A Few Good Women: Memoirs of a World War Ii Marine

By Inga Fredriksen Ferris

A Few Good Women is the true story of a group of women who served in the Marine Corps during World War II. They came from different backgrounds, with nothing in common but youth, naivety, health, and a desire to serve their country.

Boot camp training molded them into Marines, united as one and proud of the Corps. Marine Commandant Alexander Vandergrift credited these women with freeing enough men to put the 6th Marine Division into the field.

Laced with humor and wartime nostalgia, this book gives insight to the beginning of women´s military liberation.

"A candid, often graphic, personal account that provides a long-overdue salute to the valiant, innovative women who served their country well."

      Ted Fuller, columnist and author of "Seniors Need 12 Hugs a Day"

"For me, this book was a step back in time, an honest, vivid account of what life was like for Women Marines who served in World War II. The fast-paced dialogue with clear verbal expressions make for a quick and enjoyable read."

      Virginia Allred, USMCWR WWII
Past National President, Women Marines Association

"As a former High School Teacher of Compository English, I give it an A+. ´A Few Good Women´ is most interesting, and extremely well written."

      John Egan, USMC, Pearl Harbor survivor

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Aug 5, 2002
• ISBN: 9781462807642

Inga Fredriksen Ferris

<> Inga Ferris, now widowed, lives in Martinez, California, close to her children, grandchildren, and great-grandchild. Having retired from the Contra Costa County Courthouse, where she worked as microfilm supervisor for the County Clerk-Recorder, she now divides her time between baby sitting and writing. She is a member of the California Writer's club, and is active in both the Women Marines Association, and the Marine Corps League.

Book preview

Copyright © 2002 by Inga Fredriksen Ferris.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

All of the stories told here are true, though some names have been changed.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

[e-mail]

14685

Contents

SPECIAL THANKS TO:

BACKGROUND

INTRODUCTION

CHAPTER 1.

MAKING CAMP

CHAPTER 2.

DAY ONE

CHAPTER 3.

WEARING DOWN THE BOOTS

CHAPTER 4.

TAILOR SHOP

CHAPTER 5.

GETTING THE DI

CHAPTER 6.

FIRST CHOICE

CHAPTER 7.

ON THAT TRAIN AND GONE

CHAPTER 8.

THE BUNK MATE

CHAPTER 9.

ORIENTATION

CHAPTER 10.

SATURDAY REVIEW

CHAPTER 11.

WE HAD CLASS

CHAPTER 12.

SINCERELY MELVIN

CHAPTER 13.

CONFIRMATION OF WHALEN

CHAPTER 14.

OUT OF BOUNDS

CHAPTER 15.

THE PRICE OF LIBERTY

CHAPTER 16.

WAIT AND HURRY UP

CHAPTER 17.

THE POUNDING OF THE WAVES

CHAPTER 18:

HE IS MY BROTHER

CHAPTER 19:

PAYDAYS AND LETTERS FROM HOME

CHAPTER 20:

INDIAN JOE

CHAPTER 21.

WHEN WINTERS CAME

CHAPTER 22.

FROM Z TO A

CHAPTER 23.

TOP MAN

CHAPTER 24.

THE PARTY

CHAPTER 25.

THANKSGIVING MESS

CHAPTER 26.

CHICAGO

CHAPTER 27.

EN ROUTE

CHAPTER 28.

THE STEPFATHER

CHAPTER 29.

CLIFF HANGERS

CHAPTER 30.

CHRISTMAS DAY 1944

CHAPTER 31.

PAPIER-MACHE IN THE ATTIC

CHAPTER 32.

FRATERNIZING

CHAPTER 33.

A REAL SKIRT WATCHER

CHAPTER 34.

JETER AND THE GOVERNOR

CHAPTER 35.

DANCING AT THE HOLLYWOOD CANTEEN

CHAPTER 36.

LOVE AND WAR

CHAPTER 37.

STORE WINDOW REFLECTIONS

CHAPTER 38.

I SHOULD HAVE SKIPPED DESSERT

CHAPTER 39.

