The Hollywood Canteen
by Marie Proulx

During World War II, I was stationed at El Toro Marine Corps Air Station in Southern California. For liberty, four other W.R.s (Women Reserves) and I traveled to nearby cities. Hollywood and Los Angeles were our favorites. As women in our 20s, we enjoyed the sightseeing, movies, dancing, and fun that these cities offered.

One Saturday evening, my friends and I decided to go to the Hollywood Canteen operated by the U.S.O. The Hollywood Canteen was making quite a name for itself by entertaining servicemen from all branches of the armed forces. Even famous movie stars showed up to dance with the troops and support the war effort. Just the name, “Hollywood Canteen” conjured up images of excitement, glamour and movie magic. At such a place, a girl might meet the man of her dreams.

As required by Marine Corps regulations, my friends and I were dressed in our Marine Corps uniforms for our big night on the town. We were full of anticipation as we reached the front door of the Hollywood Canteen. However, the star dust was about to be brushed from our eyes.

The front door to the Hollywood Canteen had a gatekeeper. His appearance made no impression on me, but his words did. He told us that we could not come in. He directed us to go around the building to the back. At the back of the building, we were allowed to enter the back door and climb the stairs to the balcony. From that vantage point we were permitted to sit quietly and watch the servicemen dancing with young women in beautiful gowns on the main floor.

My friends and I stayed only a short time watching the happy couples swept up in  swing music and bright lights. For us, the promise of dancing and romance at the Hollywood Canteen was just another tinsel town illusion.

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The Stewardess
by Mary Anthony

In 1971, I went home to Milwaukee, Wisconsin, on boot camp leave for 10 days. My youngest sister, who was attending the same catholic grade school I had attended, was very proud that I had graduated from boot camp. She wanted “big sister Mary” to wear her Marine uniform when our mother and I picked her up at school after classes.

While at the school waiting for my sister to finish her last class, my mother and I  saw a nun at the end of the hallway. I recognized the nun as one of my favorite eighth grade teachers and went down the hall to say “hi” to her. After we talked for several minutes, my former teacher commented that I looked very nice in my uniform. Then she asked me, “What airline do you fly for?” 

Needless to say, it was an embarrassing moment for both of us when I told her that I was not a stewardess, but a Woman Marine on my way to Camp Pendleton, California, having just finished basic training.

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The Mess Hall
by Lorry Vaca

My first day of Marine Corps Boot Camp started off with a trip to the Mess Hall. Inside the Mess Hall, I stood in line and picked up a metal tray as instructed. Then I followed the person in front of me.

When the server started to put mashed potatoes on my tray, I said, “Wait, wait!” Looking at me quizzically, he said, “What's your problem, private?” In all earnestness, I replied, “Where are the dishes that go into these slots on the tray?”

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A Visit from the General
by Lillian Cross (née Kovats)

During 1969 and 1970, I was a sergeant (E-5) assigned to the G-1 Section at Camp Butler, Okinawa. One rainy evening I was working late when the phone rang. It was Major General William K. Jones, Commanding General of the 3rd Marine Division.

The 3rd Marine Division was rotating out of Vietnam and the General was trying to locate the members of his advance party. He asked me where they were, but I couldn’t tell him. (Being a sergeant, I wasn’t on the need-to-know list.)

The General seemed frustrated so I asked him if I could help. He gave me a shopping list of things he needed but couldn’t purchase in-country. He instructed me to find his advance party and give them the list.

Since nobody seemed to know anything about the advance party, I rode my motorcycle to the Fort Buckner BX that weekend and purchased the items he wanted. I then wrapped them and mailed the items to him with a note.

When the General received the package, he called me again to thank me. He wanted to know what he owed me. I said “nothing” as it was my pleasure to assist him. When he insisted on paying me, I asked him for an autographed photo of himself.

I heard nothing from the General for several weeks. Then the General’s staff car with flags flying pulled up to the front door of the butler building where I worked. The G-1 and Assistant G-1 came charging out of their cubicles to see why the General was making an unannounced visit to their office.

