Early morning on June 6, 1944, the hungry, sea-sick men of the 115th Infantry Regiment, 29th Infantry Division, knew the “time had come.” Aboard their LCI and now making their way to Omaha Beach where they would become part of the second assault wave ashore in the D-Day invasion of Normandy. Unable to see over the landing ramp, the men knew they were approaching hell as both the sound of artillery fire and machine guns as well as the reek of gunpowder flooded the boat. PFC Earnest “E.T.” Roberts was stoically prepared to do the job that he knew had to be done. He was the lead man as the bow ramp came down.

Born on December 23, 1923, Earnest Thomas Roberts’s childhood was shielded from the harshest effects of the Great Depression because an oil boom had brought prosperity to McAlester, Oklahoma. The streets had even been paved with concrete and brick to replace the rutted dirt roads of his early childhood. As the son of a meat cutter with other family in the oil business, Earnest could devote his childhood to school, sports, like boxing and horses. The war that began in Europe was in the consciousness of most young men, and when the U.S. became involved, it was no surprise that E.T. was drafted at the age of 18.

Roberts did not travel far from home as his initial training took place at Camp Wolters, Texas, a bare 220 miles from where he grew up. While in training, he won the Camp Wolters Golden Gloves boxing championship and remained undefeated since soon after he shipped out to Fort Dix, New Jersey.

After arrival and further training, Roberts was scheduled leave to New York since the soldiers were on a schedule that depended on the troopships departing. The Queen Mary, however, arrived and was large enough to carry almost all the waiting troops. Just before departing on leave, Roberts was recalled to duty—and given the name of the AWOL soldier whose place he would be taking on the Queen Mary—as he was hustled aboard the ship to maximize troop capacity.

Once in England, training continued. Big training events involved landing on the English coast in small assault craft, moving inland several miles and digging into defensive positions, and conducting patrols and live ammunition firing for several days. In between these exercises, the men would march with full packs for 10-12 miles every day and practice digging constantly. After 17 months of training, Roberts felt he was an “Iron Man,” trained and ready for what lay ahead.

On June 4, 1944, the harbor was full. Before Roberts and the men loaded aboard their respective ships, he was able to watch as General Eisenhower spoke of their upcoming duty. With full packs, full loads of ammunition, and one field ration, they waited for their imminent movement to the beaches of France. That night as men ate their ration, the weather raged, and their small assault ships tossed about at anchor, but they did not depart. The following day, approval was given to initiate the assault with Roberts landing in the 2nd assault wave, scheduled to hit the beach at 0820 hours on June 6. After a long two days aboard the storm-tossed ship, the men hit the beach, sea-sick, tired, hungry, and as ready as their training and preparations could make them.

Roberts, the first man off the boat and into the frigid water which towered over him. His body went straight down with the weight of his pack, and everything he was carrying. His helmet caught the water and violently wrenched his neck causing him to drop his flamethrower and flounder through the water to the beach. As the sound deafened and the smoke choked, Roberts and his fellow soldiers crawled across the beach. E.T. crawled to one of the men who’d been shot and, E.T. having lost everything he was carrying, the young man told him to take his rifle. He’d been mortally wounded; his eyes turned blood red by the force of the shell blasts. Nonetheless, he urged Roberts to “shoot as many so-and-so’s as you can.” Roberts was eventually “gathered up by a sergeant” and moved inland to their first objective. By the end of the day, only he and seven others from his landing craft were still together. Replacements would start coming in a constant stream.

On July 5, 1944, as his unit approached Saint-Lo with artillery fire and flares lighting the way, they crossed an open field with only ¼ mile visibility. Suddenly, the enemy were among them. “I was slamming clips in from a bandolier. The M-1 was so hot I could hardly touch it.” One of his fellow soldiers hollered “Get him off my back!” Roberts turned and saw an enemy soldier clinging to his comrade. He shot the enemy off the man’s back. “When I turned back around, here come one right in my face just like that. I put the gun on him, pulled the trigger. He fired back; I saw nothing but flame.” E.T. describes when several rounds were fired by an enemy automatic weapon, one grazed his helmet, two penetrated his field jacket, and one hit his arm, passing through his bicep. Evacuated from the battlefield, he later returned and accompanied his unit fighting in the Netherlands and Belgium.

“You’re not trying to protect yourself; you’re trying to protect others. You’re trained as a group to take care of one another.” E.T. reflected on the actualities of combat compared to what is shown on TV or in the movies. “You’re carrying a 72-lb pack, wearing a 5-lb helmet, carrying a canteen and a heavy belt of ammo around you. You’re constantly having to lay down then get up, run, duck. And you do that until you get ‘er done.”

26 days after being shot at Saint-Lo, Roberts returned to duty. He recalled the intense pain of having his wound cleaned out and his admiration for the grit of a fellow patient, a lieutenant who had been shot 27 times, who had to have been in terrible pain but never complained. “He was one tough dude,” E.T. recalled, “I don’t know if he made it or not.”

During one combat operation, his lieutenant issued an order that Roberts knew would result in his men being killed. “He was a 90-day wonder; everything he knew was out of a book,” Roberts recalled. “I objected. I explained to him what I had to say about moving them up there. There was artillery fire being laid down right where he ordered me to move them.”

The lieutenant re-issued his order over ET’s objections. Roberts moved his men into position. When he was able to check on them, seven had been killed. One man, who Roberts had taken a liking to, had been gutted by mortar fire, his feet torn off, but still recognized E.T.

Roberts paused in tears from the memory. “I went back to the lieutenant and said, ‘You have three left. The rest of them are dead,” he remembered. The lieutenant took offense and sent Roberts to report to the lieutenant colonel. “I don’t want to listen to you,” he snapped.

The lieutenant colonel accused E.T. of being yellow-bellied. When Roberts explained that in his opinion soldiers had been unnecessarily slaughtered, the lieutenant colonel told him he would be court martialed. Ordered back to his lieutenant, Roberts recalled, “That was the last I ever heard of that.”

“I’m really lucky to be alive,” he continued. “What with the leadership we had at the last part of the war.”

For his service, Mr. Roberts was awarded a Purple Heart and five Bronze Stars. Returning to civilian life in Oklahoma, he didn’t find work that paid as much as he wanted so he headed to California after marrying his wife. They had two sons and were married for 66 years until his she passed away.

Mr. Roberts believed two years of compulsory military service would be beneficial for all young men. “It would bring out the goodness in them.” He observed that young men didn’t seem to want to work or provide for their families the way they used to. Military service he believed would help. “This is the type of stuff that needs to be cleaned up.”

Solomon Schwartz was twenty-three years old when he enlisted in the Army Air Corps. His unit was shipped to the Philippines that autumn, a place that forever changed him. Little did Solomon know that he was about to become a prisoner of war for forty-two months.

On December 8th, 1941, the Japanese began bombing the Philippine Islands. U.S. troops were ordered to leave the mainland for a place called Bataan, a little peninsula off the coast of the Philippines. Solomon’s unit helped set up a beach defense against the advancing Japanese army, but they were undersupplied and soon forced to concede. “Any American you talk to didn’t want to surrender.”

Solomon was among 60,000-80,000 American and Filipino soldiers who were rounded up by Japanese soldiers and forced to march over sixty miles in what became known as the infamous Bataan Death March. Solomon marched in the scorching sun without food or water. If a prisoner ran out of line to search for something to eat or was thrown food from Filipino civilians hiding in the jungle, they were killed. This pattern continued for days, countless men on the march were bayoneted or shot by the Japanese.

The only water available to drink along the march was contaminated by corpses. Solomon suffered from dysentery by the time he reached Camp O’Donnell, the prisoner of war camp. “I’m not sure how many days it took. It seemed like a lifetime to me.”

At Camp O’Donnell, the Americans and Filipino soldiers were separated into different areas. It was a decrepit old camp whose barracks were falling apart. There was not enough room for all the American prisoners, forcing two-thirds of them to sleep out in the open where it rained relentlessly. There were only two water fountains at the camp for thousands of prisoners. They had to stand in line for hours to get a canteen of water. The camp was so overrun by disease and filth that the Japanese never entered. Instead, they threw food over the fence. Solomon’s health quickly depleted from dysentery.

He wandered around the camp begging for food before collapsing into a slit trench. Two Marines helped pull Solomon out, bathed him, and scrounged food from other prisoners. Yet despite their efforts, his condition only grew worse. He was sent to a barracks for sick inmates, but everyone knew it was the place you went to die. Solomon couldn’t stand watching his comrades die next to him and mustered up enough strength to break out.

Solomon drifted in the camp, cold, naked, and covered in filth. He would crawl under the old barracks to keep out of the rain. He lived like this for four months when one day he found himself slumped on the ground from sickness. Two men were talking above him, one attempting to pick him up. “Let him lay there. He’s going to die,” the first man said. “No, we have orders to take him,” said the other.

They put Solomon on a truck and transferred him to Camp Cabanatuan, a prisoner of war camp where the death rate was sky high. Solomon beat the odds, and, within a few days, he began recuperating from his illness.

The Japanese army then began shipping prisoners to Japan for forced labor. When Solomon thought back to that treacherous journey, he recalled it being as bad, if not worse, than the Bataan Death March. They sailed on old freighters previously used for shipping horses. The two rooms on the ship held 1,000 prisoners and were so crowded that they were forced to sleep on top of each other. The horse manure and filth hadn’t been cleaned up.

Solomon had a canteen of water for the journey which was stolen one night. They weren’t given any water, forcing the prisoners to drink their own urine to stay alive. The trip took longer than they all expected as American dive bombers strafed the ships, not aware that thousands of Americans were aboard. Half of the ships bound for Japan sank on the way over.

When the freighters landed in Japan, the prisoners were loaded onto a train. “We were told if we opened up the windows and tried to escape the whole train would get killed.” They were taken to one of the worst prisoner of war camps in Japan—Fukuoka Camp #17. Solomon endured 12-15-hour days working in the coal mines while living off one handful of rice a day.

One winter night Solomon was spotted after curfew while attempting to bypass the guards. He was dragged into the guardhouse and ordered to take off his clothes. They dumped buckets of freezing water over his head, making him stand for two hours in the cold before locking him in a small wooden cage for a week.

When Solomon was released from the guardhouse, he went back to working long hours in the coal mines, walking two miles barefoot back and forth from the camp. “I didn’t have shoes on my feet for 3 1/2 years.”

On August 9, 1945 Solomon was working in the coal mines when the power suddenly went off. He climbed out of the dark mineshaft, discovering that the shaft had saved his life. He was only twenty miles away from Nagasaki where the atomic bomb had just been dropped.

By September, Solomon was a free man and managed to make the four-hundred-mile trek to an American air base. He had been a prisoner for forty-two months and weighed 81 pounds. Solomon was placed on a ship headed for the States, and, when it arrived, the crew was about to carry him to the dock on a stretcher. He refused. “I wouldn’t let them. I half crawled down.” He kneeled on American soil for the first time in over three years and kissed the ground.

After years of recovery, Solomon made his way back into civilian life. He married his wife, Betty, in 1947 and ran a jewelry shop in Beverly Hills for forty years, casting jewelry for celebrities such as Elvis Presley. When asked what kept him going during those horrific years as POW, Solomon said, “It’s just what you did. I was a prisoner and I didn’t want to die.”

Solomon frequently stated that “you have to live the best life you can.” For him, that meant forgiving the Japanese guards who beat him. Forgiveness gave Solomon freedom to live his best life.

Ensign George Hughes was performing calisthenics and simply “tossing telephone poles back and forth” with other trainees at Fort Pierce, Florida. At the end of the day, the exhausted trainees were told that “in the morning” they would do a little swim. At precisely, midnight instructors burst into the barracks rousting them from sleep. Loaded aboard a small boat, they were unceremoniously dumped into the ocean a mile from shore. Hughes was terrified of being in the ocean at night with only a compass and a watch. As he made his way to shore the words of his previous commanding officer rang through his head, “Your swimming is worth more than your engineering.”

Born on June 22, 1918 in Loyalton, California, George Hughes, Jr grew up in Oakland where both parents taught school. George grew up as an avid card player and competitive swimmer. Throughout his childhood and especially in high school, he practiced boxing, first under the tutelage of his father, a Golden Gloves champion, and later with his high school boxing team. The Great Depression had a tremendous impact, as often school teachers would not be paid, and, to help ends meet, George worked as a delivery boy for three different newspapers in Oakland. Graduating from high school in 1936, George attended Cal State University, playing water polo and completing a degree in mechanical engineering by 1940.

Industrial consortiums were working to expand industrial output, and George, an engineer for Consolidated Aircraft, was in the middle of planning the expansion of the B-24 fleet of aircraft. His goal was to increase production to 400 bombers per month. Because of his work, and the contacts he had working for military contracts, the attack at Pearl Harbor was not unexpected. The greatest difference for George pre- and post-Pearl Harbor was the fact that there was no longer enough time. His work became all-consuming as demands were ever increasing as wartime production ramped up.

