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Pvt. Martinez

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Posted by ag1970 in American History, California history, World War II

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Martinez

 

It is difficult to imagine Normandy in 1944; it is a beautiful place today, as are its people: a simple bonjour earns an American tourist a  smile of appreciation, and the little villages are lovely, separated by pastures and farm fields, each with its distinctive little parish church. During the Middle Ages, as the skilled writer and Francophile Graham Robb notes, few villagers ever went beyond the sound of their parish church’s bells. The world beyond was like the ends of the earth.

It is not the ends of the earth, but the D-Day beaches are 5,500 miles away from the Arroyo Grande Valley. Three local men, killed in the campaign to capture and then and break free from Normandy, are buried at the American Cemetery at Colleville-sur-Mer, an almost impossibly beautiful place above Omaha Beach.

Below the cemetery, just offshore, a visitor today can see young men as they should be—exuberant and free– as they race tiny sailboats, their sails bright oranges and reds, just beyond the surf line, where on June 6, young men floated like dead leaves on the water’s surface. The invasion of Hitler’s Europe nearly failed here. It didn’t, but only because of an American generation that includes those who still hold the high ground at Colleville-sur-Mer.

 

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Omaha Beach today.

 

Up there, on the immaculate cemetery grounds, and not far from a famous American—the ebullient and popular Gen. Theodore Roosevelt Jr., felled by a massive heart attack soon after the invasion– lies a soldier as far removed from the Roosevelts’ patrician (if rambunctious) Oyster Bay home as a human being can be, in terms of both distance and social class.

He was a farm worker, Pvt. Domingo Martinez: Plot C, Row 13, Grave 38. Martinez is the soldier who more than likely knew the bean-stakes and the smell of sweet peas of prewar Arroyo Grande. The best that can be said is “more than likely:” the Arroyo Grande Valley is where a farm worker, as he’s listed in his 1943 Army enlistment records, would have found a job, or a series of jobs, following different harvests, and migrant farm workers are elusive for both historians and for census-takers.

Domingo may even have been double-counted in the 1940 Census; there are two “Domingo R. Martinez” entries, both from New Mexico; one is living in San Miguel County, hit hard and recovering from the Dust Bowl; he is living with his father, Fulgencio; his mother is deceased. But a second Domingo R. Martinez, also originally from New Mexico, is counted in the same census, and in California. He is living in Redlands, picking oranges, with a man named Thomas listed as his father, and Thomas is married to Aliga Martinez.

 

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They must be different men. But “Aliga” Martinez is listed as “Aleja” in a postwar Redlands City Directory, and it is Aleja who will file the 1946 request for the marble cross that marks Domingo’s grave at Colleville-sur-Mer. The form lists Redlands as her hometown.

It is the measure of a poor man’s life: researchers can’t be certain of where he lived when the war broke out. They know exactly where he died.

Two more soldiers, city boys compared to Martinez, are honored here at the American Cemetery, both from the county seat just to the north, An artillery officer. 2nd Lt. Claude Newlin, from San Luis Obispo, is buried here. Ironically, Newlin’s battalion, attached to the 35th Infantry Division, had spent a year training at the camp just north of his home town. Newlin had survived some of the costliest fighting of the campaign, near St. Lo, only to die hours before the 35th broke out of Normandy to join George Patton’s breath-taking race across France to Metz and the German frontier.

 

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Lt. Jack Langston’s fighter would have looked like this P-38, with is distinctive D-Day identification stripes.

 

For another San Luis Obispo soldier, an airman, there is a memorial, but no grave. On June 22, 2nd Lt. Jack Langston was flying his P-38 in a low-level attack on Cherbourg with his 367th Fighter Squadron when that city demonstrated the folly of ordering low-level attacks. Langston died that day with four other 367th pilots. His body was never found.

The farm worker, Pvt. Martinez, 26 years old, born and raised in New Mexico, now a Californian, found himself  in the streets of Cherbourg in June 1944, far below the speeding fighter planes. Martinez was fighting with the 313th Regiment of the 79th Infantry Division, the “Cross of Lorraine Division”–their unit symbol had been St. Joan’s–and the 79th had seen hard fighting in France before, in 1918.

They were sent into action near Cherbourg soon after landing on Utah Beach, and they fought their way into the heart of the port city–a port the Allies would need, because a capricious Channel storm destroyed the “Mulberry,” the artificial harbor built off Omaha. The Allied armies in France therefore faced an enormous supply problem. They needed a port to help feed, arm, and fuel the growing numbers of Allied solders in France. For the Allied command, SHAEF, Cherbourg was critical.

It was also difficult to take. Its bristling anti-aircraft defenses would claim Jack Langston. Massive coastal batteries could keep naval support for the Americans at bay, and the city’s Wehrmacht defenders, though not elite troops (20% of them were non-German conscripts) were securely dug in and they had nowhere to go, for they were backed into a corner of France, and so isolated that the only alternative to fighting was to leap into the sea.

Once they’d gotten inside Cherbourg, G.I.’s learned to hate street fighting almost instantly. Death came instantly from illusory shadows that a fallen G.I.’s comrades never saw, and from gunfire they sometimes never heard. In peacetime, a French city block can be melodious with the sounds of cafe music or the singing of children at play. In combat, the same block, seemingly empty, can muffle the report of a sniper’s rifle or generate echoes that make soldiers look anxiously in every direction at once.

 

Street fighting, Cherbourg. These G.I.'s are from Martinez's 79th Division.

Street fighting, Cherbourg. These G.I.’s are from Martinez’s 79th Division.

 

It would be the 79th that would capture the fortress that dominated the city on June 26. Its commander surrendered three days later. Military historian John C . McManus notes that the men of the 79th that day were filthy, exhausted, and bearded, “like burlesque tramps,’ as one soldier said.  They got little rest. The division quickly shifted from urban combat to a drive through the farms and villages of the Cotentin Peninsula.

Now, American ground forces in Normandy faced a new, even more difficult challenge. Three weeks after D-Day, they had fallen far short of the objectives set for them by Allied planners and the staff officers working furiously over maps in Gen. Omar Bradley’s custom command trailer. The offensive in the Cotentin stalled in great part because the Germans had the advantage of fighting defensively, in the bocage, the Norman hedgerows, and they winnowed units like the 79th down.

 

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79th Division GIs sprint across a field bound by hedgerows.

 

The hedgerows enclosed fields plowed since Agincourt, or pasturage for fat Norman cows, and were a hopscotch of natural fortresses—roots and compacted earth had formed defensible walls.  The G.I.’s had to assault them, one by one, to try to root the defenders out.

When G.I.’s broke through a hedge and entered a field, the superb German machine gun, the MG42, hidden in the next hedge beyond, or positioned on the Americans’ flanks, annihilated entire rifle squads. It fired so rapidly that a burst sounded like canvas ripping.  Army films had incorporated the sound to try to desensitize trainees.

 

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Fighting in the bocage:  A 79th infantryman fires a bazooka.

 

So the Americans could hear, but never see, in the tangle of the hedges, who was killing them so efficiently. The bocage quickly transformed G.I.s, with supreme indifference, into either hardened veterans or into statistics.

American soldiers, adaptive and imaginative, eventually would develop the tactics to overcome the kind of war the Germans fought in the bocage. For the 79th, in early July, what was beyond the hedgerows may have been worse. The Germans would not wait for them this time.  They would attack.  This came soon after the 79th, along with the 82nd Airborne and the 90th Infantry Divisions, seized, at great cost, several hills around a key crossroads, Le Haye du Puits.