In actuality, the General was not in his staff car, but his aide-de-camp and two Staff NCOs in full dress blues were. All of them got out of the car and walked into the office. To everyone’s amazement, they asked for me! Mouths dropped open with a gasp or two as they stopped at my desk.

The aide presented me with an autographed picture of General Jones and thanked me again for my efforts. The delegation then turned around and left.

Our office phones started ringing off the hook as other work sections, including the Chief of Staff, wanted to know why the General’s car was in front of our building. After a few hours, the phones stopped ringing. The G-1, tired of explaining the situation to all and sundry, came over to me and said, “Sergeant, let us know next time when you expect a visit from the General.”

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A Double Date
by Evelyn Walsh Johnson

During World War II, between 1943 and 1946, I served as a Woman Reserve in the U.S. Marine Corps. I first met Regina (Reggie) when we both reported to Camp Lejeune, North Carolina, on July 15, 1943, to go through boot camp. Our women’s battalion was the first to train at Camp Lejeune, and, due to understaffing, conditions were difficult.

When graduation time came, we hoped to leave Camp Lejeune to attend some special school or take up a billet in an interesting part of the United States. But that was not to be. Regina and I were assigned to the Headquarters Company office of the women’s training program right at Camp Lejeune. Disappointed though we were, we got busy learning about muster rolls, payrolls and morning strength reports.

Our first three-day pass found us eager to get away from Camp Lejeune for a while and visit the outside world. We chose to travel to Raleigh, the capital city of North Carolina, even though neither of us knew anything about it. After arriving in Raleigh, we sought out the nicest hotel and were thrilled to be in a big city again. (Regina was from Milwaukee, Wisconsin, and I was from Yonkers, New York.) It was a treat to see, hear and smell things that reminded us of home.

When dinner time came, we decided to eat in the hotel dining room which was full of old-fashioned charm. We took our places behind the red velvet rope to wait to be seated. Before long, two sharp-looking army officers came to stand behind us. They were in uniform and looked dashing with their high boots and the accoutrements of paratroopers. We exchanged small talk and they asked us to be their guests at dinner.

I hesitated, wondering what their intentions might be, and it probably showed on my face. However, one of them, a first lieutenant, explained that they only had time for dinner. They would then have to catch their train to Fort Benning, Georgia, where they were billeted. So the four of us sat down to dinner—Reggie and I without a single stripe between us, but feeling confident in our Marine Corps forest greens and jaunty hats with bright red cap-cords the same shade as our PX lipstick.

The conversation was lively and I was soon sorry to think that these two fellows would be leaving right after dinner. Then the conversation turned to the great victories won by the Marines in the Pacific. The officers talked at length about Guadalcanal, Midway and Wake Island. They were much better informed about the war than we were. Obviously, they’d been reading the newspapers while we were scrubbing huge pots in the mess hall. (Neither Reggie nor I had seen any newspapers or magazines while at Camp Lejeune. We’d heard no radio broadcasts. I recall writing home at that time and asking my sister how the war was going.)

Although the conversation would stray into lighter areas, it would always return to the valor displayed by the Marines in the Pacific Theater. All too soon, we were enjoying dessert and coffee. My lieutenant then made a statement which has stayed with me to this day. With enormous sincerity in his eyes, he said, “Evelyn, right this minute I’d give up my commission in the Troopers to be a private in the Marines.”

They left to catch their train and Reggie and I went to our room. My mood was pensive. In the hotel mirror I took in the aspects of my uniform. What pleased me most was the insignia—the eagle, globe and anchor—which was the same insignia worn by the fighting men who were turning defeat into victory in the Pacific—the U.S. Marines.

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Liberty, 1967
 by Brigitte Morenberg

During that hot and humid summer of 1967, my classmates and I had completed two-thirds of the Woman Officer Candidate Course (WOCC) at Quantico, Virginia, before we got our first weekend liberty pass. The natural destination for a weekend liberty was Washington, D.C. which was half an hour’s journey north by train.