George’s civilian employment came to a screeching halt when George and a few other engineers tried to change companies. Told directly by the Department of Labor that they were war essential workers and unable to quit, George and four others opted to enter direct military service.

Hughes attended his initial 90-day training in Tucson, Arizona, to be commissioned as a Construction Battalion officer for the U.S. Navy, where his commanding officer noted that he was a superb swimmer. Hughes received follow on training at the amphibious training center for Naval Construction Demolition Units established at Fort Pierce, Florida. A strict and rigorous initial training week weeded out the physically challenged members, and a one-mile surprise ocean swim removed others. Completing his training, he was sent to Waimanalo, Hawaii as the commander of a ten-man, clandestine operations team. Training in Hawaii was heavily geared towards the demolition of beach obstacles and testing new equipment. As a “frogman,” Hughes had definite combat roles and missions, but, as he stated, “we were doing experimental stuff … engineering essentially.” Experimentation and engineering brought no relief from the arduous physical training required in their primary role. Training included weekly 17-mile swims and practice “invasions” of Oahu.

George conducted 6 wartime missions. His first mission was also the most horrendous, resulting in the deaths of two men under his command. Flown by Navy Air to the island of Saipan, the naval commandoes lived a nocturnal life. Already secured by the Marine Corps, Saipan served as a bustling military communications and logistics center. However, Japanese holdouts in the jungle conducted nightly raids, killing, stealing, and damaging businesses and military property. The demolition teams had received jungle training in Florida and were pressed into service to interdict these holdout Japanese raiders. Armed only with battle knives, the Navy men began a nightly routine of observing jungle trails and ambushing Japanese as they sallied forth. Hughes characterized this mission as “killing men at night with knives,” crediting the speed and agility developed boxing as key to his survival. The mission ended when a sword wielding Japanese officer killed two of the naval commandoes. These men were of much more value performing their primary mission of demolition and were withdrawn.

A typical stealth mission involved meeting at the CINC-PAC Headquarters in Hawaii. Team leaders often received intelligence reports directly from Captain Ellis Zacharias, the leading signals intelligence officer and Japanese linguist. After additional mission specific training, the men would board PBY Catalina flying boats and rendezvous with submarine tenders at sea. Transferred to submarines, they would be transported and inserted near their objective areas. Armed only with battle knives, these men would swim ashore and conduct their missions, return to their submarine and depart.

One such mission had Hughes lead his men in the destruction of a radio station on the island of Formosa (modern-day Taiwan) where “Tokyo Rose” allegedly made transmissions at the time. Luckily, they were not detected and did not see Japanese soldiers on this mission. Hughes was unwilling to discuss other formerly classified missions but did play a role in recovering some of the Doolittle Raiders along the Chinese coast after their historic mission. As the war ended, he and his team were training for the invasion of the Japanese island of Hokkaido.

The end of the war saw the dissolution of the underwater demolition teams, and Hughes completed his Naval service assigned to the Engineering Department of the escort carrier USS Munda. Hughes returned to his career in aviation, serving as a project engineer for the AH-56 Cheyenne attack helicopter among other projects for Lockheed Corporation.

Refusing to characterize himself a hero he believes his service was a duty: “When your country’s in danger you are doing it.” Despite the horrors witnessed in combat, his only remark regarding his service is simple and fitting: “Just work. That’s all.”

A deeply religious man with strong opinions, Hughes nevertheless spoke precisely and technically as a lifelong engineer. Noting his own desire on returning from combat to go on a “one-way swim” into the ocean, Hughes was vehement in his criticism of the Veterans Administration for not doing more to assist the returning veterans of today and blamed government bureaucracy for denying these young veterans help. He was little surprised that the veteran suicide rate was so high. He was also quick to observe when asked directly for advice, “Work creates wealth; vacation uses wealth.”

PFC Ernest Martinez was born in the desert village of Tularosa in south central New Mexico in 1921, the first year the World Series was broadcast on the radio. His father had died before he was born, and his mother passed when he was 14, so he went to live with his grandmother. He and his five siblings grew up during the Great Depression in a world with no running water or refrigeration. He remembers growing up without shoes and that his childhood was miserable and hellish. He never got past the 3rd grade and finding a job during those trying times proved difficult. Ernest had heard about the December 7th Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor over the radio while hitchhiking home. After the broadcast he remembers thinking, “We are going to have to go to war.”

On January 6, 1943, he was inducted into the Army and shipped off to Camp Roberts, California, one of the largest military training facilities in the world at that time. His training continued in Alabama, which he recalls was “hotter than hell” with plenty of mosquitoes to keep a soldier company during the humid nights. He had heard that the Army needed paratroopers, who received 50 extra dollars a month for jump pay, so he volunteered and reported in to Fort Benning, Georgia, for jump school. Although he was not able to qualify as a paratrooper, he met all the requirements to become an infantry rifleman. He was transferred to Camp Myles Standish in Massachusetts, the departure area for more than a million Allied troops during the war. There he completed his final training and checked over his equipment including his M-1 service rifle. When it was his time to head overseas, he was sent to the port of Boston and boarded a ship destined for Liverpool, England.

Private Martinez, now a member of the 2nd Infantry Division, sailed to England in January 1944 to continue training for the massive invasion of the European mainland—Operation Overlord—codename for the Battle of Normandy. He landed at Omaha Beach in France on June 7, 1944, D-Day plus one. As the bullets whizzed by and the artillery exploded around him, he recalled telling his fellow GIs: “My ass belongs to the Germans, and my soul belongs to God.” His division was tasked with attacking across the Aure River, liberating Trevieres, on June 10th and proceeded to assault and secure Hill 192, a key enemy strongpoint on the road to St. Lo.

During the battle in an act of frustration, the young soldier mounted a bike and rode towards the German lines with his rifle slung over his shoulder. For no explainable reason, the German soldiers left their defensive positions, possibly dumbfounded by Ernest's brazen act, and the Americans were able to move forward. Once again Ernest was recognized for his bravery and was awarded the Silver Star.

In the Ardennes Forest, on October 18, 1944, Ernest was wounded in the leg and suffered a broken arm during a German artillery attack. He waited 20 minutes in a German pill box for the artillery to stop and the medics to arrive. He was whisked off to a hospital tent and then off to Paris for surgery. He received the Purple Heart for his injuries. He was transported back to England where they treated his wounds. At the time, he was worried that he may have to have his leg amputated, but the doctors were able to save his limb. He recovered in England for 6 months before being sent back to the States. He departed England in January 1945. As a parting gift from the war, he spent the whole trip back suffering from seasickness.

It felt good to be home after the war even though racial tensions were still a part of everyday life for Ernest. He recalls visiting El Paso, Texas, and reading a sign hung over the door of a local restaurant that warned potential customers, “We do not serve Blacks or Mexicans.” In the weeks, months, and years after returning from the war, he missed being with the whole gang that served so heroically overseas during World War II. After his discharge, he found re-integration with civilian life difficult as he had little education and few skills. He was able to live comfortably off the little money he had saved, supplemented by his benefits as a 100% disabled veteran. Martinez eventually settled in Los Angeles and worked repairing various machines used to make saddles. Throughout his life, he was haunted by the harrowing memories of the war and suffered from what is now known as PTSD. He recalls having to take pills to help sleep at night. He will not talk about the war unless somebody asks him. At night, he closes his eyes and pictures the hundreds of dead soldiers he saw on the battlefield.

For his heroic actions in Normandy, Northern France, and the Ardennes and for wounds he received in combat, PFC Ernest Martinez was awarded the Silver Star, Bronze Star, Purple Heart, and the Combat Infantry Badge. He reminisced about the time he spent in a living hell in the fields and forests of war-torn Europe and stated simply, “I'm very proud I fought for this country.”

Louis Berger grew up in Depression Era Philadelphia. Though times were taxing, his resilient Jewish family was not adversely impacted by the years of downturn. They had lived without luxuries before and were accustomed to a simple life. Growing up thin and small, Louis fondly remembers visiting the local drug store to buy an egg to put in his milkshake with the hopes of packing a little weight on his frame. He was 16 when he heard about the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor. He remembers that the excitement all around him was spectacular. Though the country was not ready for war, America quickly mobilized, and many young American men began signing up for the service.

Across the Pacific, Thomas Crosby, born in the Philippines, resided south of Manila, in Pasay, with his mother, grandmother, aunt and little brother prior to the Japanese invasion. His mom had worked for the local chamber of commerce and grandma was a nurse at the Cavite Naval base. Thomas was eight when the Japanese struck the Philippines 10 hours after the surprise attack on Pearl Harbor. He remembers that during the invasion, he could see the Japanese planes dive bombing the capitol city of Manila. The invaders would quickly go on to destroy many American aircraft and march many allied soldiers to their deaths on their way from Bataan. Early in 1942, as things went from bad to worse in the Philippines, both General Douglas McArthur and the American Asiatic fleet withdrew to Australia and Java respectively.

Louis was drafted and shipped to Camp Haan, an Army anti-artillery base, in Riverside, California, for 7 months of training. Early in 1944, Louis remembers crossing under the Golden Gate Bridge, out of San Francisco Bay and across the Pacific, stopping briefly in Hawaii to re-stock. The young soldier was a member of the 385th Anti-Aircraft Artillery Battalion, part of the 1st Cavalry Division. Along the way the ship picked up Navy Seabees and dropped them off in New Guinea, which the Japanese had invaded right after Pearl Harbor. The US had taken back the strategic island earlier in the war thus sparing Australia a certain invasion from the north. Louis spent several months in New Guinea before heading to conduct mop-up operations after the battle of Biak where 474 Americans lost their lives annihilating heavily entrenched Japanese soldiers.

In the Philippines, back in 1942, Thomas and his family were taken to Manila's Rizal stadium where they were separated from military personnel, put in trucks and then transported to the sprawling campus of the Catholic University of Santo Tomas. The university had been converted into a makeshift prisoner of war camp used to house civilians and US Army and Navy nurses. The Japanese made it clear that punishment for escape attempts would be severe. Early in the camp's history, three British civilians attempted to escape and were caught, beaten and then brought in front of the other prisoners where they were summarily judged then shot to death.

In October of 1944, Louis and his Army unit arrived in Leyte, then moved to Luzon, Jan. 9th. When General MacArthur heard the orders from Tokyo to eliminate all military and civilian POWs, he ordered rescue teams to advance and liberate prison camps in Manila. Louis was with the 1st Cavalry Division's "Flying Column" and the 44th Tank Battalion on February 3rd, when they began the rescue of the camp where Thomas had been held captive.

Thomas and his brother were in the Education Building, where they spent most of their nights, away from his mother, and the rest of his family. With the help of the Filipino Scouts, the Army subdued the Japanese guards, except for the commandant and 65 other guards, who moved Thomas, his brother, and 220 others up to the third floor, where a shoot-out and hostage siege began.

The captives were held hostage for 36 hours during tense negotiations. The end result was an exchange of civilian prisoners for the safe escort of the enemy, fully armed, who were marched a few blocks outside of camp and released to join the rest of the Japanese army.

A few days later, the Japanese counter attacked Santo Tomas, full of the rescued internees and the US Army. The enemy shelled them for four days resulting in many casualties, before elements of the 1st Cavalry and 37th Infantry Division could drive the enemy back. This was the beginning of the Battle of Manila. Manila was captured by the 1st Cavalry and the 37th Infantry Division on the 3rd of March 1945 and most of the Japanese resistance moved up to the hills above Manila. Louis and his unit were sent to help the 37th clear these hills. He heroically packed in and delivered shells to US mortarmen up the steep slopes. Louis recalls the bitter fight to take the memorial Rizal Stadium in what was called "Battle of the Ballpark." The Japanese, in their last stand against the liberators, fired their machine guns from the grandstands at the advancing American Infantrymen, who were seeking shelter behind tanks and doing their best to avoid land mines. Louis and his fellow GIs fought bravely and took the stadium, forcing the remaining Japanese to retreat and hide in boats down at the Pasig river. It took the Americans an additional two days to clear and secure the area. The battle for Manila had been a shot for shot, doorway to doorway, battle. The Japanese had been beaten into submission in the Battle for Manila and had lost thousands of soldiers to vicious urban combat where over 100,000 Filipino civilians were massacred by the Japanese as they were retreating.