This should have compelled the enemy to abandon the town. They didn’t. They attacked instead, on July 7, intent on destroying the 79th in their positions on a ridge above the town.  The German soldiers, including SS-Panzer units, attacked with great ferocity and with great courage. These were not garrison troops, but hardened and determined professionals. In a day of fighting that ended only at nightfall, the 79th stopped them. This was the turning point. On the next day, another day of street fighting, the Americans would capture Le Haye du Puits.

 

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Le Haye du Puits is secured. The lead 79th division GI his carrying a mortar tube; one soldier behind him is carrying the mortar’s baseplate on his back.

 

Afterward, Signal Corps photographers attached to the 79th captured the images of some soldiers, like patrons arrived for their dinner reservation, enjoying a bottle of wine, sitting around a restaurant table set up on the street outside a partly-destroyed building; other photos reveal the faces of men as blank as those of sleepwalkers.  They are utterly worn out, used up,  by a month of ceaseless combat.

 

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Le Haye du Puits, July 1944

 

Ironically, Domingo Martinez survived all this and was killed days later, after the division, including his 313th Regiment, had taken up defensive positions to regather itself. He died on July 12, near a village named Bolleville, and so would not experience the energy and the jubilation of the breakout from the bocage.

With the breakout at month’s end, the Americans would inexorably roll up the Germans, uncover Paris, and liberate the city in August, standing aside to let Free French units and their prickly commander, Gen. Leclerc, enter first. Leclerc would have been furious to learn that Ernest Hemingway and some of his camp followers had preceded him and they were, with great offensive spirit, but also with deteriorating unit cohesion, busy liberating the bar at the Ritz Hotel.

 

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GI’s on parade, Paris, August 1944. These soldiers, from the 28th Infantry Division, marched directly out of Paris and back into combat.

 

It’s hard not to wish that Pvt. Martinez had been granted at least time enough to celebrate, as well.  And maybe, for a migrant farm worker and Dust Bowl refugee, even more time than that.

It is hard not to wish Domingo Martinez the time for a quiet talk with a little granddaughter. She is wearing a crisp white dress–it might be her First Communion– and wide-eyed and attentive, she is looking up at him while they are sitting, nestled together–she is feeling the wonderful safety that a grandfather’s love can provide– on the sofa. They are waiting together for the Sunday lunch his daughters are preparing after Mass, and he is telling the little girl about the five-day leave granted him that summer of 1944.

 

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He decided to visit Notre Dame. Once he’d entered the great church, he took his garrison cap off, crossed himself with holy water, and walked slowly down the nave, the silence pressing on his ears, past the clutter of the pews. There, delighted, he stopped and stood on a spot near the transept where he was suddenly bathed in brilliant, colored sunlight. This is the Rose Window’s gift to men and women of good faith.

 

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Sopa, Sushi and Lumpias: Oh my!

27 Sunday Jul 2014

Posted by ag1970 in California history, Personal memoirs, Uncategorized

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tomato soup bowlThere was a time that is gone forever when mothers would look at me accusingly. I would think I had done something wrong. I hadn’t. “You’re too skinny.” I miss those words. Mary Gularte lived a .22 long rifle away from us. I know this because her boys were out back shooting one day and I was walking across the Harris Bridge over Arroyo Grande Creek, and heard what Churchill called the “charming” sound of bullets overhead. Mary gave them no quarter when she found out. She sat me down at her kitchen table once, on a cold morning, in a tiny house where she raised her brood of Gularte boys and girls, and made me eat a big bowl of sopa, or Portuguese stew, aromatic and dense, and I was never so happy to follow orders as I was that day with Mary. I didn’t have to eat the rest of the day.

 

tuna_roll1Another food stands out: the sushi I had, long before it was fashionable, at Ben Dohi’s house, across from the high school—tuna and sticky rice wrapped in nori, strips of seaweed, a huge task for his wife and her Yamaguchi sisters to prepare, so it was reserved for special Japanese holidays only, like the Fourth of July and Labor Day. It was sweet and savory, chewy and delicate, and sometimes while Ben and the men watched sports in the living room, I would stay with the Yamaguchi sisters in the kitchen, both because they were hilarious and because I was closer to the food.

 

lumpia2Lumpias were the final treat, and I am reasonably sure that I could eat them until it reached the point that I would need transport to the Emergency Room. These are Filipino egg rolls, crunchy and filled with vegetables and pork, and an association of Filipino women sold them during the annual Arroyo Grande Harvest Festival, the big community celebration, and it was a courtesy, after a bit of cooling when you bought them, to eat the first one in front of their booth. It gave them a chance to watch your face, to watch the way your eyes closed and then the smile began as you took that first bite of lumpia. It made them happy because they were mothers, too.

Arroyo Grande is a microcosm of the American melting pot, but three immigrant groups have played formative roles in the shaping of the twentieth century town—in the 21st, we are seeing increasing numbers of immigrants from Egypt and South Asia, and their children are a joy to teach—but the 20th century belongs to the waves of people who came from Portugal, especially the Azores, from Japan, and from the Philippines.

For a people who traveled so far, I remember our Portuguese neighbors best when they came to a complete stop. In a phenomenon I’ve seen in eastern Colorado, the Texas Panhandle, and southern Missouri, two farmers, like Manuel and Johnny Silva, who just had breakfast together two hours before, would stop in the middle of the road, pickup-cab to pickup-cab, to talk while sprinklers described vast arcs in their fields alongside the road. I did not know what they talked about—if you had come up behind one of the trucks, the men inside wearing straw cowboy hats, you would have gotten a big smile and a wave and the truck would instantly pull off to the side to let you by. Two hundred yards later, if you looked in your rear-view mirror, the trucks would be together again and the conversation would have resumed. Those moments demonstrated to me that the secret to the success of Portuguese immigrants to the Arroyo Grande Valley–many of them refugees from natural disaster in the Azores–was their devotion to each other.

Mrs. Paulding’s Bike Ride

26 Saturday Jul 2014

Posted by ag1970 in California history, Teaching

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The Hemmi lynching was an anomaly in the history of Arroyo Grande. The time between the drought years and the First World War would be marked by progress and by a happy confluence of remarkable families who replaced the ranchero generation of Branch, Price and Dana. Agriculture would provide them with a living and they would build a town of brickwork and ornate wooden facades two miles west of Branch’s ranch house.

He had donated the land along the Arroyo Grande Creek for the town, his gift to posterity; but he was a realist, as well. As drought decimated his cattle, Branch began to sell small pieces of the Santa Manuela to hopeful farmers.

So a new generation settled Arroyo Grande:  Easterners like Branch, some from England–which accounts for the road cheerily named “Tally Ho” by the immigrant Vachells, sometime polo players–or Moravia or, like Joseph Jatta, from Canada. For those who acquired a piece of Branch’s Santa Manuela, the bargain was simple: So long as they occupied the land, cleared the monte and planted both crops and family roots, Branch offered them easy mortgages.

The townsite he donated, the one whose main street bears his name, began to emerge in the 1880s and would incorporate just before the Great War. A smithy, little shops, and soon the PCRR and its attendant warehouses and platforms were built; the little track ran along the foot of Crown Hill, which dominated the eastern end of the town of Arroyo Grande, on its way north to San Luis Obispo.

Two inevitable and competing institutions would also be built—churches and saloons. Civilization was still incomplete: A town constable was shot to death when he tried to disarm a man at a local saloon early in the new century. Local historian Jean Hubbard has written a superb history of the Arroyo Grande Methodist Church: in 1892, when Pastor Ogborn’s sermon was interrupted by a befuddled drunk who wandered into the church; the pastor stopped, grabbed the trespasser by the collar, dragged him outside, and after the noise of “a brief scuffle,” nonchalantly re-entered and finished that Sunday’s lesson.

Clara Edwards Paulding two years before her marriage, 1881.

Clara Edwards Paulding two years before her marriage, to the man who would become the town doctor, in 1881. Clara is about to begin a teaching stint in Hawaii.