THE CHILD

CHAPTER 40.

THE PACIFIC THEATER, THE EL TORO THEATER, AND THE END OF THE SHOW

CHAPTER 41.

FOR A STRAWBERRY WAFFLE

CHAPTER 42.

LOST ALMOST

CHAPTER 43.

WELCOME HOME THE BOYS

CHAPTER 44.

AIR BASE GROUP TWO

CHAPTER 45.

THE SANDWICH MILL

CHAPTER 46.

UPSTAIRS LOUNGE

MEMORIAL

CHAPTER 47.

MUSTERING OUT AT EL TORO

CHAPTER 48.

LIFE WITHOUT KILGALLEN

CHAPTER 49.

LAUNDRY DELIVERY

CHAPTER 50.

THE LAST CHAPTER

A FEW GOOD WOMEN is dedicated to all of the women who served the cause of freedom in the greatest war the world has ever known. And to Mary Gertrude Kilgallen Crowley, who inspired me to record some of the events that took place in our little corner of that war.

SPECIAL THANKS TO:

My late husband, Milt Ferris, who, early in our marriage, introduced me to the joys of writing while I worked with him, publishing his weekly newspaper in Joshua Tree, California.

And to my first born, the late Kirk Ferris, for helping me select my first computer, son Lloyd Ferris for teaching me how to use it, and daughter Vikke Phalen, who interested Curtis Corlew, her gifted friend, in designing the cover. Curtis, you were an inspiration!

Thanks also to the writers in my critique group, who taught me the meaning of the word cut:

Dorothy Bodwell, Dottie Brendlen, Virginia Crill, Jacque Hall, Laura Leonard, and Fran Wojnar.

And most especially to my friends, Nat and Kay Carleton, for that meaningful final edit.

*      *      *

Front cover photo taken by Sgt. Anna Tierney (Williams) on a hitchhiking trip through Boulder City, Colorado following author’s discharge.

BACKGROUND

Tuesday, September 5,1939

John Marshall High School

Chicago, Illinois

You boys, here in this classroom, will be called to fight in the greatest, most devastating war the world has ever known.

That’s how Mrs. Busby began our senior World History course at Marshall High. She had just returned from sabbatical leave in Europe, where she witnessed the mounting tension.

I glanced around the room at the boys, eagerly raising their hands with questions. Who, among them, would have to go?

The following spring I covered my yearbook with the front page of a newspaper. The headlines read, PARIS FALLS. The boys in that history class would soon register for the draft.

After graduating I found work with Burny Brothers Bakeries and assumed support of my widowed mother. A year later she inherited a home in Portland, Oregon and in October, 1941, I joined her there.

On the morning of December 7th I was working in the bakery section of a Fred Meyers department store when a customer came in with the news. Japan had bombed Pearl Harbor.

A woman working across the aisle from me had a son stationed there. She fled to the women’s locker room and cried. She returned later, red-eyed, and finished her day.

As Portland prepared for war, I applied at the employment office for defense work. They gave me a letter of introduction, and sent me to a place called Radio Specialty Mfg. Co. They knew how to grind radio crystals that were desperately needed in walkie talkies to communicate with our men on the fighting fronts. During the next two years it grew, and in December of 1943 we earned the Army Navy E for our contribution to the war effort.

INTRODUCTION

There’s A War Going On

Portland, Oregon. One Sunday in February, 1944

My mother motioned Tom, her gentleman friend, to follow her outside. Come see how my victory garden is growing.

Instead, he came into the dining room and watched as I stitched the long leg seam of a pair of work pants. Leaning his large frame against the bookcase, he said, Inga, we have to talk.

I removed my feet from the treadle and turned to him. Sure Tom. What’s on your mind?

I’d like to marry Sadie. Raising his voice, he added, I want to ask your mother to marry me.

I had been wondering when he was going to get around to it. That’s wonderful, Tom. She’s very fond of you.

But something bothers me. He scratched his head, rearranging a thick growth of gray hair. You have a very good job. I’m just a night watchman at Kaiser Shipyards. I couldn’t do for her the same way you do.