When Thomas first met his emancipators, he had spent over three years in the Japanese POW camp. By then the camp had grown to over 4,400 internees, conditions were less than ideal. Thomas labored in the POW camp, pulling sanitation duty, picking weeds and carrying water. They slept on thin mats in a crowded room. He would use burnt wood chips to clean his teeth. They had very few belongings with them, as they were told to pack for three days when the Japanese first gathered them up, never imagining their captivity would last 37 months. Thomas and his family had lived off lugao which is watered down rice and the vegetables the prisoners had grown in their own gardens. The Japanese would rarely provide the internees with the Red Cross Packages that were intended for them; when they did receive the boxes, they were usually picked through first. Thomas recalls one Christmas where in his Red Cross box, there was a bar of Hershey’s chocolate. Very aware of the situation they were in, he and his brother would share the chocolate bar, by breaking it into pieces and taking only one lick per day to make it last as long as they could.

Food was scarce, and one day Thomas went picking through the garbage trying to scrounge whatever he could. He found some chicken bones that were picked clean but wanted to bring them to his grandmother hoping they could get the tiniest amount of desperately needed nutrition from the bones. He was caught by the guards and physically punished for doing so. Sometimes they boiled their own leather shoes to get any nutrition they could to survive, leaving Thomas barefoot for the rest of his imprisonment. Towards the end of his imprisonment he recalls that the Japanese Kempeitai ("Military Police Force") had taken over responsibility of guarding the camp. This unit was tougher on the prisoners due to their hard line counterinsurgency tactics.

Following the liberation, the Army assessed the health of the prisoners. Many of the adults had lost half their body weight due to beriberi. Now 11, Thomas weighed 48 pounds, his brother weighed even less.

Once the battle had ended and it was safe to leave the camp, Thomas and his family boarded the Liberty ship, S.S. Frank H. Evers and spent April sailing the South Pacific, stopping at various islands, picking up and dropping off supplies, USO performers and whatever else was needed, on their way to the mainland. They crossed the equator twice, before reaching San Francisco on May 8, 1945; V-E Day.

“It was the most memorable sight, sailing under the magnificent Golden Gate bridge on a beautiful clear day. I’ll never forget that day. It was my first day in America,” Thomas remembers.

When V-J Day, was declared, Thomas and his family were living in Vallejo, CA, where his mother found a job at the Mare Islands shipyard.

Louis returned home aboard the troop transport, USS Comet (APP-166). After arriving at port, the survivors were put aboard C-47 transport planes for the first leg of their journey home. After 18 hours in the air and aboard a train, Louis finally arrived in Harrisburg, PA for mustering out. He was discharged in four days and took a cab home, ending his experience in the Army. He went back to work for his family's food business. The US government provided returning GIs a 52/20 plan which guaranteed every service member $20 a week for 52 weeks. The returning heroes immediately began working to build up the American economy. GIs were provided low-interest, low down payment home loans and Louis was able to purchase a three-bedroom house for $11,000 with a $62 a month payment. Times were good again.

Later in life, Louis and his band were playing at a banquet in San Diego. He had found out that they were entertaining former POWs that had been interred in camps across the Philippines during WWII. That's where he met Tom. Though ‘breathing the same air’ during the war, the two brave men had never directly met; now doing the same decades later, this would be the start of a lasting friendship.

Sergeant Louis Berger offers the following advice to future generations: "Be very thankful that you live in the United States. Take care of your country, there is no better place to go from here."

In 1937, twenty-year-old Stanley Troutman was employed at Acme News Agency where he mixed chemicals and performed mundane tasks. Six years later, he had risen in the ranks as a photographer and was given an opportunity that would change his life. It was 1943 when Stanley’s boss at Acme approached him about an opening for a war correspondent. “I really wasn’t that red hot about going because I had a wife and daughter. Well, my patriotism got the best of me and so I made the decision to go ahead.”

Stanley left his family and safe stateside job, voluntarily putting himself in harm’s way, with no military training and armed only with a 4x5 speed graphic camera. He was put on board the aircraft carrier Intrepid and shipped to the Pacific where he was to document the American fight against the Japanese Empire.

His first assignment was the invasion of Saipan. Dressed in Marine fatigues, sleeping in foxholes, and eating C-rations, Stanley endured the same hardships as most combat infantrymen would, with no gun to defend himself. The only thing Stanley was shooting was his camera. “If you were caught with a weapon, they could shoot you as a spy, but as a correspondent without a weapon you would be treated as a war prisoner.”

Stanley found himself in the middle of the action on a hill in Saipan. He threw himself flat on the ground as Japanese machine gun fire suddenly whizzed through the air. Stanley tried to shield himself from the bullets behind his speed graphic camera. “All I can remember is seeing a bullet hit the soldier to my right.”

Stanley stayed on Saipan for nearly a month before being sent to other Pacific islands, including Tinian, Guam, Peleliu, Leyte, Borneo, Manila, and Corregidor. When American troops invaded Corregidor, he made the mistake of going in too early.

“I was with the ninth wave going in. I thought everything seemed pretty secure.” A Japanese sniper aimed at Stanley’s landing craft on which eighteen men were aboard. Bullets flew around them, taking the lives of three men and wounding others.

Once on Corregidor, Stanley took photographs of General MacArthur who wanted to inspect the Malinta Tunnel which served as a bomb-proof storage and personnel bunker before becoming a hospital for wounded troops later on.

“He started down into the Malinta Tunnel by himself. I was the only photographer, questioning myself, do I go in or let him go?” Stanley was hesitant, wondering if Japanese snipers would start shooting at any moment, but he went in anyway. Thankfully, they emerged safely, and Stanley got his photographs.

Stanley sent his photographs to the War Picture Pool in Pearl Harbor where they were processed, proofed, and then sent to Acme. Acme sent copies of everything he took to the Associated Press, Life Magazine, and the International News Service.

In 1945, Stanley became a correspondent for the Air Force, giving them publicity as they began to separate themselves from the Army Air Corps. The Air Force gave the correspondents a literal trip around the world in an effort to show what the Air Force had done to help win the war.

Stanley was one of the first American journalists to document the destruction of Hiroshima and Nagasaki after the atomic bombs had been dropped. Along with one other photographer and ten correspondents, they landed in Hiroshima a month to the day after the explosion. From the airplane as they prepared to land Stanley could see the amount of damage, describing the effects of the bomb as “a pebble dropping into a lake.”

The waves of the bomb spread far and wide, wiping out some areas while jumping over others. “It was hard for me to realize one bomb could do so much damage.” Stanley photographed Japanese civilians with burns on their bodies along with rubble and desolation the bomb left in its wake.

When Stanley returned home, he became a bureau manager for Acme in Los Angeles before working forty-two years at UCLA in cinematography. In 1956, he was given the opportunity to help film the Olympics in Australia. Stanley looks back on his full life with thankfulness. “I’ve had a fabulous life.”

Marines were bored and anxious, as they sat offshore in their amphibious shipping. Corporal Williams was not even sure he would land. Unable to see the island, the Marines could hear an occasional explosion and see aircraft fly overhead, but Williams thought this would be a rerun of Saipan when his unit was not needed and remained aboard ship. At midnight the word was passed for “chow at 0300,” Williams and his fellow Marines knew they would eat the traditional steak and egg breakfast prior making an amphibious landing. The next morning, the Marines climbed down cargo nets into Higgins Boats amidst 10- to 12-foot waves and circled aimlessly for hours before returning to the ship. That evening they again prepared for a landing. On February 21, 1945 they ate a second breakfast of steak and eggs, but this time the beachhead was large enough that they could land on the paltry 2 ½ by 5-mile island of Iwo Jima.

Hershel Woodrow Williams grew up in the rural community of Quiet Dell, West Virginia, the youngest son of a dairy farmer. His early life of rising early to work and going to bed early was broken only by a few pleasures. The few free moments he had were spent playing games with his brothers, walking to and from school with his neighbors and occasionally going to town to watch a movie or to an uncle’s home to listen to the radio. High school proved to be challenging not because of academics, but because of his work load and lack of transportation.

Williams followed an older brother into the Civilian Conservation Corps and was sent to White Hall, Montana where he worked timber for the U.S. Government. When the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor on December 7, 1941, Williams was offered direct entry into the U.S. Army. Unwilling to join the Army, he set his eyes on the Marines and was sent home for enlistment under his own terms. Unable to enlist immediately at 17, Williams worked on the farm until his 18th birthday when he went to the Marine recruiter. Heartbroken, Williams was unable to join the Marines because at 5’6” he was too short. He returned home to work until he was permitted to enlist.

Regulations for the Marines changed, and the recruiter tracked Williams down offering him the opportunity to enlist. Hershel entered the Marine Corps but did not report until May when he was shipped to the Recruit Depot at San Diego, California. Recruit and infantry training were uneventful, as Williams had learned from his father not to question orders and do all tasks to the best of his ability.

Shipping overseas initially to New Caledonia and from there to his wartime unit—1st Battalion, 21st Marines, 3rd Division—at Guadalcanal. On Guadalcanal, he trained for combat duty as a demolition and flamethrower operator. Provided with disassembled flamethrowers and an instruction manual on the assemble and loading, it was up to his section to figure out how to employ the weapons! After trial and error, it was discovered that the best flame mixture was aviation gasoline and diesel fuel, and the ideal technique was to fire a line of flame at the base of the intended target and “roll” the flame into the target at ground level.

Loading aboard amphibious shipping in June 1944, Williams faced his first combat in the Mariana Islands. The landing at Saipan proved to be quickly accomplished and his 3rd Marine Division remained in reserve off shore during both the Saipan and Tinian landings. However, Williams did not have long to wait, and in July 1944 went ashore on the island of Guam. The conditions and terrain on Guam saw Williams fighting with a rifle instead of his flamethrower. Surviving two Japanese Banzai attacks, Williams concluded that “for them to die in war was honor, but we [Americans] will do everything to survive and help our fellows.” Despite the anxiety of fighting in the dense jungles, and the horrors of combat and mopping up operations, the island was secured in August.

Resting, refitting, and honing his skills, Williams remained until February 1945 when he loaded aboard shipping for an unknown operation. He soon learned it was Iwo Jima. After the first aborted attempt to land, he came ashore on the 3rd day of the battle. Corporal Williams was horrified at the chaos and carnage but continued doing his job to the best of his ability. Pushing into assigned positions at the edge of an airfield, Williams observed the American flag on Mount Suribachi, and then plunged headlong with his fellow Marines across the wide-open spaces of the airfield.

After taking horrendous casualties in crossing the airfield, his unit incurred a line of reinforced concrete pillboxes blocking the path, and Williams’ commanding officer asked if he could destroy the pillboxes. Saying simply “I’ll try,” Williams picked four Marines to provide cover fire and maneuvered towards the pillboxes. Williams crawled from cover and moved towards the first pill box, but his pole charge man, who was to hurl explosives into the pillboxes, was struck a glancing blow to the helmet by a bullet and went down. Williams continued the attack alone. Crawling into the crossfire of mutually supporting pill boxes, Williams methodically and relentlessly destroyed one position after another. Returning several times over the next four hours for more flamethrowers, Williams proved “instrumental in neutralizing one of the most fanatically defended strongpoints” of the campaign.

This was Williams’ last battle of the war and he returned home for discharge in November 1945. His last duty was to report to the White House where President Truman awarded him the Medal of Honor for his actions on February 23, 1945.

Williams remained in the Marine Corps Reserve retiring as a Chief Warrant Officer Four and later had a career in the Veterans Administration. Williams’s most satisfying and fulfilling experience has been working for the families of deceased military members. Working tirelessly, Williams assisted in the erection of the first Gold Star Families Memorial in a cemetery of Williams’s home state of West Virginia on October 2, 2013, which has been followed by more in almost every state and dozens of communities. As of this writing, 47 Gold Star Families Memorial Monuments are complete and 53 are in process in 41 states.

Peering through the 3” gap between the protective plating of his 20mm Anti-Aircraft Gun, Steward 2nd Class Allen Wallace looked through the sights as he swiveled the gun. When “battle stations” were called, there were no extra personnel on a navy ship, and the USS Selfridge was no exception. Maybe tomorrow Wallace would return to the wardroom and once again set out the dinner service for the officers, but today he was a fighting sailor in the United States Navy. The first of three Japanese aircraft flew within range, and Wallace began shooting. By the end of the day, he and his shipmates would shoot down three Japanese attackers, but this was not Wallace’s first battle, nor would it be his last.

Born on August 4, 1925 in Springfield, Ohio, Allen Therell Wallace grew up on a small farm. One of eight children, Wallace and his siblings were tight nit and independent, rarely relying on others for anything that they could do for themselves. Necessity made their natural family bonds all the stronger. Allen was a member of the only African-American family in this corner of rural Ohio. Resistance to endemic racism began early for Allen with the mayor pressuring the school system to hold him back a year so the mayor’s son would not have to be in his class. Additionally, Allen was able to practice with the sports teams at his high school but unable to compete in the games and voted “least likely to succeed” by his student peers. Finally, an altercation with his high school principal and Allen’s refusal to apologize brought the end of his school days. Throughout his school years and into adulthood, Allen tolerated the subtle racist acts, but he never accepted that they were just. Following his father’s example, he never behaved as anything less than a man and while he hated racism, he did not hate people.