As a naturalized citizen of European extraction, I was excited about exploring our nation’s capital. My friend, Kay, a fellow Woman Officer Candidate of Japanese ancestry, was also ready to see the sights. We dressed up in skirts and blouses plus nylons for the occasion since slacks were not permitted on liberty.

The train ride to Washington, D.C. was a pleasant beginning to our trip. We didn’t mind the Marine Corps rule that prohibited us as college juniors from having cars at WOCC. At any rate, I was too poor a college student to afford to own and maintain a car.

We arrived in Washington, D.C. at Union Station and posed for photos with the Capitol in the background. Then we picked a direction at random and started walking. Even though “the long, hot summer” of 1967 saw race riots in places such as Detroit, New York City’s Harlem, and Birmingham, Alabama, racial tensions seemed to have nothing to do with us.

As we walked through a residential neighborhood in the direction of Southeast Washington, D.C., we saw a nice-looking black couple who crossed the street to talk to us. How friendly, we thought, and greeted them warmly as we made small talk about our tourist activities.

“You've got to get out of here! Right now,” the couple warned us.

When we didn’t react, they said, “You don't understand. You've got to take a taxi and get out of here right this minute!” They were clearly agitated.

A taxi? We didn't have that kind of money. Taxis were too rich for us. We would, however, humor these earnest people by considering the idea of taking a bus out of the area. When we asked them to point us to the bus stop, they shook their heads in disbelief at our abysmal ignorance. What must they have thought as we thanked them for directing us to the bus stop?

Only after getting on the bus did we become aware (from the stares we received on all sides) that we were the only two non-blacks on the bus. Or in the neighborhood, for that matter. We spent the rest of our sightseeing day among the famous monuments of our country’s past, and then returned to Union Station for the last train back to Quantico.

In 1967, Union Station was not the yuppie showpiece it is today. It was a dark, dank,  grimy, cavernous building open to the elements. However, we had no problem finding our train. We simply joined the line of slender young men with almost bald heads. There could be no doubt that these young men were Marines waiting to return to Quantico.

Riding the train back to Quantico was a whole new experience for me. The Marines were herded aboard like cattle into an overcrowded car with overflowing toilets. Most of us had to stand while a lucky few sat scrunched together. I had not felt discriminated against in Southeast Washington, D.C., but I felt discriminated against in this overcrowded car which appeared to have been designated for Marines.

Still, it had been an exciting day. We joked with the guys and we were happy knowing that we would return to our barracks before our liberty passes expired. We were already thinking about spit-shining our shoes and ironing our uniforms for the next morning’s inspection.

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Reporting as Ordered
 by Evelyn Walsh Johnson, Woman Reserve (WR)

In 1944, I was one of 15 women Marines who volunteered to help receive the records from a detachment of Marines who had just returned to San Diego after fighting in the South Pacific. When those Marines in the docked troop ship saw me (probably their first woman Marine, and maybe their first woman in months or years), the cheering started. The general I reported to clearly was not pleased. He ordered me and the rest of the women back to base, saying he didn’t want any unseemly displays. The general’s orders were thwarted, however, because when I retraced my steps, another “unseemly display” occurred.

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The Pink Nightgown
by Sylvia Gethicker-Landis

When I was a private in November 1977, my office at MCLB Albany, Georgia, gave me a Friday off. I decided that my day off should begin with going back to bed in the now-deserted squad bay. Soon afterwards my bunkmate came running into the squad bay yelling, “Quick! You have to get up!! They want you down at the Company formation so you can get promoted!!!”

Having very little time, I threw on some pantyhose and oxfords, tucked my pink flannel nightgown into my pantyhose, tossed on my winter overcoat, scarf, cover and gloves, and ran down the stairs just in time for formation.