I was the first woman my company had hired for work in a field vital to the war effort. It paid well, but I knew the job would last only for the duration of the war. Before I could protest, my mother came in waving a fistful of radishes.

Look at the size of these!

Tom followed her to the kitchen sink. A tall, portly gentleman with a kind face, he towered over my mother, who was shorter, soft and round. She put an apron on him to protect his suit. Then she stood back and they laughed.

I got the machine humming again, but my mind was not on the work pants. Why did Tom feel he had to compete with me? While it was true I was well paid, and supported my mother, I couldn’t fill the empty place in her life, my father’s death had left.

I stitched the waistband on backwards.

Dinner’s ready. Come and get it.

The meatloaf looked like it had taken our whole week’s meat ration. Tom relished every bite of it and took seconds of everything. That seemed to please my mother.

When we had finished eating he said, Sadie, I’ll help you with the dishes so we can get an early start. Turning to me he added, We’re going to the dance at the Lonesome Club tonight.

I’ll get these, I assured them. You two run along.

My mother had said that to me many times when my date had come to dinner. Had we switched roles? The thought sent me flying through the dishes so that I, too, could run along.

Leaving the waistband problem for another day, I hurried down the hill to catch the Foster bus. There would be juke box dancing at the USO, where I was a junior hostess.

The next morning it was raining hard when I left for work. Leaving my hair in pin curls, I stuffed a couple layers of waxed paper under my babushka and headed out into the wet darkness.

We were near the end of the line so the 5:15 bus was almost empty. The ride would take forty-five minutes. More if the bridge was up. I settled into a window seat in the back.

As more workers entered, the smell of wet wool, mingling with rubber raincoats and old leather work boots, soon filled the air. Before I had time to think about what Tom had said yesterday, a large, buxom woman took the seat beside me.

You with Kaiser Shipyards?

No, I work at Radio Specialty.

You’re not working for the war?

Oh yes. I am.

She nodded approval. I’m a welder at the shipyards, she began, and talked for the rest of the trip. By the time we reached her stop, just over the bridge, I had heard the story of her life, and had no time to think about my own. I transferred to a Powell bus for the short ride to Glisan.

Due to coffee rationing, and my mother’s dependency on it, I had my first cup at Marie’s, a cafe near the plant. At that hour it was always filled with Coast Guards who preferred Marie’s aromatic brew to the mud served in the galley. Their station was directly across the street from us. They called it The USS Ninth and Glisan.

An incident had occurred shortly after we moved in. It was summer and all of our windows, as well as theirs, were left wide open. The women on my crew got the giggles every time they saw a Coast Guard walk past in shorts, or wrapped in a towel. The day a towel dropped they let out a scream that was heard across the street. That afternoon their windows were nailed shut and painted battleship gray.

I entered Marie’s and took an empty stool at the counter to the right of Petty Officer 1st Class Merriweather. His wife worked in the cutting room at the plant.

Marie poured me a cup of coffee. I really needed that.

A female Coast Guard strutted in and took the stool on the other side of me. These women were called SPARS. The name is taken from the Coast Guard motto, Semper Paratus—Always Ready. She looked sharp and trim in her Navy blue uniform. I had wanted a suit that color, but couldn’t get the material. All available blue dye was needed now for military uniforms.

The mirror behind the counter reflected a depressing contrast between us. My orange plaid babushka had slipped back, exposing layers of waxed paper over dishwater blonde pin curls. I yanked it forward.

Merriweather noticed that I was watching her. Inga, he grinned, „when are you going to join us?"

How I wished that I could! I now felt my mother would be cared for if I enlisted, but I had been trained in vital defense work, so I was trapped. They called it „frozen on the job."

„Merri, this morning I‘m ready to sign up, but it wouldn‘t be right. Besides, Ken probably wouldn‘t let me.

„Who‘s Ken? Your boy friend?"

„No. I don‘t have a boy friend. One date with me and they ship out. But I‘ve got the longest list of pen pals in town."