My childhood church was St. Barnabas Episcopal, where the Sunday nine o’clock featured a regular whose attendance was interrupted only by her death in 1983. She was Miss Ruth Paulding, a longtime teacher at the high school and a link to the earliest days of the town—she was born in 1892 in a large home partly hidden by an oak that pre-dates the Declaration of Independence, by vegetable gardens, and sometimes by sunflowers, on Crown Hill, and she only had to walk across the street to her work.

When I knew her, her wheelchair was always parked alongside the front pew. I can’t remember whether she was first or last, but the priest would leave the sanctuary to administer communion to her; it was a small but meaningful homage. I do remember the pleasure of getting a little smile from her if our eyes met while I returned to my pew from the altar rail. She was so fragile, so elegant, and so admired that a smile from Miss Ruth was as good as, or even better than, a blessing from a priest. She was ‘a gallant lady,’ the title of the little biography she wrote about her mother, Clara.

I did not know my own ties to Clara until later, but from what I knew about Ruth’s mother, I was an admirer.  She returned to college with Ruth, who’d been promised an extra $100 a year, if she took additional coursework, when the Second World War began to revive the economy. The pair decided to take summer courses at Clara’s alma mater, Mills College. Ruth took classes for the extra money; Clara, over eighty years old, took hers for pleasure, a course in “History of the United States to 1865” because, she said, she remembered the rest.

One of Clara’s assignments during more than thirty years in the classroom was at the school I attended, Branch Elementary. There is a photo of her in front of the school. Behind Clara and her bicycle in 1898 are the same steps I would climb on my first day of formal education sixty years later.

Arroyo Grande’s population, at the time of the photograph, was approaching 1,000. Beyond the town, to the east in the Upper Valley, and to the west, bounded by the sand dunes at the edge of the Pacific, in the Lower Valley, there were patchworks of farms worked by ambitious pragmatists:  Arroyo Grande men and their teams of heavily-muscled draft horses, their necks arched in effort, turned some of the richest soil in the world to prepare it for planting. They might have been plowing for sowing pumpkins or carrots, onions or beans, or one of the most important products in the many cycles of agriculture the Valley has seen: flowers, cultivated for their seeds.

What must have delighted Clara Paulding on her two-mile bicycle commute to her sixty students every morning would have been the sight of brilliant fields of flowers and, planted in others, she would have smelled the delicate fragrance of sweet peas.

It’s not hard to imagine her, given her personality, waving cheerily to the men working those fields, their faces hidden by broad-brimmed straw hats, or to imagine them waving back, wide smiles creasing their upturned faces. ecause even as field workers they had never had this much hope, and even in the Upper Valley, hemmed in closely by the oak-studded Santa Lucia foothills, they had never had this much room.

Clara’s spirit was expansive. She may look severe in her photograph, but she adored, without disguising it, young people, and the youngest the most, a feeling they reciprocated.  Her wave on school mornings would have touched these men, younger sons from a very crowded place, and not particularly welcome in this new place.

The men in the fields whom she greeted were from Japan, and some of them from a prefecture known as Hiroshima-ken.

Clara Edwards Paulding, 1898, Branch School.  She would later be a founder of Arroyo Grande Union High School and, beginning in 1920, would serve on its Board of Trustees.

Clara Edwards Paulding, 1898, Branch School. She would later be a founder of Arroyo Grande Union High School and, beginning in 1920, would serve on its Board of Trustees.

 

Camp San Luis Obispo During World War II

24 Thursday Jul 2014

Posted by ag1970 in American History, California history, Uncategorized, World War II

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https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZLFCYQjziw8&feature=youtu.be

In which Mr. Gregory, with the help of the Andrews Sisters–especially Maxine, my favorite, who’s so funny–proves this really was a “World War .”

What makes Hollywood fun: murder, duplicity, and blondes

22 Tuesday Jul 2014

Posted by ag1970 in California history, Film and Popular Culture, Uncategorized

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Double-Indemnity-2

The L.A. Times food critic Jonathan Gold wrote an excellent summer piece this year on great Los Angeles hamburgers, and it made me think about my strange affection for a city I largely dislike unless it’s about 1946 outside and the Red Cars are running. I’m a San Francisco kind of guy, with the exception of the Dodgers, and that has more to do with Vin Scully than with any loyalty to the Southland. But there is no noir like Los Angeles Noir–-I watched Double Indemnity one more time recently on late-night television-–and the list of good films of the genre is kind of amazing. Here are just a few favorites:

  1. Chinatown. Not only a good hard-boiled detective film, in the Raymond Chandler tradition, the novelist who created private eye Philip Marlowe, but it deftly sketches the water wars that made L.A. and its orange groves–the attraction that lured my mother’s family from the Minnesota prairie–possible in the first place. J.J. Geddes, I think, is one of the most memorable characters in American film, and John Huston’s cameo, both jovial and sinister, is stunning.
  2. Double Indemnity. The murder plot flows seamlessly to the point where, after dumping the body of Barbara Stanwyck’s husband on the railroad tracks, she and Fred MacMurray can’t get her car to start so they can leave the murder scene. Then the seams start to unravel, and it’s a lovely thing to watch. Doom can be interesting. In a perverse way, it’s even kind of fun, especially in the implicit comedy of the Stanwyck-MacMurray plot-hatching in the aisles of the local grocery store: the two are interrupted by little ladies asking the lanky MacMurray’s help in reaching the canned goods.
  3. True Confessions. John Gregory Dunne’s screenplay about two brothers–-one, Robert Duvall, an L.A. homicide detective, and the other, Robert DeNiro, a politically ambitious monsignor–is deeply moving. Duvall must solve the mystery of a priest found dead in a prostitute’s bed, and he’s got to tear down the wall DeNiro’s character has constructed to protect his church and his career. This is a wonderful story about redemption, and how redemptive personal destruction can be.
  4. The Big Sleep. Bogart and Bacall in a plot so arcane that even the scriptwriters couldn’t figure it out. Bogie’s Marlowe builds on the fast-talking Sam Spade we’d first seen in San Francisco, in The Maltese Falcon, and his ability to shift character, posing, for example, as a dirty-minded bookworm in one scene, foreshadows James Garner’s television detective, the delightful Jim Rockford. Bacall is smoky, alluring, mysterious, dangerous, and Bacall.
  5. L.A. Confidential. A superb ensemble cast–Kevin Spacey, Guy Pearce, Russell Crowe, Kim Basinger as a kind of Bacall archetype, although her call-girl character has been molded to look like Veronica Lake. You’ve got your fast-talkers, con men, like Spacey, but you’ve also got your straight arrows, like Pearce and the wounded Crowe, and all three, it will turn out, are decent men at their core in a department so corrupt that even they, in own casual infidelities to the law, must finally take a stand. Again, a wonderfully redemptive story crowned by a harrowing shootout scene.
  6. The Big Lebowski. I’m a little dense, but by the third or fourth time I realized that this was a wonderful tribute to and parody of the Chandleresque formula, with Jeff Bridges as a soft-boiled stoner and the incomparable John Goodman as Walter, his manic, explosive and completely inept partner. Includes femmes fatale, slipped Mickeys (in Lebowski’s White Russian), a couple of Falcon-like talismans (a finger, Lebowski’s rug), and a brace of Nihilists.

What makes these films even more compelling is, of course, real tragedy. Human wreckage has always surrounded the film industry and examples include Elizabeth Short’s grisly 1947 murder (she worked for awhile at what would become Vandenberg Air Force Base), when she became immortalized as “The Black Dahlia;” the implosion of film comedian Fatty Arbuckle’s career when he was charged with the 1921 murder of aspiring actress Virginia Rappe; the mysterious 1924 death of producer Thomas Ince, “father of the Western,” after a visit to William Randolph Hearst’s yacht, Oneida, where Hearst mistress Marion Davies, as she did at San Simeon, served as the Chief’s hostess. What ended Ince’s life? Was it a heart attack or a bullet intended for Charlie Chaplin, Davies’ putative lover?