On December 7, 1941, Allen’s father came home from work and announced that “Hawaii is being bombed” to his sons working in the fields of the family farm. Having never been taught to fear another man, Allen reported for induction in 1943 and asked for service in the Army Air Corps, to which his processing clerk cheerfully called down the line “here comes another Sailor!” Unable to swim, young Wallace was denied training in the Constructions Battalions and instead was placed into the Cook and Steward Corps after his training at Bainbridge, MD.

Combat for Steward Wallace aboard the USS Selfridge involved escort and convoy duty in the Pacific until the Marianas Campaign where the Selfridge provided gunfire support to the invasions of Saipan, Tinian, and Guam and air picket patrols for the main fleet. Following this campaign, the Selfridge, deemed too old for continued service in the Pacific, was transferred to the Atlantic for service as a convoy escort. Wallace was unable to remain aboard ship after being hospitalized for kidney stones, and was instead transferred to the USS Beverly W. Reid, a destroyer escort that was soon tasked with duty as convoy flagship. Searching for German U-Boats and maneuvering to avoid torpedoes, Wallace completed his wartime naval service, obtaining the rank of Steward 2nd Class.

Throughout his naval service and afterwards, Wallace maintained his father’s belief that “if you are a man, be a man,” and conducted himself with dignity and pride earning the respect of the officers and men he served with, beginning with the white commanding officer of his recruit training company who in parting, shook his hand as he said “Good luck, Sailor.” Aboard ship he behaved appropriately for his rank and station, but would tolerate no racial slights, an attitude which the white officers and crew appreciated and defended. Following his discharge, he led an early protest in Ohio leading to the desegregation of local restaurants and refused to remain with employers that limited his advancement due to race or education.

Striking out for California, Wallace pursued a construction career, but after being denied jobs by the union, he ultimately started his own contracting business. Returning to Ohio so that his children could attend “country schools.” He watched as his children were able to compete in the sports of their choice where he had been denied the opportunity and excel both academically and athletically.

Wallace remains remarkably open and optimistic regarding race relations and extremely proud of his service during World War II. Having grown up with extreme racism and having aspects of racism manifest throughout his life, he maintains that his life has been a good one, and that improvements are occurring every day. Living his entire life refusing to be bitter but demanding “to be looked in the eye” like a man Wallace, embodies the fighting spirit of all Americans.

If pressed for advice, with the legacy of his fifty-four year “honeymoon marriage” he suggested you “keep your wife happy; you don’t have time for all the outside stuff.” Sagely, he added, “Talk and you can’t hear; listen and you’ll learn.”

Jack Gutman knew at an early age that he was a healer—not a fighter—as a medical corpsman treating the wounded during the Normandy invasion. He joined the Navy at 17 with his father’s permission and became a corpsman because he tested high on the aptitude tests. The sight of blood made him feel faint, and he thought he’d never make it through training. But he did, a course that had been compressed from 1 year to 6 months. “I got over my squeamishness about blood when they took us down to the morgue and showed us a dead body,” he said. Jack learned to catheterize, finish stitching surgery wounds: “All kinds of things you couldn’t do today as a medic.”

Growing up in a poor family, his mother made a lot of buckwheat kasha. They ate it sweetened and with vegetables. Meat was unheard of. One Christmas a wealthy woman showed up with a basket of food and presents, including a turkey with all the fixings. “It was like an angel had come,” Jack recalled. “The best Christmas I ever had.”

When he heard Pearl Harbor was attacked, Jack knew the U.S. would go to war. He followed the war’s course on the news while he waited to turn 17 and his dad would give him permission to enlist. Gutman chose the Navy because he wanted to have a nice bed to sleep in and clean sheets. On ship or on base, he always had a bed and 3 meals a day. “The poor Army guys and Marines hit the beach, always in the dirt. Little did I know what I was going to get into,” Jack said.

He shipped out to England on the RMS Aquitania, stacked into bunks along with thousands of other men. “You know you’re going to war. I was inhibited in a way and I felt insecure, but I had a good memory for jokes. I’d tell a joke to a couple of guys, they’d call more guys over. Next thing you know I’d be doing a show for 15 guys. It built my self-esteem and took my mind off of what was coming up.”

Gutman was assigned to a medical unit at a very large hospital. For five months, he and his workmates prepared it for something they could tell was going to be significant. “We were preparing for Normandy. We knew it was going to be something big but honest to God I had no idea it would be that devastating.”

While preparing the hospital they were “buzz bombed” by unmanned bombs. Under international rules, the hospital wasn’t supposed to be hit, but they were nervous because they knew unmanned bomb couldn’t tell they were an off-limits target. “Luckily, only one came close to us,” Jack recalled.

“I remember one time we were being bombed by regular German bombers. I think I was in the mess hall. I didn’t know God at the time. I was under a table and the bombs are dropping, everything was shaking. I remember a guy named Sully was on the floor and saying ‘God, if it’s my time to go, I’m ready’ and I thought ‘This guy’s insane’. But later I talked with him about his religion. He was a Catholic. He never asked me about my religion, but he gave me a Bible. I put it in the pocket of my shirt and figured it would stop a bullet. That was my mind at the time.”

While in England, he went on leave from time to time. “I met a very nice English girl and fell in love. I used to bring her family oranges and eggs. I would see her whenever we got leave. We would go to the pubs and drink warm beer! And fish and chips for 20 cents,” Jack smiled.

“We thought Normandy was going to be a cakewalk because we’d seen all the mortar fire, the bombardment of the coast before the invasion. Then I saw all the American bodies and thought ‘Why are all these men dying?’ Afterward I wanted to find out why they had died. 9,000 men died in Normandy, 14,000 in Okinawa,” he reflected, overcome with emotion at the memory.

“Later I read that we had 11,000 bombers that were supposed to render the bunkers along Utah and Normandy helpless. But what happened as they were coming over is there was cloud cover and they said ‘We cannot see the bunkers, so when you think you’re near the beach count 3 and drop the bombs.’

“Well, the bombs dropped a mile away from the bunkers, and the only thing that hit them was the shells from the ships. So, therefore, all these guys—our guys—caught it all, the waves of troops just caught hell. We had practiced that the boats took you right up to the beach, and you jumped out and ran up onto the sand. But what happened was there were these barriers, and the men had to jump out into the water and wade through up to their waist or neck. Some of them panicked and jumped over the side. With their heavy packs, the water was so deep, they went right down. If they couldn’t get the pack off, they drowned. So, a lot of guys died that way and when you see bodies floating around it’s just . . .” he paused. “And always remember I was just 18 years of age.”

“It was a lot. It was more than I anticipated. It was sheer hell. You always feel: did I do enough for them?” “A lot of guys you save, but then a lot of guys die,” he said, again overcome with emotion. “And you kinda wonder, did you do enough?” Gutman said as he wiped away tears. “That brought up post-traumatic stress and so forth.”

Gutman chose not to talk about his experiences for many years. He would walk away from a conversation among veterans rather than participate. “I remember taking care of a patient who’d been wounded. He’d lost spinal fluid. And when you lose spinal fluid, you die. I would change the bandage, and the fluid would just shoot up. I asked the doctor ‘How is he going to make it?’ The doctor said ‘He won’t make it, he’s going to die.’ The guy would talk to me. He would tell me about his wife and his kid,” Jack said. “He tells me all about it and says ‘I’m going to go home soon and see my family, won’t I, Doc?’ and I said, ‘Yeah.’ You hadda lie to him, give him hope.” He paused. “And you take it personal,” he said tearfully. “If he dies on your watch, whoever’s on duty has to pack every cavity in his body with cotton. I had to do this, between here and Okinawa, four times. And it takes a toll on you ‘cause you get to know the person. It becomes personal.”

“I think,” he paused and cleared his throat, “I think that’s what I went through a lot, figuring why did this man die and I lived . . . and then with the flashbacks and everything it was driving me crazy. My flashbacks—I keep seeing the invasion, and it’s amplified. The guy screaming ‘Mama! Mama!’ and all that. It gets really horrible. Some of those guys never got back to their mother. I don’t want people to forget those guys who died or were badly wounded because they thought it was the right thing to do.”

During the invasion, he recalled being shocked to look over and see someone dead, someone he’d been joking with a little while before. At times, to shield himself from being shot, he dragged a body over for cover. “It was survival,” he stated. “We didn’t find out until we were out—I think maybe on the 4th of June. The invasion was originally scheduled for June 5th, but the water was so rough it flipped tanks off the transports and they sank with their crew.

“Rommel thought because of the weather the invasion wouldn’t happen for several more weeks, so he went back to Germany for his wife’s birthday party,” Gutman recounted. “Rommel and Hitler were the only two with authority to move a Panzer unit, which the Germans desperately needed at Normandy, but because Rommel was away and Hitler was asleep and ‘not to be woken’ according to his aides, the unit wasn’t dispatched to Normandy. God must have been looking after us,” Gutman said, “Because otherwise we would have lost more men.”

As they approached the beach, some of the men were so seasick they were vomiting on each other and felt so miserable they didn’t care if they lived or died. Gutman remembers people yelling, “Keep your damn head down!” as their boat crept through the mist and rough water.

They passed ships that had been hit. Gutman heard men yelling for help, but his strict instructions were “You’re not a rescue ship. Go do your job.” He was torn up to leave them, but he carried on to shore. “Then you wonder,” he said, “Did they make it or what? A lot of them hit the mines and got blown up.”

There was no time to triage the wounded in the heat of battle. “You just moved from one guy to the other. Sometimes the guy who screams the loudest is the one you go to. You do what you can, move from one to the next, give a morphine shot, staunch the bleeding, tag ‘em. Then a stretcher bearer would take them. If you see a guy there’s no hope for him, you give him a shot, give him some care, and move on . . . and you wonder, did you make the right decision? You wonder if you’re responsible for someone dying. That stays with a young mind. Some of them wanted me to stay with them, but I had to tell them I had to move on and another corpsman would be along to help.”

“There was a lot of bodies. All I knew, I was hitting the beach. My job was to tend to the wounded, evacuate ‘em, and get off whenever they call you.”

“It was 6 or 7 hours of hell I was there,” he recalled, “until I was told to get back to the ship.” But even after leaving the beach, Jack helped out with surgeries and setting broken bones. Always he wondered, “Could I have done anything more?”

Jack was haunted by his memories. While on leave after Normandy, he began to have flashbacks, although he didn’t know what they were. “We didn’t know about post-traumatic stress. Back then it was called battle fatigue. And we figured we’d get over it. But I had to have 3 1/2 years of therapy to get over it,” he said.

“I did crazy things. I gave money away to people. I wound up broke, almost cost me my marriage. I was drinking heavy. I got to drinking so badly. I think my downfall was at Thanksgiving dinner with my family, playing with the kids, drinking. When they served dinner, my face fell into the plate. I passed out in front of my family,” he said. “It was so embarrassing when I found out later. They were going to have an intervention, and I would have been so angry.”

“The drinking was a gradual thing as the flashbacks happened. I kept drinking a little more over the years.” Through the help of his daughter, a therapist, he was able to get sober. “She’s been a great help to me.”

After the invasion, Jack figured he would be sent stateside for an assignment. Instead, after 30 days of leave, he was shipped to Okinawa after he trained with the Marines in California and was assigned to what was called the Beach Battalion.

His time in training turned out to be traumatic. Two men had dug their foxhole too close to the road. They were run over by a tank while they slept. Jack was sent over to the scene, and the carnage he saw tormented him for years.

When he found out he was going to be in the invasion of Okinawa, Jack felt discouraged. After the horrors of Normandy, he had badly wanted an assignment in the U.S. “But when we hit there, it wasn’t like Normandy. There was some firing and wounded, but there wasn’t much going on on the beach. Most of the fighting was inland.

“We took on a lot of wounded. I was up on deck, taking a break, smoking a cigarette, when all of a sudden, I heard the alarm go off for battle stations. The big gun near me went off—BOOM!—and my ears were ringing. I was running along the deck and looked up and there were swarms of Japanese planes overhead. I looked over to the battleship New Mexico, looked up and saw a plane so close I could see the pilot, with that stern expression Japanese pilots have. He veered off and crashed into the New Mexico. We found out later he killed 80 people and the captain. The explosion was horrendous. I saw that. I just froze there, thinking that I’d just seen that man alive, and he purposefully killed himself. At that time, it was unheard of. I thought, are these people crazy? Are they lunatics?”

Gutman was 18. He lost half the hearing in one ear from the blast of the big gun. He described his experiences in Okinawa as traumatic, but not as bad as Normandy. The wounded men and their cries wrenched his heart, but he knew he was there to heal and to help.