To answer his question I added, „Ken Johnson is the plant manager. Maybe you‘ve seen him in here. He‘s that tall slim blond, wears glasses. I don‘t know what he‘d do without me."

„Simple. He‘d hire somebody else."

„It‘s not that easy, Merri. I was the first woman he hired. He spent a lot of time training me, and now I train the crews. By the time he had someone else knowing everything he‘s taught me, this war could be over."

He burst into a loud guffaw. „War? What war? You mean there‘s a war going on?"

Every Coast Guard in Marie‘s heard that remark. They joined in the laughter and added a few remarks of their own.

„Do you see a war?"

„No, I don‘t see a war."

This was a sensitive subject for them. It was their job to protect the coast from invasion, but so far it had been quiet.

It was beginning to get light. My coffee finished, I took one last envious look at the SPAR. Then, checking to make sure my babushka hid the pin curls, I headed for the plant.

I found Ken upstairs at my desk, reading The Oregonian. I glanced at the headllnes: FIRST MARINE DIVISION TAKES TALASEA.

He looked up. Inga, he began in his quiet way, „as soon as you have your girls set up, come to my office. We need to talk."

After the talk with Tom yesterday, I thought I was ready for anything. „I‘ll be there," I said, and he left.

I hung my wet coat on a hook in the cloak room and let my hair down quickly, anxious to know what was on Ken‘s mind. I sensed, by hls manner, it was important.

When the seven o‘clock whistle blew, my crew had their sched-ules and they were working. I hurried downstairs to Ken’s office. He was studying a number of papers spread over his desk. The forms were not familiar to me.

These reports came in from St. Louis late Saturday, right after you left, he began. They’re going to completely change our method of finishing crystals.

The plant in St. Louis was the only other manufacturer of radio crystals used by the Army Signal Corps. It was not as large as ours, but it met the same high standards of performance. I listened intently.

They’ve found a way to etch the crystals down to frequency in acid. It will give them a stronger, more stable activity with much less hand work than we’re having to do now. I’ve already talked to them this morning.

I looked at my watch.

It’s two hours later there, he said.

We’re switching over to this new method as soon as we can. You’ll need to retrain the crew to an entirely new system. They’re sending their man out to explain it and help us get started. Any questions?

Yes. Does this mean everything you’ve taught me about finishing radio crystals is now obsolete?

Well, most of it. Ken paused thoughtfully. It’s like the finishing crew is starting over again. What’s on your mind?

May I have some time off later this morning?

By ten o’clock I was in the Coast Guard recruiting office. While I tried to imagine how it would feel to wear her uniform, the SPAR recruiter raved on about the great life I would have as one of them.

They try to station you near your home, she said. I’m from Eugene, so I get down there every weekend. There’s so few of us, they put us up in apartments and give us subsistence pay to cover the cost of our food. You’ll probably get stationed here in Portland, so you can continue to live at home.

She handed me an application.

"And you can be thankful you’re not joining the Marines. When

I took basic training at Hunter College, we drilled the same time they did, with just a chain link fence between us. Every once in a while we’d take a break and rest, you know? But those Marine DIs wouldn’t let their girls relax for a minute. They had to drill the full hour, nonstop.

And those Women Marines never know where they’re going to go. They get sent all over the country.

I put my pen down. May I use your phone book?

Oh sure, she said. Turning smartly to reach for it, she added, You need a phone number for one of your references?

No. I shook my head. I want to locate the Women Marine’s recruiting office.

*      *      *

14685-FERR-layout.pdf

CHAPTER 1.

MAKING CAMP

May 4, 1944. New River, North Carolina

The troop train lurched to a stop. It was time, now, to leave the Pullman car that had been my home for six days. I really needed a bath.

New River, North Carolina, the porter’s voice rang out in rich baritone. End of the line for you Marines. Watch your step, ladies.

Margaret Elder had taken the berth below me when we boarded in Portland, Oregon. An attractive girl, she was about my age and almost as tall. Sitting across from me now, she ran a comb through her auburn locks one more time and glanced out the window.