It’s film, finally and ironically, that best illuminates dark places like these. All of these films entangle us in L.A.’s tawdry Day of the Locust glamour, in its ambition and deception, because this is a place where nobody is who you think they are, a place where, as Chandler wrote, the Red Wind-–the Santa Anas-–can lead even the most dutiful Valley housewife to contemplate her husband’s back while absently squeezing the butcher knife’s handle in her free hand, the one without the potholder.

Glory Days

22 Tuesday Jul 2014

Posted by ag1970 in California history, Film and Popular Culture, Personal memoirs

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Screen shot 2014-07-22 at 4.18.51 PMI wish I had more old photos of my days at Branch Elementary School in the Upper Arroyo Grande Valley, which I attended between 1958 and 1966.

I started at the 1880s schoolhouse, but in 1962, we moved into one of those Sputnik School of Architecture schools that was twice as big as the old school.  It had four rooms.

I remember seeing one photo of me, Dennis Gularte, and it might’ve been Melvin Cecchetti, all decked out like cowboys, down to chaps and Mattel Fanner ’50s (“If it’s Mattel, it’s swell!”) on our hips.

For the uninitiated, a “Fanner ’50″ is a replica double-action Old West six-shooter that allows your shorter Old West gunfighter to get off approximately 1,200 shots without reloading. It was a marvel.

That was back in the days when gunfights on the playground were still culturally permissible, although they were limited to Fridays, which remains my favorite day of the week.

There was even a glorious, if very brief, time–our teachers would decide to draw the line at high-capacity ammunition drums–when the television show The Untouchables was popular and so we re-enacted the St. Valentine’s Day Massacre with Mattel-It’s-Swell Tommy Guns.  We died spectacular deaths after we had lined up, hands up, against one wall of the school. We took turns pretending to be the Moran Gang victims and Capone’s button men. We were a democratic bunch.

The girls on the swings just thought we were gross.   But they were girls, mind you, and they liked to pretend they were horses, which we found damned peculiar.

We liked to pretend we were ’62 Corvettes.

So us Branch School kids–all 70-odd of us, first through eighth grades– were both rootin’ and tootin’. But we also could be very good.

The entire third and fourth grades went on a field trip to Morro Bay, in a little yellow bus driven by Elsie Cecchetti, whom I will always love, and we all walked through the crew quarters of the Coast Guard cutter Alert without awakening the young man busy contradicting the cutter’s name, snoring softly in his bunk. We were impressed with how white his underwear was.  The Coast Guard is a well-laundered service branch.

During that tour, we requested, but were denied, authorization to fire off a few rounds from the 40-mm Bofors gun on the forward deck, which put quite a damper on an otherwise fine outing. It would’ve lifted or spirits and sustained us when, later in the day, we had to visit the abalone processing plant.

Abalone, we discovered, have little Stage Presence, so we watched, stifling yawns, as they lay lifeless and inert, pounded with wooden hammers, by sad, unfulfilled men, until they achieved abalonability.

Years later, with a shock of recognition, I saw the same abalone factory ennui when I took some of my AGHS European history students to Munich and ate schnitzel in a massive auditorium while an oompah band performed and two girls, in traditional costume, more or less danced.  It must’ve been about their eighth performance of the day, in front of masses of greasy-cheeked, ungrateful American teenagers–except for our kids, of course– and dancing with gleeful abandon was just not in their repertoire.

By the time the disconsolate abalone pounders had finished with their victims, they looked disgusting, like Neptune’s cow patties. By the time we were old enough to realize that they were tasty, they had all been eaten. Sea otters were the alleged culprits, but my money was always on the Morro Bay Elks Club.

[Clams are no more stimulating than abalone, by the way. The second-best show-and-tell ever, other than Tookie Cechetti’s fingertip in a vial of alcohol, lost in a saber-saw accident, was the Pismo clam Dennis Gularte and Melvin Cecchetti attempted to keep alive in the classroom sink in the new school. Clams have all the entitlement and ingratitude of the Kardashian sisters and are only marginally smarter. Our clam said little during the school day, showed little interest when we tried to push a length of kelp, which we know had to be yummy, through its shell’s opening, and then did nothing at all for about another day. Dennis ate it.]

By the way, we didn’t always have the luxury of Elsie’s school bus. We first had a pickup painted school bus yellow, with two benches bolted to the truck bed and a tarp over the top, and when we crossed the creek, we all bounced like a bagful of marbles and squealed with delight.

Not everybody enjoyed the pickup. One morning, one of us got sick, and we decided he’d had scrambled eggs for breakfast.

We also used to go to Poly Royal, the local college’s open house, and loved that jet engine fired off in Aeronautical Engineering, before the event deteriorated into the kind of Roman Bacchanalia that would make Caligula blush.

We most of all loved the biology department, because its centerpiece was the genuine stuffed two-headed calf.

We spent some time pondering another of their exhibits, an aquarium tank full of bullfrog tadpoles that was labeled, soberly, “Elephant Sperm.”

In our day, Branch no longer had the steeple and bell that originally was standard equipment for rural schoolhouses, but it did have the first multi-purpose room in San Luis Obispo County.

The hallway in between the two classrooms was used for both hanging up your coat and for beating students with yardsticks. This encouraged us to learn harder and accounts for why, to this day, I still know all my state capitals, down to the fact that Pierre, South Dakota, is pronounced, “Peer,” of which our teachers had none.

Yes, in that hallway, Mrs. Brown and Mrs. Fahey had perfected a technique called “Bad Cop, Other Bad Cop.”

They wore Eleanor Roosevelt cotton print dresses, our teachers did, which made them look, even then, like exhibits from a fashion museum, but either one could’ve humiliated Roger Maris in pre-game batting practice at Yankee Stadium.

They also would’ve made Billy Martin sit perpetually in the corner of the Yankee dugout, his nose pressed against the water cooler, which, given Martin’s notorious partying, might’ve considerably lengthened Mickey Mantle’s career.

The powdered soap dispensers out back were incorporated into language lessons, which is why there are only two documented instances of That Word being uttered with impunity at Branch Elementary between 1888 and 1962, and I believe one of those involved a carpenter and the other a school board member.

It’s a home today, and painted yellow, but in our day it was pink, sheathed in what I think what former classmate Michael Shannon has said were asbestos shingles, which serve as wonderful insulation, but, by the time you’re in your fifties, your school days suddenly begin to produce clouds of what look like chalk dust every time you sneeze.

For the health-conscious reader, not to worry. On summer mornings, when school wasn’t in session, my favorite thing to do was to wave at the biplane that crop-dusted the fields next to our house and then go frolic and gambol in the clouds of herbicide.

Of course, in those days, everybody smoked (Camel shorts), soon after they’d taken their first steps (“JIMMY’S WALKING! Here, son, light one up on Pop!”), and the only seat belts in use were those fastened around Ham, the Space Chimp, the precursor to the Mercury astronauts.

We were a hardy breed, us Baby Boomers. Hack. Wheeze.

There were good things, too, mind you, like actual Pismo clams–all from the extended family of our classroom clam–at Pismo Beach. You didn’t even need a clam fork. They’d just walk up to you and surrender, as if it were North Africa, not Pismo, and they were the Italian Army. But I digress.

The point is that I just don’t have to seem a single picture from those days except of my eighth grade graduation when, of course, I looked not just like a dork, but like a PARODY of a dork. So if there are any in your collection at home, Arroyo Grandeans, I’d love to see them.

