"Ernest King was something else again. Although I had met him in prewar years, neither I nor many people ever knew him. His prewar reputation- juniors liked to say he shaved with a blowtorch- raised him to almost demigod status in the eyes of some of his subordinates. Probably because the Marine Corps boasted its unique brand of toughness I wasn't much concerned about his reputation. Upon paying my first call to him as Commandant I did think we should understand each other, so before taking my leave I said, "Admiral, I want to tell you what I have always told seniors when reporting for duty. If one of your decisions is in my opinion going to affect the Marine Corps adversely, I shall feel it my duty to explain our position on the subject, no matter how disagreeable this may be. If you disagree, I expect to keep right on explaining until such time as you make a final decision. If I do not agree with that, I will try to work with it anyway. I say this, sir, because if you want a rubber stamp you can go to the nearest Kresge store and buy one for twenty-five cents." King stared at me a moment, then abruptly nodded his head- a characteristic gesture. In the event, I worked more closely with his deputy chief, Admiral Horne, his chief of staff, Admiral Edwards, and his planner, Admiral Savvy Cooke. I was forced to go to him and I generally won my point."

“We knew that America needed a shot in the national arm. Since December 7, 1941, our national heritage had yielded to a prideless humiliation. Half of our fleet still sat on the bottom of Pearl Harbor. The Philippines were gone, Guam and Wake had fallen, the Japanese were approaching Australia. What Admiral King saw, and what he jammed down the throats of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, was that just possibly the mighty Japanese had overextended. He saw that just possibly a strike by us could halt their eastward parade. The only weapon he held, the only weapon America held, was a woefully understrength fleet and one woefully ill-equipped and partially trained Marine division.”

“The Marine Corps, then, believes that it has earned this right—to have its future decided by the legislative body which created it—nothing more. Sentiment is not a valid consideration in determining questions of national security. We have pride in ourselves and in our past, but we do not rest our case on any presumed ground of gratitude owing us from the Nation. The bended knee is not a tradition of our Corps. If the Marine as a fighting man has not made a case for himself after 170 years of service, he must go. But I think you will agree with me that he has earned the right to depart with dignity and honor, not by subjugation to the status of uselessness and servility planned for him by the War Department.”

“I could not have felt more strongly about this subject. One day an aide, Buddy Masters, came to me. "General," he said, "I'm worried about your eyesight which is getting worse. You read all day here in the office and then you take a couple of hundred Purple Heart certificates home, sign them at night and read some more. I have found a way to ease this." "How?" "The other day over at the Navy I saw a new machine bought for the Secretary. It writes his signature automatically, and it only costs a few hundred dollars." "Save the money," I told him. "If those boys can get wounded, I can find time to sign my name on their Purple Hearts.”