The awardees marched out in front of the formation, warrants and awards were read, and the Commanding Officer, a captain, handed out our citations with a handshake. Everything was going great until I rendered my salute. The Captain’s eyes got as big as golf balls as he stared up my sleeve. I peered out of the corner of my eye and could see the sleeve of my pink nightgown! The Commanding Officer gave me a disgusted look and told me to be in his office after formation.

Nervously, I walked into his office. He immediately ordered me to remove my overcoat. I just managed to say, “PFC can't do that, sir, because she has her nightgown on and would offend the captain because it is tucked into her pantyhose.” On the other side of the partition I heard someone drop their coffee cup!

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The Promotion Exam
by Evelyn Walsh Johnson, Woman Reserve (WR)

When our government decided to make fuller use of our country’s womanpower to win World War II, the Women’s Reserve was created on February 13, 1943 as part of the U.S. Marine Corps. As a 21 year old woman, I was excited by the concept of a Women’s Reserve and the prospect of being a more direct part of the war effort.

I enlisted in the Marine Corps on April 22, 1943 and reported for active duty for training at the Recruit Depot, Camp Lejeune, North Carolina on July 15 of that year. I found myself among a dedicated group of women and we soon became fast friends. We shared the bond of being the first Women Reserves to train at the Recruit Depot, Camp Lejeune. Nine previous battalions of Women Reserves had received their boot training at Hunter College in The Bronx, New York.

My training was supposed to last for six weeks, but it was cut to four weeks because of a need for help in the mess hall. After 11 grueling days working in the mess hall, I was assigned to clerical work at the Recruit Depot. My friends and I typed numerous records including the payroll, muster roll, and sick roll. Not one typo was acceptable (an impossibility). After about a month, I was promoted to PFC and proudly sewed the chevron on the sleeve of my uniform.

In October 1943, an examination for promotion to corporal for Women Reserves was announced. Since men were urgently needed to fight in the South Pacific, stateside male Marines shipping out to the war zone had to be replaced with Women Reserves of the appropriate rank. My friends and I were thrilled to have the chance to advance, but we were surprised—if not astonished—to hear that in addition to the written test we would be called upon to drill a platoon of recruits. We had received no training in drilling troops.

True, we had been taught to follow orders as we marched and were put through the paces by our salty male drill instructors, but calling commands was something new and scary. Many women said right away that they would not compete.

I decided not to be rash about making a decision and was encouraged by the improved odds. “Count me in,” I told Gunner McElroy who was in charge of the testing. I was happy to be a Marine and it seemed to me that not taking the exam would be a negative act.

The written test was not difficult, but there was no immediate information about who passed. The actual challenge was still ahead. After some thought about the matter, I concluded that my most important task was to give the command word, March, when the marchers were on the correct foot. It seemed to me that if they were on the wrong foot that they might trip and fall. I cringed to think of that disastrous scene with women bumping into each other and collapsing in a heap on the parade field.

At the appointed time, I showed up to drill the platoon. First Lieutenant Julia Hamblet (who went on to become Director of Women’s Reserve and later Director of Women Marines with the rank of colonel) returned my salute. Gunner McElroy was also there and ordered me to proceed.

It was a heart-pumping time for me as I reminded myself to keep my voice up. I felt as if doing this correctly was almost a factor in our winning the war! I called “Attention” and the platoon responded. The tallest women, who were always in front, dwarfed my five foot two inch height. “Right face.” They did it! “Forward march. Left right, left right, left right, left, left, left.” The tallest women were getting away from the rest of the platoon! I thought to myself, “What next?” Then I decided to reverse the line of march. “To the rear,” (pause for the right foot) then “March!” I saw Gunner McElroy grin and I called “Platoon Halt.” Slap slap went the feet and klunk klunk went my heart. The promotion exam was over.

Three weeks later I was at home on leave in Yonkers, New York. A telegram arrived from a friend addressed to Corporal E. Walsh. “Congratulations. Warrant issued today.” I went out and had my picture taken.

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