Shortly before his birthday, in December 1945, Jack was discharged and returned home for Christmas to surprise his family, who threw him a big party. It was the second-best Christmas he'd ever had after the one where the rich woman brought dinner and presents for his family when he was a kid.

“I often wondered: why did God save me and my buddies died? Then I look around at my children and all they’ve accomplished. I’m very proud of what they’ve done. God has a plan that’s just amazing.” Even during times of hardship, decades later, Mr. Gutman asked God for guidance. “Touch lives,” was the message he received. He dedicated his life to helping others.

“I talked to one young man who asked me if World War II was a big war. That’s why I speak at schools. I don’t want them to forget. As long as I’m going to be alive, I’m going to speak about them and honor their names,” Jack declared.

“I saw you at the beaches, I saw you cry and die, and some of you got well, which I’m grateful for. But I’m grateful that you fought for your country. I admire you, I will always praise you, and defend you. I love you with all my heart. To my dying day, I will always be fighting for you however many days and years God has for me. I thank you from the bottom of my heart.”

Adolfo Celaya was sixteen years old when a Navy recruitment sign caught his eye at the local post office. “Join the Navy, See the World.” Like other sailors, he soon realized that he wouldn’t see the world in the way he imagined. The choppy sea and raging war were the only things on his Naval itinerary.

That year all that Adolfo wanted for his seventeenth birthday was for his father to sign his enlistment paper. “My dad didn't want to sign and so I asked if he would for my birthday, if he'd give me that present.” His father relented and Adolfo was inducted into the U.S. Navy in August 1944.

He took his basic training in San Diego where he went to fireman training school. He began to experience prejudice in the ranks for being Mexican-American. All throughout his time in the Navy he never fully escaped from discrimination. Adolfo and fellow Hispanic soldiers were given the lowest tasks.

“Any jobs that were not taken by a white person would be given down to anybody that had Hispanic blood. You couldn't do anything about it. If you tried, it got worse.”

Adolfo had never set foot on a ship until he was assigned to the USS Indianapolis. It was a foggy night when the 1200-man crew was taken to the ship off the coast of San Francisco. A cloud of darkness veiled the ship as they were led to their hammocks. It wasn’t until morning that Adolfo saw the ship for the first time.

“I got up, went outside, and looked at that thing. My God, I wanted to get the hell out of there right away. It was big.”

They set sail shortly after Christmas, heading to Pearl Harbor before continuing on to their first combat mission on the island of Iwo Jima. The USS Indianapolis was five miles out as they bombarded the island before U.S. Marines landed. Adolfo saw kamikaze planes burn up in flames and heard relentless explosions everywhere he turned.

“I remember saying ‘This isn't what I joined the Navy for! I joined the Navy to see the world, not to get shot at.’”

Adolfo watched as transports of Marines arrived on landing barges right beside his ship as they prepared to storm the island. He was eyewitness to an iconic moment in history—the first flag raising on Iwo Jima. A comrade pulled him over to watch the event unfold through his binoculars. At seventeen years old and already jaded by war, he threw the binoculars back at his crew mate. “Ah, big deal.”

After twenty-five days at Iwo Jima, the USS Indianapolis was sent to Okinawa where they assisted with beach defense. The USS Indianapolis is credited with shooting down six Japanese fighter planes. But things were about to take a turn for the worse. Adolfo was walking towards the front of the ship when he saw a kamikaze plane coming in at a fast pace. It dropped a bomb on the ship before crashing. The attack resulted in several American casualties.

The USS Indianapolis was sent back to California for repairs, they were chosen for a secret mission which Adolfo didn’t learn about until after the war. They were selected to transport the components of the Little Boy atomic bomb to the island of Tinian from which the B-29 Enola Gay would make its mission to Hiroshima. Adolfo saw boxes onboard that were guarded by Marines, but he could only guess their contents. “I joked it was whiskey for the general or something.”

The USS Indianapolis set a record speed as they made their way, unescorted, to Tinian where they delivered the mysterious boxes. After unloading their cargo, they made their way to Guam where they were ordered to rendezvous with other ships in the Leyte Gulf. Without submarine detection gear, they requested to be accompanied by a destroyer. Their request was denied, and they had to make the journey again, unescorted.

Disaster struck on July 30th, 1945. A Japanese submarine fired two torpedoes at the USS Indianapolis. Before the first torpedo struck, Adolfo was sleeping below deck when his crew chief told him to come upstairs on account of the unbearable heat that night. The top deck of the ship was crowded with sailors trying to sleep. Adolfo managed to find a little space in the middle and fell asleep with his blanket draped over him despite the heat. Having grown up always sleeping with a blanket because of pesky mosquitoes, the habit ended up saving his life.

When the first torpedo struck the front of the ship, fire from the explosion burst through the middle of the deck where Adolfo was sleeping. It completely disintegrated his blanket. He could only open his eyes to small slits as he tried to run from the fire. His eyebrows and eyelashes were gone, his hair singed. “If I hadn't had my blanket on, I would have been burned up.”

He couldn't see, could only hear the mayhem happening around him. He ran to the back of the ship, a fiery blur in his eyes as the second torpedo hit the ammunition dump. The explosion was deafening, and he felt the ship rock and begin to sink. Adolfo didn’t have his life jacket and was trying to go downstairs to retrieve it from his locker when a friend stopped him.

“Stay with me and you can stay afloat on my jacket,” his friend said.

His friend jumped off the side of the ship, about two stories high, while Adolfo followed next. Sailors were shouting in panic as the ship went down. Twelve minutes passed before it was swallowed by the sea. Adolfo hit something on his jump down and was sick with worry that he landed on his friend. He swam away from the ship as quickly as he could, managing to open his eyes just enough to catch the end of the ship go down into murky water. Twelve minutes prior he was sleeping comfortably. Now he was in the ocean and his ship was gone.

“I was scared as hell.”

It was pitch black. The moon came in and out of the clouds, giving light for short periods of time before masking the ocean in complete darkness. Adolfo was a good swimmer, but this was different from the canals of his childhood. “The ocean was a lot tougher than I was.” He managed to get ahold of the side of a life raft to stay afloat.

Time moved slowly during that first day in ocean. “I thought we'd be picked up within hours or within a day. I never thought we'd be there five days.” The bickering, fighting sailors began to agree on one thing—nobody knew they were stranded out at sea. “After the third day I started thinking the same as the other guys. I guess they’re not going to pick us up.”

The sun beat down on them in the day and the ocean was bitterly cold at night. Adolfo’s hope of rescue began to fade. There was nothing to drink and sleep was dangerous. While other sailors had friends to help them keep afloat while they slept, Adolfo was on his own. He tied his t-shirt around a rope on the raft, securing himself to the side and managed to catch small spurts of sleep.

Because Adolfo could easily swim around without the weight of a life jacket, he brought sailors to the edge of the raft who were drifting away from the group. By the second day, he was exhausted and couldn’t save the sailors anymore.

Some gave up and let themselves drift off. Sharks lurked under the water, and he heard the screams of sailors as they were attacked from beneath the surface. If the weather was clear, he could see the sharks stalking their prey along the surface. Thirsty sailors couldn’t stand it anymore and began drinking the salt water. They began hallucinating, and many were lost to the sea. Before Adolfo left for the war, his mother gave him a medal of Saint James that gave him the courage to keep going. For days he held on and tried to keep his crew chief alive.

“I think he kept drinking salt water. If I could have gotten him onto the raft, I could have kept him alive, but I asked the guys up on the raft and they pushed me under water.”

On the third night, Adolfo was sure he was hallucinating when he heard Spanish voices in the distance. The next morning, he swam around the large group of sailors and there was his friend whom he thought he had killed when he jumped from the ship. Adolfo was relieved to see him, but soon had to swim back to his crew chief to make sure he was all right. When he got back to the raft, Adolfo discovered that he wasn’t there anymore. His chief had untied himself and was waving goodbye as the waves took him away.

On the fourth day, they were discovered by American pilot Lieutenant Wilbur “Chuck” Gwinn. Somebody yelled that they saw a plane, and when it circled over their area and tipped its wings, Adolfo breathed with relief, knowing they had been discovered. “Everybody was in bad shape. I don't think many could go another few days.” Out of the 1200-man crew, only 317 survived.

Lieutenant Gwinn signaled an alert to the nearest American base on Peleliu. A seaplane rescued some of the survivors that day. Adolfo had to wait until the following day when he was saved by the crew of the USS Bassett. The USS Bassett took the survivors to a base hospital in Guam where Adolfo began to recover. After a month they were sent home to the states. On the journey home, Adolfo heard that the bomb had been dropped on Hiroshima. At that time, he still had no idea that the USS Indianapolis transported the bomb components.

Another trial soon began for Adolfo on the trip home aboard an aircraft carrier. For three days in a row he was picked for work detail on the ship, the same old prejudice against him ever present. He was still recovering and told the Lieutenant that he thought it was time he picked somebody else from the crew. “We have another 300 survivors here that could probably do a little bit.”

He was sentenced to two days of solitary confinement with only bread and water to eat and drink, for insubordination. When the ship reached San Diego, he spent another five days in confinement locked inside a small cubby hole just a month and half after being rescued from the ocean. He was then taken to Long Beach Naval hospital and was discharged from the Navy. “When I was discharged, they gave me fifty percent disability and told me I could not join the Navy again. I said, ‘Why that's a blessing!’”

Upon returning home Adolfo, at age eighteen, suffered from what we now know as post-traumatic stress. He stills suffers from nightmares from those long days lost at sea. It took nearly thirty years before Adolfo could share his story. Once he started, it was a healing process for him. “I'm just glad I'm alive. I'm glad I'm here.” Adolfo’s hope is that young Americans will learn and care about the history of WWII and have respect for those young, tough boys who won the war.

Muriel always wanted to be a nurse. After graduating from high school, she applied for nurse’s training in Cambridge, Massachusetts. While in her second year of training, Pearl Harbor was bombed and war was declared the next day. Muriel and her classmates knew that nurses would be needed and upon graduation a year later, Muriel enlisted in the Army.

She was commissioned a 2nd Lieutenant in the Army Nurse Corps in April 1943, and her first post was at Fort Adams, Newport, Rhode Island where she cared for everyday illnesses and accident cases. As the war in Europe heated up, Muriel requested overseas duty and was soon sent to Fort Devens, Massachusetts to join up with the 16th General Hospital. For six months, the nurses trained for with fifteen-mile hikes, daily calisthenics, classes in communicable diseases, learning how to descend a swaying rope ladder under full backpack, and going through the Infiltration Course on hands and knees under live ammunition.

Finally, the last week in December 1943, they boarded ship for Liverpool, England. Because their hospital was not yet ready for operation, the hospital personnel remained on detached service with the nearby 304th General Hospital. Many of the staff were there as patients because they had developed the “English Hack,” a body wracking cough from the cold, damp winter weather. As the weeks passed, time was spent setting up the 16th General Hospital in preparation for the coming invasion of France, date unknown at this point.

On June 6, 1944, D-Day arrived, when the Americans crossed the English Channel and invaded the German held Normandy coastline. About 6 weeks later the 16th General Hospital debarked at Utah Beach in a trip that should have taken 3-4 hours to make the twenty-one-mile crossing but took three nights and almost four days because the Channel was still littered with the debris of fallen planes and half-sunken ships from D-Day. Complete blackout conditions had to be maintained at all times as German planes were still flying overhead, and even a lighted cigarette could prove disastrous for the Allies.

The hospital unit camped out in a Normandy cow pasture for the next seven weeks waiting for the Germans to be cleared out of Liège, Belgium so that the hospital could move up to Belgium and establish their tent hospital in an apple orchard on the outskirts of Liège. The surgical tent where Muriel worked 12-hour night shifts was where patients who came out of surgery went. Even with all the training, the sights and effects of war were hard: “We had no idea it would be as bad as it was. It seemed as though every patient that came in had some extremity amputated.”

Soon after their arrival, in November, Hitler started sending ‘buzz bombs’ into Liège to cut off all supplies and transportation to the Americans. These buzz bombs, each carried two thousand pounds of explosives and came over every twelve to fifteen minutes, twenty-four hours a day for the next two and a half months. As Muriel remembered, “Our hospital was hit three times, destroying tents and killing and wounding hospital patients and personnel. You’d hear them coming in the distance, putt-putt puttering along, and your heart would sink.”

On November 16th, the U.S. Army began an offensive against the German troops. Muriel recalled the one thousand beds in their hospital filling up almost immediately: “It was very difficult for us not to show any signs of emotion because they were so young, so handsome, and yet you knew that many of them would never have a normal life again.”