The station’s empty. Nothing here but a few stray pigeons.

When the porter opened the door I knew she was wrong. A woman was out there, and she was shouting at us. All right you boots, step out. STEP … OUT!

I jumped up and edged a long, lean leg into an already crowded aisle. Elder was close behind.

I said step out. STEP OUT! On the double now!

That wasn’t a very friendly way for her to greet us. Recruits up ahead were tripping over each other trying to get out. Nearing the door, I saw her. That had to be the biggest, meanest looking woman Marine sergeant they could find. Elder shook her head. I sure wouldn’t want to tangle with her.

Elder was so gentle, she couldn’t tangle with anyone. We had become close friends during the trip. I hoped we would not be separated.

Come on boots, move. MOVE!

Freddy, she’s ugly.

Elder insisted on calling me Freddy after the sergeant on the train told us we would use our last names in the service. Fredriksen’s too long, she said.

I took another look at the sergeant. While certainly authoritative, she was far from ugly. Tall, with a firm jaw and high cheekbones, her face reflected the classic type of beauty I had seen on recruiting posters. Honey blonde hair a bit lighter than mine was cropped and trained to look as if it was growing up instead of down, curling over the brim of a spruce green bowler hat. It matched the stripes in her seersucker uniform.

She gripped a baton firmly in her right hand. Aiming it toward a flat paved surface nearby, she shouted, Over there. Line up OVER THERE. Hey, let’s look alive!

Moving out from the darkness of the Pullman car, I was blinded by the brilliance of midday sun. As I paused to get my bearings, she came at me. Come on, get out. GET OUT! What’s the matter with you civilians?

I thought I was a Marine.

As I stepped down she yelled, Thirty-five. One more, that’s hll. She motioned to her companion, nearby. Sgt Sullivan, the next one’s yours.

I turned to make sure Elder was still behind me. Perhaps we should not have been in such a hurry to leave the train. Better to have taken our chances with Sullivan.

I’m Sergeant Booth, she began. You’ll be assigned to my platoon. I only have six weeks to try to make Marines out of you. She shook her head. From the looks of you that’s going to be an impossible job.

Turning, she led us to a waiting bus and tapped the door of the vehicle with her stick. It opened. The woman behind the wheel was dressed in men’s dungarees and overseas cap. Admiring that heavy cotton twill, I hoped I’d get a job where I could dress like that. Stockings and garter belts were just too much trouble.

After we climbed aboard and found seats together, we were quiet for a while, each deep in our own thoughts. I wondered what was waiting ahead for us. Considering the reception we just had, it seemed that we were going into enemy territory.

The silence was broken when we stopped at the gate to Camp Lejeune. When our driver presented papers to the guard, Elder remarked, Wow, it looks like they’re taking us to prison. How much time do we have to serve?

She made it sound like this would be punishment for doing something wrong. I reminded her we were freeing a Marine to fight, having enlisted for the duration of the war, plus six months.

She twisted the diamond ring on her finger and sighed. That could be a very long time.

I didn’t want to think about it.

When the bus moved on, I looked out the window. The base seemed to have endless rows of identical two-story red brick buildings, all of recent construction. They looked like they had been built to last a long time. It made me feel uneasy. How long did they expect this war to go on?

Most of the grounds were cleared, save for patches of grass and some newly planted shrubbery. But here and there a pine tree had escaped the axe and at a distance, virgin forests of them stood tall, undisturbed by military encroachment.

We stopped at an open area where Sgt. Charlotte Plummer, director of the Marine Corps Women Reserve’s band, greeted us with music from one of the songs we had been taught on the train. Stepping out, I began to sing along.

"Marines, we serve that men may fight in air on land and

hea …

Sgt Booth frowned at me with disapproval. Pile your luggage on that flat-bed, she said, pointing to it with her club. Then fall into platoon formation over here. She gestured toward a wide asphalt path. That’s three rows of twelve.

Marching to the mess hall for lunch, I kept checking with the others to make sure I was in step. I always had trouble telling left from right.

