be in your arms again, even if only briefly.
I love you, Emily. I love you with a depth and intensity that surprises me sometimes. You're the reason I get up every morning and face another day of training. You're the reason I push through when everything hurts and I want to quit. You're my future, and futures are worth fighting for.
Wait for me just a little longer.
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
- Emily and Lyle’s Story: Letters From Boot Camp – Part 2, May-June 1917.
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