Then came December 16th with German General von Rundstedt’s counterattack into Belgium, starting the Battle of the Bulge. At the result of a heavy fog that engulfed all of Belgium the week before Christmas, the German troops had advanced and were now a mere, ten miles from Liège. Although you could barely see five feet in front of you, the German tanks and infantry were able to move forward on the ground, but American planes couldn’t get airborne to bomb them. Most of the other hospitals in the region had evacuated, but not Muriel’s. Instead, the nurses were told to pack their musette bags with warm clothing and first aid supplies in case they were captured. Muriel remembered packing the French perfume purchased in Paris months earlier and her cigarette ration “because a pack of American cigarettes could go a long way for bartering in war-torn Europe." I was more scared than most because I had that ‘H’ for ‘Hebrew’ on my dog tags.”

All planes had been grounded for a week because of the fog, but on Christmas Eve, the fog dissipated, and a full moon arose. “I heard the sound of a motor and knew from the sound it wasn’t one of our planes. We had learned early on to distinguish the sounds of German planes from ours. I stepped outside the tent to take a look. All these red flares were dropping through the sky. The plane flew back and forth over the hospital tents and nearby enlisted men’s tents, dropping antipersonnel bombs and strafing the tents. Many patients and hospital personnel were killed or wounded that night. It was a night of horror.”

Morning arrived again, bringing an end to Muriel’s shift. “Going off duty with a couple of other nurses, we straggled down the path to the nurse’s quarters, too empty and spent to even talk. A nurse coming on day duty greeted us with a muted ‘Merry Christmas.’ . . . It sounded absolutely ludicrous because we didn’t even know what day it was.”

As Muriel recalled, “Christmas Day had dawned, bright and clear. The buzz bombs were out on their 12-15-minute visits as they had been during the fog bound week but our planes were out and so were the German planes and we watched as they engaged our planes in dog fights as spent machine gun bullets fell around us. Christmas week was a nightmare with German planes coming over every night to drop German paratroopers dressed in American uniforms to infiltrate every American base. Fortunately, things would get better. By the end of Christmas week, more of our planes were seen in the sky and they soon outnumbered the German planes. Over the next two weeks, we saw huge, constant waves of our planes by day and those of the RAF at night. It was the most heartwarming sight and sound in the world.”

American troops advanced into Germany, crushing the resistance and destroying buzz bomb nests. But without the buzz bombs and threats of capture, life at the 16th General Hospital became more peaceful. Finally, V-E Day came on May 8, 1945, when the Germans surrendered. “Everyone was so happy. You were just singing and yelling and drinking and dancing. It was wonderful.”

However, work wasn’t over yet. In July, ordered to leave Liège where they had tended to 25,000 wounded, the 16th General Hospital headed back to France where Muriel’s job was altered a little. She now had 600 German prisoners-of-war to look after. “I had to take care of these krauts who had been trying to kill me and millions of others. But we did it because this was our job.”

Muriel arrived back in Meriden shortly before Thanksgiving. She remembers the taxi driver planking her Valpak on her mother’s porch, and two of the three bottles of French champagne she had carried home from France were smashed, but one bottle did survive. “On Thanksgiving Day my brother-in-law opened the champagne bottle, and the noise that it made sent me flying under the table and I burst into tears.” Years later, loud noises still rattled her.

In January 1946, Muriel received her discharge papers. After a 75-year delay, in July 2018, she was presented with the Chevalier of the National Order of the Legion of Honour, France’s highest order of merit for military or civil service. To find out more about this fascinating woman’s life, you can read her memoir, Mission Accomplished: Stop the Clock.

Robert Thacker grew up in El Centro, California, and was determined to find something better. At 19, he requested pilot training from both Army and Navy. The Army Air Corps got him first. He enlisted in the summer of 1937 and had to wait two years to begin training.

“The Air Force before World War II was a gentleman’s flying club, period. We didn’t have any crews; we just flew airplanes.” He paused. “We had no idea what was going to happen at Pearl Harbor.”

He attended basic training at Randolph Field, Texas. His training lasted a year. “In those days, you listened to your flying wires to gauge what your airspeed was.”

“The commercial airlines love our pilots; they get so much training—1,200 hours. We can’t keep pilots in the Air Force nowadays,” he said.

Thacker recalled the difficulties of supplying such items as oxygen masks for B-17 pilots in New Guinea and how without the masks in low pressure situations they were defenseless, allowing the Japanese to do whatever they pleased.

In December 1941, Thacker was at Salt Lake City. “I was 23 years old, and I was a hot pilot. Blazing hot! But how many brains did you think I had at the time of Pearl Harbor? Not many!” he laughed.

Thacker was ordered to grab his navigator, head to Seattle, and fly a B-17 to the Philippines via Hickam Field, Hawaii, one of twelve ordered to do so. He’d never flown one—never so much as sat in one—and thought his boss was out of his mind. But his boss repeated his order, and away Thacker went.

Approaching Hickam Field, after multiple attempts, they were unable to get an answer from the tower, they flew along the waterfront looking for the correct place to land. They saw black smoke in the distance, and thought it was farmers burning their cane fields.

Suddenly, bang! Bang! Bang! “What the hell’s going on?” asked Thacker. The radio crackled to life, the air-traffic controller told them they were number two to land and reporting they were under fire by Japanese airplanes. “What?” Thacker exclaimed.

“They were just as surprised as we would be if a nuclear weapon hit this house right now. What do you do? Where do you go? What takes over is survival. Hickam and the commercial airport were right together in those days. Between the two there, was this scrub growth. I took my crew, and we went into the scrub growth.”

“That was the smartest decision I ever made in my life. Because about 15 minutes, here come about thirteen horizontal, straight and level Japanese bombers. And they wiped out that airfield.”

He described how they were nearly defenseless. “There was nowhere to go to fight a war. They sank every ship in the harbor. They sank the floating dry dock in the harbor. That’s mass destruction. You could see those torpedo bombers drop below the trees, then climb up and right behind them was this tremendous column of torpedo explosion.”

Although Thacker’s plane itself initially wasn’t under fire, he knew from his training he had to get his plane on the ground as soon as he could. “I came in and landed crosswind. Three Zeros shot me up pretty bad on the final approach. They shot my right gear out. So, I landed successfully, grounded the airplane on the end of the runway. It’s a good thing I was stopped, because I would have taxied out and sat there just long enough to get me and my crew killed by those bombers,” he said.

Neither his plane nor the others were equipped for combat yet because they were under secret orders, en route to Clark airfield in the Philippines. Thacker recalled he heard the confusion had been rampant at Clark, which was four hours behind. “People were saying, what do you mean, an attack?”

After landing his B-17 at Hickam, he and his navigator took cover. “We were just sitting ducks. We were as defenseless as we are sitting right here,” he recalled.

“We had eleven, brand new B-17s, and the Navy had some PBYs that weren’t knocked out at Ford Island. It was an air war; it wasn’t a Navy war. First, the bombers came in; then the fighters came and strafed. All of the Japanese pilots were briefed on certain set targets, so that’s what they hit. Oil refineries and oil storages were not on the list,” he said.

“Some of our pilots were in P-40s, which could only go half as high as the Zeros,” he remembered. “So, if you’re taking on somebody who can go twice as high and twice the speed as your airplane, who do you think is going to win? The other guy.”

Three or four months into the war, Bob had made a bombing run. His navigator said, “I think we’re in for a rough ride home.”

“Yes,” Thacker recalled. “I could see five Zeros lined up. They were looking at me! I was the only one airborne that morning. Due to good luck and clear thinking, we survived with these Zeros making circles around my B-17 while I’m pulling everything but my front teeth.

“When you see those two blinding tracers come out of those wing guns and they’re aiming right at you, and you don’t have the firepower, if he hit you it would blow you in half. I escaped. I only got one man wounded; he was supposed to be the ball turret gunner. He started to lose consciousness and had a hole in his head the size of a silver dollar. We got him to a good hospital. After flying 17 hours that day, we hit the target, so they very graciously gave me a Silver Star.”

“On one of my routine recce missions, I was at about 22,000 feet. I saw this activity, and in about five minutes I picked up some anti-aircraft fire. I was pretty sure they didn’t know I was in a B-17 and a Yank onboard. I said, ‘If that son-of-a-bitch is shooting at me, I’m gonna bomb him,’ so I took a run on that bastard.”

“So, we did. I made sure all the buttons were in the right place. I wanted a 30-second bomb interval. I was carrying one bomb bay full of fuel. The other bomb bay on the other side was carrying four 1,000-pound bombs. Any one of those bombs would have blown that weapons system right in two,” he recounted.

When he returned to base, a staff car followed him. “Who jumps out but a Brigadier General and a full Colonel. And the General said, ‘Lieutenant, you just missed the USS Chicago! You were two short and two over.’”

Thacker paused. “Was I lucky not to have bombed the Chicago, because in those days nobody knew anything. The Navy wouldn’t give you the time of day.”

By November 1942 Thacker’s unit was hearing rumors they were going to go home, after a year of combat. By then, he had flown 48 sorties. “We flew 800 miles to sea on a Y search, out and back. We were doing this as a crew about every three days.”

After rotating back to the U.S., he grew restless and decided he wanted to go where the yelling was the loudest—the European theater. He got himself scheduled to participate in the original D-Day invasion date of June 5.

“I did fly on the 5th. The weather was stinking bad so the invasion was postponed until the 6th. But you could practically walk on all the boats across the Channel. I’ve never seen so many boats in my life. I didn’t fly on the 6th, which threw my war stories all out of kilter!” he laughed.

“I led a lot of planes, depending on the mission. Sometimes as many as 2,300 bombers. I was without question the most experienced B-17 leader in both theaters,” Thacker said. “And I was 26 years old.”

During his thirty-one years in the military, Thacker had many adventures, including a time when he commanded Chuck Yeager and grounded him for a week for disobeying a directive.

His advice for future generations is to live life following the Ten Commandments. “If you follow them, you’ve got a real great basic way of life; it would be a much better world.”

Colonel Thacker and his wife, Betty Jo, adopted a daughter 11 years after they were married. Their marriage lasted seventy-one years until Betty Jo passed away. “My precious wife,” Bob called her.

In just two days, Private Harry Corre had seen countless comrades shot, bayoneted, and decapitated. With nothing but the occasional quick gulp from a roadside ditch, Corre was tired, hungry and dehydrated. He was waiting for only two things—his inevitable death or his chance to escape.

Corre had been raised by his mother in a single parent household. She had a good job with the Works Progress Administration, but young Harry felt obliged to assist. At the age of six, he sold the daily newspaper. He later worked in a grocery store and would wash windows for 5 cents each window.

Having seen the beginnings of World War II in Europe, Harry believed the United States would soon be involved. “In the infinite wisdom of the eighteen-year-old mind,” Harry left Brighton High School in Alston, Massachusetts and enlisted in the U.S. Army. It was Harry’s plan to “get in and get as far away from Europe as possible.” Within a month, Private Corre had been sent to San Francisco for recruit processing, placed aboard a troop ship and arrived at his new duty station in the Philippines in June 1941. Scheduled for on the job training, Corre joined his new unit, Battery C “Wheeler,” 59th Coast Artillery Regiment on Corregidor Island.

Placed into intensive training as a coast artilleryman, Corre learned the duties of a gunner on the two 12” disappearing rifles Battery C was assigned. A secondary duty was that of an infantryman. The war that came to Harry did not come from Europe, but from Asia. As the months passed, the battle came closer and closer as the Japanese pushed the American Constabulary forces back to the Bataan Peninsula. As the battle approached, Corre was sent to Bataan to train Philippine civilians as artillerymen. Corre also went on combat and security patrols as an infantryman.

By early April, as conditions worsened, rations had been reduced to 1/3, and even the able bodied were weakened. As April 9, 1942 dawned, Corre was ordered to lay down his arms along with over 60,000 Allied soldiers. All valuables were taken from the prisoners as was all gear and equipment. Beatings and executions began immediately. Any prisoner caught hiding valuables was immediately punished. The following day, the prisoners were marshalled at the town of Mariveles and began what became the Bataan Death March. Within days, the men had been reduced to a shambling mob, as weakened men were denied food and water and kept constantly in motion. Those who could not keep up were beaten or executed, and those that survived for another day got weaker, and they too began to falter. After two and a half days, Harry saw his chance to escape during the black of night amid the driving wind and rain of a tropical storm. As roadside foliage came close to the road he made a break and managed to get away from the column.

Making his way over four days, he arrived at the shore, Corregidor still four miles away. Paddling for ten hours through shark infested waters, the “goddamned Marines” at Corregidor began to shoot at him before recognizing he was American. Returned to his unit, he was placed on light duty, but was again on full duty when—for the second time—he was ordered to surrender on May 6, 1942 as Japanese forces landed on Corregidor. Harry Corre’s six months of combat were over; his war was just beginning.