Sgt. Booth gave us the rules before entering. „These mess girls are not boots, she began. „They have completed their training, and are now full-fledged Marines. You will give them your total respect and do everything they ask of you, without question. She added, „Take only as much food as you will eat, and eat everything you take."

That would be no problem for me. I was starved.

One chow line had been left open for us. The mess girls were dressed in dungaree pants with white skivvy shirts, aprons, and turbans. They seemed anxious to heap food on my tray. They must have known I was hungry. There was mashed potatoes, gravy, and roast beef any civilian would die for. I took it all.

At the table Elder passed me a large stainless steel pitcher of milk. As I filled my glass, three mess girls came over. To the tune of „Bring Back my Bonnie" they sang: „Stand up, stand up, stand up you boots stand up stand up.. „

We did as we were told. They grinned. We smiled back. Before we could sit down, the singing began again.

„For she‘s a jolly good fellow …"

At the end of that song, I had just hit the bench when they repeated, „Stand up, stand up …"

It got pretty ridiculous. They kept us bouncing up and down with no chance to take even a bite of food until Sgt. Booth came in and ordered us out on the double.

I gulped some milk while I stood in line to empty my tray. A mess girl watched and scolded as I scraped off the food. „Why did you take so much, Boot? Look! You didn‘t eat any of it. If you want to be a Marine, you can‘t waste food like that, BOOT!"

If the depression taught me anything, it was not to waste food. I bit my lip, placed the tray on a rack, and moved on to dump milk in front of another mess girl. This one must have been six feet tall.

„Don‘t take more milk than you will drink, BOOT. And wipe your lipstick off that glass, BOOT."

I couldn‘t do anything right.

I tried not to think of my empty stomach on the march back. We passed through wooded areas and crossed little bridges over the streams that ran through camp on their way to the sea.

At our first stop we were issued supplies. When Elder went for the closest, longest line, the sergeant yelled, take any line, and keep them all moving.

Not wanting to annoy the sergeant any further, I headed for a shorter line. Elder pulled me back. We have to stick together, she said.

When we fell into formation again, each with a laundry bag full of necessities flung over our shoulder, we were marched to the women’s barracks area. Recruits from earlier battalions stood at their windows calling to us as we passed. "You’ll be sorry! You’ll be sorry!

They could be right.

The luggage was waiting for us, in front of Bldg. 24. Grabbing my suitcase, I followed the sergeant inside and up the stairs, where she gave us a tour of the upper deck.

The barracks were H shaped. Each of the squad rooms that would make up the two long sides would sleep eighty-eight women. The center crossbar held our shower room, basins, and toilets, which we would learn to call heads. There were closets with utility tubs, cleaning equipment and supplies, and a storage room for our luggage. The sergeant told us the office was at the foot of the stairs, and the laundry was in a separate building behind the barracks.

She didn’t show us the bathtubs.

As we entered the squad room Sgt. Booth announced, You have been assigned to Company E, platoon 5, of the 32nd Battalion. When I call ‘E-5’ I’m talking to you, and you had better listen up.

The squad room was immaculate. I didn’t know anything could smell so clean. It was a relief to know we wouldn‘t have to do any scrubbing around here for a while.

It was time to be billeted (assigned our bunks.) Elder and I hurried to an empty set, second from the end. I’ll take the top bunk, I said. I got used to it on the train. Besides, my legs are longer.

That was a mistake. Oddly, my mattress was different from the rest. It was much older, showing yellow between the blue stripes on the ticking instead of white like the others. It sagged in the middle, and the corners were round. But I could sleep anywhere, and we were only going to be here six weeks. Why would I need square corners?

I was about to find out. Sgt. Booth ordered, My platoon will follow me to the linen closet.

That line really moved. We were soon back with our sheets. The sergeant selected a top bunk about the middle of the platoon and we gathered around her to watch some lucky boot get her bed made. I’m only going to show you once, so you had better pay attention.

She reached for a sheet and in one quick move centered it atop the mattress. Square those corners, she began, "and pull hard on your sheets. I want to see all four