But none, please, of Mrs. Brown.  She still makes my palms sweaty.

To the girl on the lawn at Cal

22 Tuesday Jul 2014

Posted by ag1970 in California history, Family history, Personal memoirs, Uncategorized

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Patricia Keefe, Taft (CA) High School, about 1938
Patricia Keefe, Taft (CA) High School, about 1938

This year AVID students–kids whose family backgrounds do not include a college experience– invited me to go on the northern college tour, and I was honored. I had never visited Cal until a few years ago, with another AVID group.  I did go to Stanford. For a week. I won a teaching fellowship in 2004 and got to study the Great Depression and New Deal with David Kennedy, whose book on the subject won the Pulitzer Prize for History.  I tried not to look too adoringly at him while he taught us.  It was difficult, because not only was he brilliant, but he was a real human being– engaging, witty, and you could tell he loved the history of the time and the Americans who had lived it.

I instantly loved Stanford’s rival, Cal, when we visited, even though I had to fight the impulse, so common to my generation, to run off and occupy the administration building, Sproul Hall, and demand that we leave Vietnam.  It is so beautiful and I am convinced just walking around campus with the kids boosted my I.Q. a full 20 points, up to 100.

The other thing I thought, with a little sadness, was that my Mom–Patricia Margaret Keefe–should’ve been here.   She was desperately poor, a child of the Great Depression.  She was a human footnote in the immense body of Kennedy’s scholarship.  Her father, my Irish-American grandfather, deserted the family in the mid-1920s, so my grandmother worked long hours as a waitress in a Taft, California, coffee shop, where “extra sugar” meant a healthy dollop of bootleg Canadian whiskey in your coffee.  It meant my mother, as a little girl, spent a lot of time alone. Those years left their mark on her. We had a can cupboard longer than the cupboards in the back of my classroom, full of food we’d never eat, because the thought of being hungry must have terrified her. And so going to college, for the daughter of a waitress from an isolated outpost on the oil frontier, had been out of the question.

Earl Denton, the first superintendent of the Lucia Mar Unified School District in southern San Luis Obispo County, and a family friend, said that my mother, whose education ended with her graduation from Taft High School, was the most brilliant woman he had ever met.  I remember her devouring the works of the Jesuit theologian and anthropologist Pierre Teilhard de Chardin, who argued that evolution was no contradiction of faith; in fact, it was a divinely-inspired process.  She–-as I would years later with Das Kapital–-wrote almost as much in the margins of Teilhard’s books as he had written in the text.

When I was very little, we played school.  She even rang a hand bell when “recess” was over. It had been my grandmother’s—Dora Gregory, her mother-in-law, had been a schoolmarm in a one-room school in the Ozark foothills.  My first day of formal education was in first grade in a two-room school, Branch Elementary, in the Upper Arroyo Grande Valley.  I remember realizing, with a little shock of pleasure, that I could read the names of my classmates as our teacher, Mrs. Brown, wrote them on the blackboard.

Me and my kids. My Mom was part of every lesson I ever taught.

My mother and I hadn’t been “playing” school at all.  She just made it seem that way. Losing her, when I was 17, remains the central tragedy of my life.

So, many, many  years later, on that visit to Cal, while the AVID kids explored, I had the briefest and loveliest mental image of her, about 1938 or 1939-–blouse, pleated skirt, saddle shoes, bobby socks, with her books and notebook spread out on one of those lush, verdant lawns, studying between classes. My mother was a beautiful woman, but the most beautiful thing about her may have been her mind.

memorialglade

And I think that’s why I enjoy these particular trips, with this particular group of kids. It’s my way of repaying Mom. One of them might take her place, studying in the sunlight on the lawn at a place like Memorial Glade.  She would love that idea.

And she would love these kids because she would understand them completely.  Despite my ne’er-do-well grandfather, I believe completely that my mother’s love for learning and for the the written word had deep genetic and psychological roots in County Wicklow.

So she would love without hesitation the AVIDS who show the incredible desire, the hunger, to improve themselves that she’d had, who refuse to complain when things get tough, who extend themselves to help their classmates, because she believed that all of us, and all of our lives, are intricately and intimately connected, and that this connection requires us to be responsible to and accountable for each other.

The young person who understands these things is close to my mother’s heart.

My mother and my big sister, Roberta, 1943. Mom was twenty-two.

He calls them “Japs”

18 Friday Jul 2014

Posted by ag1970 in American History, California history, World War II

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http://m.youtube.com/watch?v=pOy2c6BOKPM

We cannot condemn…

15 Tuesday Jul 2014

Posted by ag1970 in American History, California history, World War II

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Japanese-Americans await transport at the Santa Anita Racetrack. They slept in the stables.

Japanese-Americans await transport at the Santa Anita Racetrack. They slept in the stables.

From a letter to a University of Oregon alumni magazine that ran an article on the internment of World War II:

“In 1942, U.S. Marines were battling the Japanese in the Guadalcanal jungles. American aircraft carriers were sunk by Japanese warplanes. So many ships were sunk in the Solomon Islands ‘slot’ that it was nicknamed Iron Bottom Sound. The fighting was a match of equals that could have gone either way. The American public was frightened of a West Coast invasion. We cannot condemn 1942 policy using our 2013 mores and sensibilities. The prospect of a ready made collaborationist population, following a Japanese invasion, impelled the internments of Japanese Americans.”

This, of course, excuses the irrational. Consider the other coast of the United States:

–In 1941, German U-boats were already attacking American warships: the destroyers Greer and Kearny came under fire before a torpedo took the Reuben James and 115 of her 159-man crew in October, five weeks before Pearl Harbor. Even before then, with the fall of France in June 1940, war hysteria in America had been intense. With FDR’s blessing, J. Edgar Hoover would compile voluminous lists, aided by wiretaps, of suspected German Fifth Columnists living in the United States; the agency included more lists of any American who subscribed to periodicals written in German or Italian, and until FDR ordered the registration and monitoring of all aliens, there were isolated but frightening cases of Germans or German-Americans who were attacked–one was murdered–by wrongheaded “Patriots,” deprived of our 2013 mores and sensibilities.

–By 1942, American troops were fighting Rommel’s Afrika Korps—and getting routed, at Kasserine Pass. In general, the war was going against the Allies on both the Western Front—the disastrous Dieppe Raid is a notable example–and Eastern Front, with Gen. von Paulus’s Sixth Army, which would eventually surrender at Stalingrad, defeating Soviet forces in combat around Kharkov.

In the Pacific war, we had lost the Philippines, just as the War Department knew we would, and our Pacific possessions, but we’d taken the war to Japan with the Doolittle Raid in April and achieved a much more substantive victory–the first American turning point–at Midway in June with destruction of four of the six carriers that had begun the war against us at Pearl Harbor, along with the cadre of the Japanese naval air forces.

–German U-boats sank 82 American ships in all waters in December 1941 alone; In 1942, they sank 121 American ships off the East Coast and 42 along the Gulf Coast out of a total of 500 American merchant marine ships sunk by German submarines that year. Americans on holiday, from Coney Island to Miami, could see our ships glowing at night as they burned,, with their crews.  A U-boat also delivered a team of Abwehr saboteurs  onshore near Jacksonville, Florida. We were bleeding ships and English children were beginning to go hungry: they were allowed one small egg every four weeks.

During the same period, Japanese submarines sank a total of four ships off the West Coast.

–120,000 Japanese-Americans were interned under Executive Order 9066. Fewer than 3,000 Italian-Americans or Italian aliens and 11,000 German-Americans or German aliens were interned.