For three and half years, Harry was moved between various POW camps in the Philippines and Japan. He worked on various details, including the burial details at the Main Camp 3, carrying the emaciated bodies of the deceased to mass graves. He would see more men executed and many men beaten. Food became an obsession, and men were beaten senseless attempting to steal rice, but would continue to find ways to steal, including claiming the rations of the dead at roll call before their bodies were discovered in the barracks. Eventually moved to the Japanese mainland, Corre survived a two-month voyage aboard a “hell ship” by working topside lowering buckets of water to the prisoners in the holds and raising buckets of human waste for disposal overboard. In Japan, he worked the rest of the war in a condemned coal mine too dangerous for the Japanese to work. Witnessing still more death, he nonetheless participated with the other prisoners in minor sabotage of machinery and tunnels.

The end of the war came when the atomic bomb was dropped over Nagasaki—30 miles from his coal mine. Corre and his fellow prisoners awoke to find their guards had deserted during the night. Posting prisoners in the guard towers and placing signs reading “POW” atop their barracks, the men awaited liberation. When seen by U.S. air patrols, bombers were dispatched to drop food and medicine to those within the compound. After two months of waiting, Corre and two other prisoners walked out and made their way to Tokyo where they found American occupation troops. Immediately placed in the hospital, Corre was sent back to the United States. Sent for convalescent leave and duty at Fort Devens, Massachusetts, Corre was reunited with his family and discharged as a corporal in 1946.

After the war, Harry went to work in the auto parts industry as a salesman and later drove taxi cabs in Boston. For a time, he owned a fleet of ice cream trucks, and through all these post-war years he never discussed his experiences. Having survived the Bataan Death March, near fatal diphtheria, two war wounds and an injury in the Japanese coalmines, starvation diets and receiving a 100% disability rating for PTSD, he was able to fulfill a vow made in the prison camps: he would assist veterans in any way he could. He began working with the Veterans Administration as a Patient Advocate and served as a volunteer Service Officer assisting other veterans in filing compensation claims.

PFC Paul Bottoms grew up in the small town of Newark in north central Arkansas. His father was a farmer, and his mother was a housewife. They made a decent living in a town with a population of 913. For fun, he would play around and swim in the local creek with the neighborhood kids. He spent his teenage years helping his father out on a cotton and corn farm on the outskirts of town where he plowed the fields the old-fashioned way with beasts of burden. He quit school in the 10th grade. Like many Americans during the Great Depression, Paul suffered some hardships growing up even though Newarkers were accustomed to living without the niceties of life. After quitting school, he continued to work on the farm, but his life was about to change drastically. On the day Pearl Harbor was attacked, he had just returned from the movies when he found his parents on the front porch discussing the fact that Hawaii had been hit by the Japanese. He was sure he was going to be drafted into the Army before long. He attempted to join the Marine Corps but was turned down due to a weak right eye. Though not weak enough for the Army, Paul answered the call to duty after getting his draft notice. He remembered distinctly reading the first line of the draft letter that simply stated, “Greetings and Salutations.”

He reported to Camp Hulen, Texas for basic, which boasted the largest concentration of Army trainees in the U.S. during World War II. There he participated in field operations and anti-aircraft training prior to departing to Fort Dix, New Jersey to join his newly formed outfit. He had been assigned to a mechanized anti-aircraft battalion supporting a 105mm Howitzer unit of the 90th Infantry Division, known as the “Tough ‘Ombres,” based out of Oklahoma and Texas. In April 1944, he shipped over to Europe aboard the Queen Mary, a former luxury liner. Her comfy beds had been replaced by bunks to accommodate the thousands of soldiers destined for the front lines. The journey took him across the Atlantic Ocean from New York to Glasgow, Scotland. They risked the journey of 7 days under the threat of patrolling German U-boats and arrived safely on Scotland’s shores and then traveled down to England and stopped in Okehampton prior to the D-Day invasion.

The first element of the 90th ID went ashore on D-Day on June 6, 1944. Private Bottoms’s mechanized unit arrived in France on June 8 and landed at Utah Beach. On the beach, Paul found a helmet on the ground with a bullet hole through the “TO,” the 90th’s sleeve and helmet insignia, put there by a German sniper. He wondered, “What the hell did I get myself into?”

Reality had set in and Paul found himself smack-dab in the middle of the bloodiest war in history. After a few days on the beach, his unit received orders to move out. Paul served on the gun crew of an M3 halftrack variant designed for anti-aircraft support. These open-air vehicles were lightly armored and were unpopular with GIs and were dubbed “Purple Heart Boxes” because they were vulnerable to air-burst shrapnel and machine gun fire. Hill 122 was one of the 90th’s first battles. The hill was high enough that the Germans had a full 360-degree view of the battlefield, and the fighting between American forces and the Wehrmacht was fierce. The 90th took the hill on July 11, but suffered over 5,000 casualties during the battle. The 90th ID went on to have one of the highest American casualty rates of World War II. After fighting and racing across France, the 90th pushed beyond the Saar River, located on the border of Germany, where Paul's actions proved critical to the division’s advancement into Nazi Germany.

Paul was recognized for his heroism in the face of the enemy in December 1944. In his Bronze Star citation post-dated 8 December 1944, it was noted that in the vicinity of Saar River Operations, an American platoon became pinned down in a pillbox by intense fire from an enemy emplacement. PFC Bottoms fired his machine gun on the enemy position and silenced their guns. Because of his actions, the trapped unit was able to break out and continue advancing.

On the Western Front, daily life was rigorous and trying on the mind and soul. Paul recalled that his unit was moving up to the front lines one night in complete darkness. They had been up for a few days without sleep. During the movement, his halftrack hit another truck, and the impact knocked off one of their front wheels. He was so tired that he did not even realize that he had been in a wreck. It was a miracle that he had not been hurt during the incident. He remembered that he slept whenever he could, usually with one eye open.

His unit fought on and supported the Battle of the Bulge. They moved up from the south into the Ardennes Forest to meet the Germans head-on. He remembered it being very cold. Scenes from the intense battle still linger in his mind, and he recalled at one point seeing a German tank with its crew dead and all burned up from the burning behemoth. In one harrowing experience, Paul remembered his unit firing on approaching aircraft. To his dismay, the aircraft were American P-51 reconnaissance planes returning from a survey of the German front lines. Like the wars before it and after it, friendly fire was not uncommon during World War II, and many Americans lost their lives in the “fog” of war. The 90th was 40 miles outside of Prague, Czechoslovakia when they heard that the war was officially over in Europe. Paul and his unit took charge of a railroad yard in Arnstadt, Germany before he got orders to return stateside.

Young Paul Bottoms arrived in Newport News where his unit was fed fine meals during their stay. From there, they were sent to Fort Leonard Wood located in the Missouri Ozarks and were discharged from the Army. After returning home, he worked for Bell Telephone as a pole climber. Paul went on to serve in the U.S. Navy where he spent 17 years as an aircraft engine mechanic. He spent the last 10 years of his working life as a civil servant. He offered the following advice to future generations: “When you get out of high school, join the military. They have a good retirement.”

“Doc” Kadziel’s day had already been long, and an even longer night loomed. Having boarded the landing craft pre-dawn, the young Navy Corpsman and “his” Marines circled for hours before finally coming ashore in the third wave on Guam. In less than an hour, a Marine was brought to Kadziel who had mortar shrapnel in his buttocks. Kadziel treated the Marine and carried him to the beach and then returned to the lines in time to find and treat 3 more injured Marines. Finishing with his patients, Kadziel finally had the chance to prepare his position for the night when a sergeant came walking jauntily down the line tossing K-Rations to each position and cheerfully telling all to prepare for the “Banzai attacks” sure to follow the sun. July 21, 1944 just became longer.

Born on February 6, 1925, Joseph Edward Kadziel grew up in Newark, New Jersey. The son of Polish immigrants, Joseph grew up stocking the shelves and making deliveries for his father’s corner grocery store. Earning a dime an hour, Kadziel always had money to spend, and, despite lean times through the Great Depression, Joseph considered his family fortunate.

On December 7, 1941, Joseph was watching a football game in New York City. Unaware of the Japanese attack, Joseph noted that the game was continuously interrupted by announcements for service members from various units to report to their bases and stations immediately. Leaving the game and seeing the first newspaper shocked him with the news: his country had been attacked!

Kadziel watched as the whole nation seemingly volunteered. The inclination and desire of everyone was to serve in whatever capacity, as the nation went to war. Joseph would be entering the military services—of that he was sure—and he had no intention of evading service. But, if he could, he would rather join the Navy! Graduating from high school at 17, he was still too young to be drafted, but he knew that if he enlisted, he would have the choice as to which service and maybe assignment, so he continued working at the family store. Biding his time, his parents signed for him to enlist the day before his 18th birthday and before his eligibility for conscription. He would be able to join the Navy and not have to risk the Army!

After induction and processing, Seaman Kadziel was sent to Newport, Rhode Island for basic training. During the nine-week course, Kadziel was introduced to the rudiments of naval service, customs, courtesies, and drill. Completing his training, he was scheduled for Advanced Training at New London, Connecticut for training either in Patrol Torpedo (PT) Boats or submarines. Fortunately, Kadziel suffered a broken foot soon after completing his basic training, and when healed was sent to Newport, VA for training as a Pharmacist Mate (Corpsman). The medical training he received was basic with on the job training at his duty station expected to fill in the gaps since it was unknown what specific duty he would be assigned. Arriving at Charleston, South Carolina, Kadziel quickly discovered he was not interested in regular hospital ward duties and volunteered for duty as a corpsman in the Marine Corps.

When Kadziel reported to Camp Lejeune, North Carolina for Field Medical Training, he was in for a whirlwind of change. Medical training consisted of “stop the bleeding, put sulfa powder on the wound, give a shot of morphine and find someone to take him to the beach.” As a corpsman, he was responsible for routine health and hygiene and control of disease and injury, but had to be prepared to treat combat casualties under all conditions and that is his most vivid memory from his medical training. With the Marines, Doc Kadziel discovered that he was no longer expected to walk through a door and treat a patient but was going to be awakened at midnight to practice with his weapon and go to (and remain) in the field with “his” Marines. Routine was gone; safe, antiseptic medical treatment rooms were a memory. Kadziel was now a Field Medical Corpsman with the Marines and would live and train with the Marines he would treat in combat.

Shipping first to California, then to the French colony of New Caledonia, Kadziel was unsure where he would be assigned, but knew he would “be in the field with the Marines,” no matter where he found his eventual home. Sent to Guadalcanal, Kadziel was assigned to the newly reconstituted 4th Marines Regiment and immediately began training for amphibious assaults. Kadziel never knew where he would assault or when, but in the summer of 1944, he loaded aboard amphibious shipping with his Marines and set sail for combat.

After landing on Guam and treating his first patients, combat was a blur of jungle actions and treating patients. The first memory of post-combat normalcy was setting up a regular aid station, and the Marines, stuck in the field mopping up Japanese holdouts, coming in for sick call. A “cough” was being spread contagiously through the Marine units. The treatment was an alcohol-based cough suppressant, but the “contagion” spread so rapidly that the sick bay ran out of medication in three days! As the cough subsided, the 4th Marines returned to Guadalcanal for rest, refit, and retraining before their next combat action at Okinawa.

Doc Kadziel did not make the Okinawa landing. Instead, he was rotated back to the United States after 200 days overseas. The end of the war found Kadziel attending college at Seton Hall after his discharge in February 1946. After a year in college, he moved to California where he eventually retired after a 35-year career in sales. Having been married for 65 years and having a son play college and professional football, he suggested that success in life involved teamwork and accepting that sometimes it is necessary to give to your teammates. Having been a combat corpsman with the Marines, he also added that occasionally it’s necessary to “keep your mouth shut and listen.” His advice for life, marriage, and success would seem wise counsel for anyone willing to listen.

Two nights before Private Masiel of the Free Polish Army had contemplated the equatorial sky and the amazing journey that had finally brought him to the west coast of Africa. Now he watched with horror as frenzied sharks attacked the oil covered survivors of the torpedoed troopship, Empress of Canada. Masiel had luckily landed in a lifeboat when he evacuated the stricken ship and had watched as the attacking submarine surfaced. He had listened as the crew of the submarine called to ensure that the ship had been evacuated before it sent another torpedo to finally sink the Canadian ship. Masiel had thought nothing worse could happen than being adrift 200 miles off the coast. Now two days later, sharks were feasting on those survivors unlucky enough not to find a lifeboat with room. He knew he had been wrong— things were much worse.

Born in Lida, Poland on January 27, 1923, Stefan had grown up in a small town in the loving embrace of his middle-class parents as an only child until the birth of a sister, when he was ten. Stefan spent the summer months each year at an uncle’s farm, working with his cousins, but also playing and fishing in the river. During the school year he studied constantly in order to achieve his dream of attending the Polish Air Force Academy. For inspiration, he watched the Polish military aircraft flying from a nearby base and then would bend his eyes reluctantly back to his books. Stefan was well on his way to achieving his dream of flight when he won a scholarship to attend the upper level gymnasium that would lead to a seat at the Air Force Academy. Then in early September, 1939, his dream abruptly turned to a nightmare. Both the Germans and Soviets invaded Poland. The Polish Air Force evacuated to France and the United Kingdom, and the only aircraft he could see were Soviet. He knew he would never fly in that air force.

