Magic at Quantico

The Marines were hard at work. In the chill winter sunshine of Virginia, they slogged in single file along the roadsides, in thin lines through the naked valleys and over the bare bundocks of the Quantico reservation. Instructors and recruits alike wore the drab, unmilitary-looking coverall working outfit, but the boots had already learned to tilt their campaign hats slightly askew over the right eye. Most of them carried Springfields slung over their shoulders. A few also dragged two-wheeled machine guns and ammunition carts that Marines call "Cole-carts' (after their inventor, Major General Eli Kelley Cole). In every man's mind was a still, small thought implanted by the leather-faced sergeants: work, not magic, makes a soldier.

But back at the post, on the rising ground above the Potomac, military magic was in evidence. Up the street from the red brick bulk of Barracks "E"; marched the battalion of the Candidates' Class, its green-clad legs chiming as smoothly as the blades of a mowing machine. At each group's head marched Marine lieutenants, on their flanks lean-hipped sergeants with scarlet-backed chevrons and hashmarks, marksmanship medals glinting in the sunlight. Every man in the smartly uniformed ranks was a private, first class.

In front of the new post theatre the column swung to the left, up the steps. Inside, sergeants fell out, candidates took seats in the front rows in alphabetical order. Husky Master Gunnery Sergeant Nick Peschi, leaning on the rail in back of the theatre, watched his straight-backed students file down the aisle, looked around at his brother noncoms and grinned a satisfied grin.

The candidates' faces were solemn and they sat without chatter. A great many things had happened to them in the last three months. When they got off the train at Quantico, their only common denominator had been that they were not more than 24 years old nor less than 20, graduates of approved colleges and universities, sound of wind and limb--and civilians. By last week they were no longer 233 civilians: they were the Corps's first candidates for the 1,200 new officers it needs.

By their instructors (five officers and eight noncoms to each company) they were addressed as "Gentlemen." They ate well--better than the average Marine. But they had also worked harder. And when they had muffed their jobs they had felt the sharp edge of a noncom's bladed tongue. (Good God, if you're officers I'm a Chinaman.)

They had turned out at 5:40 in the morning, often worked until past 9 o'clock at night, had seldom had time or inclination at day's end for anything but crawling into bed in the quiet squad rooms (All right, there'll be no skylarkin' in barracks.). First they had learned to march, how to shoot out their feet and straighten their knees, not plod along like civilians. And they had learned that a soldier marches with his head up (Hey, you, eyes off the deck.), is alert in obeying commands (Get going, you Camp Fire Girls.). They had been given a quick splash into military courtesy (Salute, you, this ain't Boys' Town.).

They had learned other things besides drill, spit and polish. Squatting, lying and kneeling on the ground while the wind bit through their padded range jackets, they had had a bellyful of instruction in the Marines' dearest specialty--marksmanship. Even the sergeants had had to admit (in private) that there they had done pretty well--90% of them had qualified on the pistol and automatic rifle ranges, 75% with the Springfield. Betweentimes, swathed in coveralls, they had hiked, practiced open-order fighting, strung barbed wire. In the late afternoons, after 45 minutes of football, baseball or boxing, they had gone to chow, sometimes back to school again in classrooms where officers and noncoms threw theory at them in great gobs, had put them through weekly examinations. In classroom they had been confronted with the placarded great sayings of soldiers (Napoleon: It is an axiom of military science that the army which remains behind its entrenchments is beaten.). And constantly in their ears had rung the exasperated, encouraging, profane cry of the sergeants: Work, not magic, makes a soldier. (Hey, you, quit dopin' off--you can't learn it lying down.)

As they waited in the theatre, there was plenty to look back on and more ahead. After eight days' leave, the lieutenants would return for three months' more schooling before being assigned to troops. But now was the point when the magic began. A blue-uniformed Navy chaplain called down on their heads the blessing of the Almighty. Slim, white-thatched Major General Louis McCarty Little, veteran of 41 years in the Marines, welcomed them into the ranks of commissioned officers of the Corps. Forward stepped lean, leathery Colonel Archie Franklin Howard, raised his right hand. Said he: "Having been appointed a Second Lieutenant in the Marine Corps of the U. S. --." The candidates, standing, one by one replied: "I, Alvis H. Allen --," "I, Harry B. Anderson --," "I, Maurice L. Appleton --." Down the rows it ran to the last man: "I, Charles B. Wuertenberger." Then, all together: ". . . do solemnly swear that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic . . . bear true faith and allegiance to the same. . . . So help me God."

Then, by some miracle, they were officers. They lit out for barracks and scrambled into their new uniforms, gleaming Sam Brownes. The sergeants shook their hands, miraculously called them "Sir." Soon they were outside with bag and valise, headed for leave and home. On the way to the station they passed some of their erstwhile instructors. The noncoms saluted the new officers; the officers returned the salutes. Now they were all Marines.

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