Our soldier, my hero: Pfc. Sadami Fujita, Arroyo Grande, California

14 Monday Jul 2014

Posted by ag1970 in American History, California history, World War II

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220px-442nd_US_Army_RCT_squad_leader_in_franceI recently found a local man who fought, like this soldier, with the 442nd Regimental Combat Team. Pfc Sadami Fujita was killed in action and awarded the Bronze Star and Purple Heart during the relief of the “Lost Battalion” in the Vosges Mountains in October 1944.

Sadami was born and raised in Hawaii. Here he is, as an eight-year-old, in the 1920 census.  You can click on the images to make them larger.

Screen shot 2014-07-13 at 9.20.02 PM

But in 1939, he left Hawaii for California on the President Pierce, evidently with a younger brother, Jimmy.  Here’s the “alien” passenger list and; below, Pierce passes one of the Bay Bridge’s towers, probably in 1935, the year before the bridge opened.

Screen shot 2014-07-13 at 9.26.49 PM neg_0226_SS_President_Pierce_helped_Earhart_stay_on_courseThis ship was intimately tied to the career of Amelia Earhart. She was one of the dozens of ships, both military and civil, which searched fruitlessly for the lost flier in 1937. But in 1934, Pierce had saved Earhart’s life on her Hawaii-to-California flight, in her beloved Lockheed Vega. From a website on that flight:

In the final hours of the journey Earhart found herself surrounded by a thick blanket of fog. Glancing down through a hole in the fog, she suddenly caught sight of a ship. She dove down through the hole, she wrote later, “faster than I ever flew before from 8,000 feet to 200!” The ship was the President Pierce, outward bound from San Francisco. Earhart lined her plane up with the wake of the ship and headed for California—now only 300 miles away!

In the 1940 Census, Sadami, too, has found a home in California: he is living with two brothers, Jimmy, who will go to the Poston internment camp, and Dick, in Arroyo Grande.  The page from that year’s census is like a Who’s Who–it includes the Ikedas, the Hayashis, the Fukuharas, and Javier Pantaleon, the foreman at the Waller Seed Co. to whom doomed sailor Felix Estibal wrote one of his last letters before being killed in action off Guadalcanal in November 1942. Screen shot 2014-07-13 at 9.21.56 PM

Five months after FDR re-instated the draft, the United States Army tapped Sadami on the shoulder–and, not unusual in the Army–they spelled his name wrong, though not as egregiously as the case of Marine Private Louis Brown, from Corbett Canyon. Killed on Iwo Jima, the twenty-year-old’s name was spelled “Louise” in the Navy casualty records.

Screen shot 2014-07-13 at 9.24.24 PM He would be assigned to the 100th Infantry Battalion, a tough outfit made up of Hawaiian Japanese-Americans. The 100th would later be merged with the famous 442nd Regimental Combat Team as that unit’s First Battalion. The 442nd included Nisei soldiers from all 48 states. The unit would do most of its fighting in Italy, but was transferred to France in the fall of 1944.

Sadami, a PFC in “B” Company of the 100th Battalion, was killed on October 28 in the relief of the “Lost Battalion,” a unit made up largely of Texans that had been surrounded by German troops in the Vosges Mountains.

This is what it was like that day, from a website on the 442nd: (http://www.the442.org/battlehistory/vosges.html)

The following day [October 28th], both battalions continued the drive forward in the teeth of stubborn resistance and heavy artillery and mortar fire. Casualties went up and up, caused largely by tree bursts, from which there was no escape. Our own artillery was active, and the Cannon Company and 4.2 mortars performed yeoman service, but the Germans were below ground, while our troops were up and moving forwards. At the end of the day, the regiment was 1,500 yards nearer to the “lost battalion,” but only at [a] terrible cost in men and material. During the night, biting cold and rain kept the men from resting.

So it’s probable that it was artillery fire that killed Fujita–the Germans fired .88 shells into the treetops and, as was the case in the Hurtgen Forest, a ferocious battle being fought at the same time in in Germany, just over the Belgian border, many GI’s were killed by flying shrapnel and splinters. This is what the combat zone looked like then, and today: 83c2948e0878bc66e016cbc1dc475822Screen shot 2014-07-13 at 9.53.12 PM The 442nd broke through two days later. 800 Nisei soldiers were killed or wounded to rescue the 230 Texans.

Several Nisei soldiers, like  Masami Hamakado, in Fujita’s “B” Company, kept extensive photographic records of their service years and of their comrades. Two of Hamakado’s photographs show paired soldiers, but each is labeled only with last names. In both photos one of the names is “Fujita.”

This is what drives historians nuts.  No first names. Here’s the first photograph, labeled “Ono and Fujita at Parade Rest.” hamakado_masami-127x

Here’s the second, “Fujita and Umihara.” hamakado_masami-141xOne of these men has to be the Arroyo Grande Fujita. A hint: Sadami was only 5′ 1″, so he’s likely to be the shorter man in either photograph.  I looked up the enlistment record of the other “B” Company Fujita., whose first name was Hasami.

He was 5′ 2″.  Great.

I’m reasonably sure–but will never be certain– that the lower photo is of “our” soldier, because Sadami Fujita outweighed Hasami Fujita by 22 lbs., so the smaller soldier in the lower photograph is a more likely choice.

He’s a nice-looking young man.

My next step is to hope to get a return email from the Fujita family still living in Hawaii–maybe the will know more about Sadami and maybe they’ll have photographs.

Sadami Fujita would go home to his family.  His grave is in the Punch Bowl, an incredibly beautiful place; I visited in 1996. I owe it to him to find out more. IMG_8606-1024x690 Screen shot 2014-07-13 at 9.27.12 PMI owe to these young men, too.  These are the 442nd Regimental Combat Team soldiers who gave their lives for the country:

MEMBERS OF THE 100th INFANTRY BATTALION AND 442nd REGIMENTAL COMBAT TEAM KILLED IN ACTION IN WORLD WAR II

Chester K. Abe / Matsuei Ajitomi / Tokio Ajitomi / Frank Chujiro Akabane / John Akimoto / Victor Akimoto / Hideo Akiyama / Zentaro G. Akiyama / Eugene T. Amabe / Nobuo Amakawa / James H. Anzai / Yoshiharu N. Aoyama / Harold J. Arakawa / James Y Arakawa / Masashi Araki / Frank N. Arikawa / Hiroaki Arita / Shiro Asahina / Ralph Y. Asai / Shotaro H. Asato / Kenneth L. Asaumi / Shigeo Ashikawa / Daniel D. Betsui / James Boodry / Howard Vernon Burt / Joseph Lawrence Byrne / Henry Chibana / Guchi Chinen / Onso Chinen / Jenhatsu Chinen / Danny K. Chorike / Cloudy Gary Connor Jr. / Walter Maurice Crone / Haruo Doi / Kenneth E. Eaton / Tetsu Ebata / George Eki / Hachi Endo / Hiroo H. Endo / Masaharu Endo / Robert T. Endo Kaname Enomoto / Kiyozo Enomoto / Ralph Burnell Ensminger / Harold C. Ethridge / Charles Oliver Farnum Jr. / Fred H. Fritzmeier / Abe M. Fuji / Paul Fuji / Masao Fuji / Richard T. Fujii / Samuel A. Fujii / Yutaka Fuji / Jitsuro Fujikawa / Masaki Fujikawa / Hideo Fujiki / Toshiaki Fujimoto / Noboru Fujinaka / Russell Takeo Fujino / Yasuo R. Fujino / Yoshimi Fujino / Teruo Fujioka / Wendell S. Fujioka / Sadami Fujita / Ross K. Fujitani / Peter Fujiwara / Takeo Fujiyama / Akira W. Fukeda / Shigeo F. Fukuba /Masami Fukugawa / Barbara Fukuhara /Herbert M. Fukuhara / Kakutaro Fukuhara / Edward Fukui / Roy S. Fukumoto / Ichiji Fukumura / Chester T. Fukunaga / Arthur M. Fukuoka / Katsumi Fukushima / Kaoru Fukuyama / Stanley K. Funai / Satoshi Furukawa /Tatsumi Furukawa / Tsuyoshi Furukawa / Kenneth K. Furukido / Henry T. Furushiro / Mitsuo Furuuchi /George M. Futamata / Shigeto Fuyumuro / Roland Joseph Gagnon / Seikichi Ganeko / Hiroshi Goda /Kazuo Goya /Yeiko Goya / George Gushiken / Frank T. Hachiya / Victor Hada / Hatsuji Hadano / Eichi F. Haita / Tom S. Haji / Tetsuo Hamada / Kenichi Hamaguchi / Katsuyoshi Hamamoto / Seuchi Hamamoto / Fred Y. Hamanaka / Clifford H. Hana / Richard S. Hanaumi / Tamotsu Hanida /Ben Hara / Charles K Harada /John Y Harano / Kiyoshi Hasegawa / Mikio Hasemoto / Denis M. Hashimoto / Hisao Hashizume /Masao Hatanaka / Kunio Hattori / Harry M. Hayakawa / Makoto Hayama / Stanley Hayami / Donald S. Hayashi / Eugene Hayashi / Joe Hayashi / Robert N. Hayashi /Tadao Hayashi / Torao Hayashi / Henry Hayashida / Henry Y. Hayashida / Hideyuki Hayashida / Robert Hempstead / Eiji Hidaka / Charles Higa / Eddie K. Higa / Katsumori Higa / Masao Higa / Takei Higa / Toshio Higa / Wilson E. Higa / Yeiko Higa / Bert K. Higashi / Harold T. Higashi / James T. Higashi / Harry N. Hikichi / Aranari Hiraga / Tomosu Hirahara / Mitsuo Hiraki / Kazuo L. Hiramatsu / Hiroyuki Hiramoto / Frederick M. Hirano / John Hirano / Robert R. Hirano / Genichi Hiraoka / Satoru Hiraoka / Gerome M. Hirata / Louis M. Hirata / Himeo Hiratani / Yasuo Hirayama / Yutaka Hirayama / Masao Hisano / Gary T. Hisaoka / Yeichi Hiyama / Richard M. Honda / Tomio Honda / Kay I. Horiba / James J. Horinouchi / Paul F. Horiuchi / Robert S. Hoshino / Earl Hosoda / Max M. Hosoda Jr. / Kihachi Hotta / Teruo Hozaki / Toshio Hozaki / Kenichi Ichimura / Edward Y. Ide / Shigeo Igarashi / Kiyoshi Iguchi / Masao Iha / Kazuo Ihara / Martin M. Iida / George Ikeda / Isamu Ikeda / Masao Ikeda / Roy Y. Ikeda / William Y Ikeda / Yoshio Ikeda / Lloyd Ikefuji / Henry S. Ikehara / Kikuichiro D. Ikehara / Haruyuki Ikemoto / James S. Ikeno / Tomio lmai / William I. Imamoto / Larry M. Imamura / Shunichi Imoto / Thomas T. Inada / Ben M. Inakazu / Masami Inatsu / Minoru Inoue / Henry Inouye / Masato Inouye / Takeshi Inouye / Masaji Irie / Tadayoshi Iriguchi /Mitsuo M. Iseri / Haruo Ishida Hidemaro Ishida / Minoru Ishida / George F Ishii / Richard H. Ishii / Stanley T. Ishiki / Walter S. Ishiki / Kiyoshi lshimizu / Kusaku Isobe / Hachiro Ito / Roy Ito / Takashi Ito / Tetsuo Ito / Robert K. Iwahiro / Hisashi lwai / Yoshio Iwamasa / Lawrence T. Iwamoto / Henry S. Izumizaki Thomas M. Jichaku / Katsui Jinnohara / John A. Johnson / Chitoshi Kadooka / Joe Y. Kadoyama / Yasuo Kagawa James J. Kagihara / Tsugito Kajikawa / Nobuo Kajiwara / Fred Y. Kameda / Bob T. Kameoka / Shinobu Kametani / Mitsuo Kami / Shizuto Kamikawa / James J. Kanada / Walter E. Kanaya / John S. Kanazawa / Frank Kanda / Takezo Kanda / Takeo Kaneichi / Katsuhiro Kanemitsu / Seichi Kaneshiro / Yasuo Kaneshiro / Isamu Kanetani / Jero Kanetomi / Akira Kanzaki / James S. Karatsu / Haruo Karimoto /Kenneth G. Kashiwaeda /Yoshitaka Kataoka /Noritada Katayama /John S. Kato /John J. Kato /Joseph Kato /Kenji Kato /Yoshio Kato /Masaichi Katsuda /John R. Kawaguchi /Richard H. Kawahara /Tetsuro Kawakami Kazuo Kawakita /Haruo Kawamoto /Sadao Kawamoto /Toshio Kawamoto /Yutaka Kawamoto /Kikumatsu F Kawanishi /Cike C. Kawano /George Kawano /Tetsuo Kawano /Yasuo Kawano /Albert G. Kawata /Satoshi Kaya /Stephen M. Kaya /Yasuo Kenmotsu /Lewis A. Key /Tadashi Kijima /Leo T. Kikuchi /John S. Kimura /Matsuichi Kimura /Paul Kimura Jr. /Tsuguo Kimura /Shomatsu E. Kina /Francis T. Kinoshita /Mamoru Kinoshita /Richard K. Kinoshita /Toshio Kirito /Robert T. Kishi /Roy J. Kitagawa /Paul T. Kitsuse /Ronald S. Kiyabu /Edward Y. Kiyota / Kiichi Koda /Sadaichi Kohara /Sadamu Koito /Hayato Koizumi /Yutaka Koizumi /Shaw Kojaku /Tadashi Kojima /Nobuo Kokame /Jimmie T. Kokubu /James K. Komatsu /Katsuto Komatsu /Fred H. Komeda /Nobuo Komoto /Harry M. Kondo /Harushi Kondo /Herbert Y. Kondo /Howard N. Kondow /Seichi Kotsubo /Shigeo Kuba /George M. Kubo /Tadashi Kubo /James Kubokawa /Mitsuharu Kuboyama /Thomas T. Kuge /Isamu Kunimatsu /Tetsuo Kunitomi /Katsuji K. Kuranishi /Jerry S. Kuraoka /Minoru Kurata /James S. Kuratsu /Ichiji H. Kuroda /Robert T. Kuroda /Satoshi Ben Kurokawa /Shigetoshi Kusuda / Shosei Kutaka /Masaji Kutara /Shozo Kuwahara /Sunao Kuwahara /John Kyono /Clarence E. Lang /Leonard H. Luna /Harry F. Madokoro /Saburo Maehara /Richard K. Magarifuji /Matsutada Makishi /Harry Makita /Seiso J. Mana /Ben Masaoka /Kay K. Masaoka /Masa Mashita /Dick Z. Masuda /Eso Masuda /Kazuo Masuda /Yoshito Masuda /George A. Matsumoto /Noriyuki Masumoto /Lawrence K. Masumura /Kiyoshi Masunaga /Peter S. Masuoka /Carl G. Matsuda /Masao Matsui /Hiroshi Matsukawa /Isamie Matsukawa / Dick Y. Matsumoto / Goro Matsumoto / Kiyuichi Matsumoto / Sadao Matsumoto / Tommy T. Matsumoto / Renkichi Matsumura / Kaname Matsunaga / Satoshi Matsuoka / Shizuo Matsushida / Kazuo Matsushima / George M. Mayeda / Jimmy Mayemura / Thomas T. Mekata / Torae Migita / Katsuaki Miho / Yoshio Minami / lsamu Minatodani / Kiyoshi Mine / Nobue Mine / Tom T Misumi / Kazuo Mitani / Kazuo Mito / Larry N. Miura / Toshio Miura / Charles M. Miyabe / Masayoshi Miyagi / Masayuki Miyaguchi / Tetsuo Miyake / James H. Miyamoto / Thomas T. Miyamoto / Yasuo Miyamoto / George S. Miyaoka / Isami Miyasato / Tamotsu Miyata / Tokio Miyazono / Tsuyoshi Miyoga / Mitsuru E. Miyoko / Noburo Miyoko / Timothy Mizokami / William S. Mizukami / Hideo Mizuki / Morio Mizumoto / Yukitaka Mizutari / Henry T. Mochizuki / Edward V. Moran / Kiyoto Mori / Shigeru Mori / Haruto Moriguchi / Rokuro Moriguchi / Arthur A. Morihara / Roy T. Morihiro / Haruto Morikawa / Hiromu Morikawa / Toshiaki Morimoto / Harold Morisaki / Joseph Morishige / Takeo Morishita / Iwao Morita / George K. Moriwaki / David Leander Moseley / Hiroshi Motoishi / Susumu Motoyama / Hachiro Mukai / Sadao S. Munemori / Isamu Murakami / Kiyoshi Murakami / Sakae Murakami / Tadataka Murakami / Tokiwo Murakami / Toshio T. Murakami / Kiyoshi K Muranaga / Richard K Murashige / Robert S. Murata / Mitsugi Muronaka / Roy L Naemura / Grover K Nagaji / Hiroshi Nagami / Hiroshi Nagano / Setsuo Nagano / Martin M. Naganuma / Goichi Nagao Hitoshi Nagaoka / Hideo Nagata / Jim Nagata / Taichi Nagata /Fumitake Nagato /Yoshiiwa Nagato /Kaoru Naito /Hitoshi Najita /Masaru Nakagaki /Hirao Nakagawa /Usho Nakagawa /Hitoshi Nakai /Masao Nakama /Shigenori Nakama /Shinyei Nakamine /Joe K Nakamoto /Seichi Nakamoto /Edward E. Nakamura /George S. Nakamura /Henry Y. Nakamura /John M. Nakamura /Kosei Nakamura /Masaki Nakamura /Ned T. Nakamura /Tadao Nakamura /Wataru Nakamura /William K Nakamura /Yoshimitsu Nakamura /Masao Nakanishi /Tsutomu Nakano /Robert K. Nakasaki /Dick S. Nakashima /Raito R. Nakashima /Wataru Nakashima /Frank K. Nakauchi /Donald T. Nakauye /Kiyoshi C. Nakaya /Minoru Nakayama /Saburo Nakazato /John T. Narimatsu /Tetsuo Nezu /Yutaka Nezu /Willie S. Nieda /Shigeto Niide /Edward Joseph Nilges /Minoru Nimura /Ban Ninomiya /Takao T. Ninomiya /Chikao Nishi /Takanori A. Nishi /Kazuo Nishihara /Takaki Nishihara /Akio Nishikawa /Tohoru Nishikawa /Joe M. Nishimoto /Tom T. Nishimoto /Shigeki Nishimura /Wilfred K. Nishimura /Charles J. Nishishita /Chieto Nishitani /Taro Nishitani /Sueo Noda /Yoshito Noritake /Al Y. Nozaki /Tadashi Nozaki /Alfred S. Nozawa /Toshio Numa /Masayoshi Oba /Sanichi Oba /Stanley T. Oba /Tadashi Obana /Larry M. Ochiai /Benjamin F. Ogata /Fred S. Ogata /Masaru Ogata /Masayoshi Ogata /Tsugio Ogata /Edward Ogawa /John N. Ogawa /Sadao Ogawa /Yoshio W. Ogomori /Abraham G. Ohama /Arnold Ohki /Muneo Ohye /Shigeo Oikawa /Teiji T. Oishi /Akira Oiji /John T Okada /Donald M. Okamoto /James S. Okamoto /James T. Okamoto /Ralph S. Okamoto /Tomiso Okamoto /Togo Okamura /Isao Okazaki /Takaaki Okazaki /Katsu Okida /Richard M. Okimoto /Seiei Okuma /Toyokazu Okumura /Susumu Okura /George Omokawa /Ken Omura /Takeyasu T. Onaga /Satoru Onodera /Lloyd M. Onoye /Choyei Oshiro /Edward Oshiro /Kenneth Oshiro /Sam Y. Oshiro /Seikichi Oshiro /Wallace H. Oshiro /Yeishin Oshiro /Daniel C. Ota /Randall M. 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Takao / Ronald K. Takara / Gordon K. Takasaki / Katsumi L. Takasugi / Shigeo J. Takata / Jo Takayama / Yoshito Takayama / Masaharu Takeba / Jimmy Takeda / Shoichi J. Takehara / Yosh Takei /Haruo Takemoto /lwao Takemoto /Tami Takemoto /Tooru Takenaka /Robert M. Takeo /Jimmy Y. Taketa /Peter Taketa /Shigeto Taketa /William H. Taketa /Ichiro S. Takeuchi /Tadashi Takeuchi /Thomas Takizawa /Kenji Takubo /Douglas Tamanaha /Kuneo Tamanaha /Masao H. Tamanaha /Thomas T. Tamashiro /Masaru Tamura /Osamu Tamura /Toyoshi Tamura /Kei Tanahashi /Harley Tanaka /Jack M. Tanaka /James J. Tanaka /Jiro Tanaka /John Y. Tanaka Keichi Tanaka /Ko Tanaka /Matsusaburo Tanaka /Saburo Tanamachi /Larry T. Tanimoto /Teruto Tanimoto /Yukio Tanimoto /Mitsuo Tanji / Katsushi Tanouye /Ted T. Tanouye /Yukio Tanouye /Masaru Tashima /Michio Tachima /Haruyoshi H.Tateyama /George Tatsumi /Masaru Tengan /Yoshio Tengwan /Henry M.Terada /Ted A. Teramae /Lloyd M. Teramoto /Shizuo Teramoto /Henry Terazawa /Herman T. Teruya /Kenkichi K. Teruya /Michio Teshima /Theodore T. Tezuka /Shiro Togo /Clifford T. Tokunaga /Hidetoshi Tokusato /Harry H. Tokushima /Patrick M. Tokushima /Minoru Tokuyama /Takaya Uragami /Moriichi Uyeda /Theodore T. Uyeno /Daniel M. Wada /Kenneth Y. Wasada /Shigeo Wasano /Hiroshi Watanabe /Kiyotoshi Watanabe /Kozo Watanabe /Theodore H. Watanabe /James D. Wheatley Jr. /Earl White Jr. /Steve S. Yagi /Hideo Yamada /Raymond T. Yamada /George T Yamaguchi /Fred M. Yamamoto /George I. Yamamoto /John T. Yamamoto /Masaru Yamamoto /Takeo Yamamoto /Tsuyoshi Yamamoto /Thomas I. Yamanaga /Tsutomu Yamaoka /Harry S. Yamasaki /Gordon K. Yamashiro / Lei S.Yamashiro /Joichi Yamashita /Kazuo Yamashita /Setsuro Yamashita /Chioyoaki J. Yamauchi /GoroYamaura /Thomas T. Yamazaki /Fred S. Yasuda /Joe R. Yasuda /Arata Yasuhira /Hideo Yasui /Yoji Yasui /Mitsuru Yeto /Masuichi Yogi /Hideo Yonamine /Satoshi Yonekura /Hitoshi Yonemura / Kenjiro Yoshida /Yoshiharu E. 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