By September 15, the land surrounding his town had filled with Soviet soldiers, and their political officers took over his town, closing the schools, confiscating all the private stores, and arresting anyone they felt was a Polish nationalist. Although it was a difficult life, the Masiel family adjusted to Soviet occupation and learned to visit the official stores and then trade on the black market for the food and supplies needed for everyday life. Despite the invasion of his home, Stefan was still a happy teenager with dreams of a future free of the Soviets.

Late one night, a knock on his door ended any hope for his future. Arrested in May 1940 for belonging to a Polish patriotic association—the Boy Scouts, Stefan spent a month in an isolation cell at the local jail where he saw his mother through the window for the last time before moving to another, larger regional prison. Instead of isolation, he was in a large cell with many men from his hometown; mixed in were actual criminals. After months in prison, Stefan was convicted by a Communist tribunal in Moscow and sentenced to eight years penal servitude in Siberia where he would work for the state in near slave conditions.

Arriving in May 1941 after a year in captivity, Stefan was assigned light work because he was still so young, but the work was still dangerous, and the food and living conditions primitive. Soon after arriving in Siberia, however, Germany invaded both Soviet Poland and the Soviet Union itself, and Stefan was offered the opportunity to enlist in the reconstituted Polish Armed Forces. Stefan and three companions traveled to Afghanistan and then Tehran where they would be able to join the Polish forces being trained by the British. Stefan immediately asked to join the Polish Air Forces that were then in the United Kingdom but instead began training in the infantry as a sharpshooter from his new base in Palestine. His training carried him to Syria and Beirut, Lebanon where he was hospitalized for malaria before rejoining his unit in Mosul, Iraq. Preparing for his Polish division to enter combat in Italy, Private Masiel was abruptly plucked out of his training unit and sent to Karachi, Bombay and South Africa. Each leg of this trip took several weeks, but he was being transferred by available shipping to the United Kingdom to receive pilot training!

With literally the entire world at war, Masiel had yet to see combat. The only enemy forces he had seen were the Soviets, and they were now his allies. Masiel’s infantry unit was fighting in Italy, storming the heights of Monte Casino while he contemplated the Southern Cross from the blacked out upper decks of the Canadian Empress of Canada. Two hundred miles north of Sierra Leone in the equatorial waters of the Atlantic, Masiel felt the ship shudder, and the crash of water as a gaping hole appeared. Masiel had expected to be in ground combat and hoped to be in air combat, but he had never considered the possibility that he would be on the losing end of a naval engagement. Now, praying for rescue, he had seen the hopelessness of his situation which terrified him more than the enemy.

Rescued and recovered, Masiel spent time in Freetown, Sierra Leone until another ship arrived and finally delivered him to Liverpool, England where he was sworn into the Royal Air Force and began his aviation ground school training. Primary flight training was conducted in the De Havilland Tiger Moth. After 12 hours of flight in this old but maneuverable British bi-plane, Masiel flew his first solo flight and felt sheer elation as his childhood dream came true. Advanced flight training was conducted in the North American Harvard and final operational training in a double seated Spitfire. Masiel was assigned to No. 308 “City of Krakow” Squadron in time for the Normandy invasions.

No. 308 Squadron was assigned a fighter-bomber mission. Almost all Masiel’s wartime missions were flown at low level directly supporting the Allies in France and later in Germany. Some of his missions involved interdicting enemy transportation and logistics assets, still at extremely low levels and fast to avoid enemy groundfire. Masiel’s most memorable missions saw him providing cover for the Normandy invasion and attacking and destroying a moving train. Masiel and his squadron were supporting the Allied push into Germany when the war ended.

After the war, Masiel was placed into a Polish resettlement camp, but was not repatriated to Soviet-occupied Poland. Stefan met his wife Eileen while at the camp and soon obtained a position as a junior draftsman, eventually immigrating to Canada and ultimately the United States.

Masiel was a great believer in luck and coincidence and raised his two sons with the knowledge and understanding that he had led a lucky life, but that hard work and perseverance were as necessary for success as luck. Living in what he believed to be the “greatest country on earth,” Stefan felt lucky, but also credited his own efforts for the success he has experienced.

Flying at 20,000 feet, Staff Sergeant Tarczy looked out and saw the other B-24 Liberators of his squadron in their positions as they flew to Iwo Jima to support the Marines. In flight, anything could happen. The randomness of combat had frightened Tarczy on his first missions as he never knew what to expect. As his missions became routine, wariness remained but not fear. Now, however, he was scared. He was on his 38th mission, close to the magic mission which would end his combat tour and allow him to rotate to the United States. Anything could happen; suddenly it did. The aircraft in formation 50 feet from his window burst into flame and nosed straight down. A Kamikaze had attacked, and no one had seen him until too late. Tarczy could see no parachutes. He still had two missions to go.

William Paul Tarczy was born in the small city of Duquesne, Pennsylvania on October 15, 1923 growing up in a tight-knit family of 11 children. He played with his brothers in the woods or worked with them as they managed the livestock his family owned. Although his father was employed by U.S. Steel, money was tight during the Great Depression. William left in his senior year of high school to enlist in the Civilian Conservation Corps and earn $30 per month, sending $25 to assist his family.

Following the CCC, William secured a position at the Christy Park Works manufacturing bombs for the U.S. military. Listening to the Pittsburg “Ironmen” football game on December 7, 1941, William knew his time at the factory would be ending soon. A little over a year later, on March 3, 1943, Tarczy was conscripted and assigned to the U.S. Army Air Corps. Relieved that he had not been assigned to the Army, Tarczy completed his recruit training in Miami Beach, Florida. “Like a dummy,” Tarczy requested Engineer and Gunnery Training, which the Air Corps was quick to oblige. Completing nine months of aircraft mechanic training, he then traveled to Texas for seven weeks of gunnery training. At the culmination of gunnery school, Tarczy realized that he had a made a mistake. Going up in an aircraft for the first time to practice aerial gunnery, he discovered that he suffered from terrible airsickness!

Assigned to a bomber crew and ordered to the South West Pacific Area of Operations, Tarczy continued to suffer horribly on training flights. His pilot offered to fly him one last time to see if he could get over his airsickness. If he could not, he would be left behind as the crew he had trained with departed for combat. Tarczy passed the test and flew with his crew to Hawaii, and then to the tiny atoll of Kwajalein, wrested from the Japanese only months before. Assigned to the 26th Squadron, 11th Bombardment Group of the 7th Air Force, Tarczy flew his first 20 missions from this isolated post. On his first mission to bomb Wake Island, the call of a Japanese fighter “12 o’clock high” cured any lingering airsickness, and he continued to fly missions striking Japanese islands. Normally there were three-day intervals between missions, but most missions lasted three days as they would fly from Kwajalein and remain overnight before departing early in the morning. After striking their target, they returned to Aniwetok for another night and returned to their base on the third day.

Tarczy remained with his crew flying their B-24J Liberator “K Lucy”, named after the pilot’s daughter Karen Lucille, until his 20th mission when he was rushed to Pennsylvania in response to a Red Cross message that his father was near death. After his emergency leave, Tarczy rejoined his squadron on the island of Guam. Nearing the end of their 40 missions, Tarczy was not reunited with his original crew but began flying as a Gunner/Engineer on any squadron aircraft short a gunner. For his remaining 20 missions, Tarczy flew with many crews—some with experience, some on their first or second mission.

Tarczy became extremely cautious as he approached the end of his combat tour. On his 38th and 39th missions, he watched one aircraft destroyed by a kamikaze, and another downed by phosphorus flak. Always partial to the rear gun turret because he “never saw where we were going, and always saw what we left behind,” he became obsessed with flying this position as the tail section of an aircraft always broke off if a plane was destroyed in the air, offering the tail gunner the best chance of survival.

Once his 40th mission was completed, the Air Corps kept the bargain made with the bomber crews. In exchange for the horrendously dangerous missions they flew, they were granted a way out of combat: complete 40 missions. The simple fact that the end was always in sight made the dangers manageable. Returning to the United States, Tarczy was given a 30-day furlough and then reported for duty at a rehabilitation facility for returning airmen. Wanting to receive pilot training, he was informed that he would be given “special training” in the new B-29 Super Fortress. Having seen these bombers in the Pacific, Tarczy chose to take his discharge. Having returned from the Pacific on May 20, 1945, Tarczy was discharged in July. He watched the victory celebrations as a civilian from his home in Pennsylvania.

Tarczy surmised the “special training” he was offered was in the use of atomic bombs. He believed that many innocent people were killed by the atomic bomb. Tarczy was proud his missions struck military targets only and killed no civilians. Ambivalently, he admitted that the atomic bomb ended the war.

Ultimately, Tarczy pursued a career on the rail road. He was proud of his service, having earned a Distinguished Flying Cross and the Air Medal with 6 oak leaf clusters.

Clarence Adams, with the British Royal Artillery, was taken prisoner by the Germans early in the war and spent nearly five years as a POW, similar to his father who’d been taken prisoner in World War I.

Born and raised in Yorkshire, England, his father was a coal miner and his mother a housewife. Clarence was the youngest of eight siblings. As was the norm for coal miners then, they were very poor. Two weeks before his 15th birthday, after completing school, he started work as an apprentice joiner building cabinets, windows, doors, and stairs.

Mr. Adams was drafted into mandatory military service in the militia. After Britain declared war September 3, 1939, he became a member of the Army. Adams was trained as a signaler, after which he was sent to Dover Castle to the 34th Signal Training Regiment. On the last day of February, 1940, he was shipped out to Cherbourg, France. They landed on March 3, 1940.

The entire base camp was moved to Forges-les-Eaux. Subsequently, they boarded a train for Amiens on the river Somme. The train was constantly under threat from air raids; they would have to jump out and take cover as the bombs would fall.

When they pulled into Amiens, it was no different. “I dove under the coach. I got behind the wheel, and there was a young artillery officer on the other side of the coach. When he ran, I ran, “Adams said.

“A few yards from the coach where I was, there was a regimental sergeant major, but he was buried up to his armpits. There were three officers trying to dig him out with rifle butts. I stopped and asked if I could help. They said, ‘No, you go.’ Further down the track I heard somebody calling out for help. It was a Grenadier Guard trapped by the axel of the coach. It had taken a bomb. So, I got him out. And the Guard said to me, ‘It’s no use you staying here; you go. Just leave me a water bottle.’ I left him a water bottle so he could reach it, and I took off. I just ran.” Mr. Adams paused.

“I didn’t know what was happening in the war. The only thing I could think of was to get back to Forges-les-Eaux, which was the artillery base, so I started walking back toward Amiens. I crossed the River Somme and just kept walking.” He walked by himself for five days back to the base. When he arrived, the camp was evacuated. “There wasn’t a person around. But all the tents were still standing.”

Adams was still covered in blood from the Grenadier Guard he’d helped days earlier. He put on a new uniform from the deserted quartermaster’s store and kept walking. “I don’t know where I was walking to,” he chuckled. “I just kept walking. I lost count of time. One day I came to a farmhouse, and there were three French officers outside standing around a table with a map. So, I asked them, ‘Where are the British?’ and they just pointed to where I was going anyhow.”

Clarence didn’t know it at the time, but he was walking toward Rouen. “There was a bridge over a stream. Two soldiers jumped out of the bushes at the side of the road and shouted, ‘Halt! Who goes there?’ So, I was back with the British,” Adams said. He was sent to a farmhouse where men who’d lost their unit—like him—had gathered. An artillery major was in charge.

Some days later, a sergeant major ran in and said German tanks were going right by the side of them. “We all got up to move. I asked the major in charge, ‘Where do I go? I’m all by myself.’ ‘You go with that group,’ the major said, pointing at a group of Irish fusiliers. They bunked down in the outbuildings of a nearby farm; later, the farmhouse itself was bombed. The wounded were brought outside and left on the ground.”

“We left them, crossed the road, and headed over a stone wall and across the woods. About three quarters of the way through, a machine gun opened up. So, we got down and we crawled the rest of the way. We stayed there the night; in the morning, we split up into small groups. There were seven men in my group.”

One day in particular stood out to Adams: “One day we heard horses and singing. We had no way to hide, there were no bushes or anything. All we could do was lie down in the ditch running alongside the road. A whole group of German cavalry rode by, singing their heads off. When they were gone, we just kept on moving,” he paused. “We had no weapons at all.”

During a heavy rain one night, they took shelter in a barn. In the morning, a French girl brought them breakfast. “We were enjoying ourselves,” Adams recalled. “Then I saw the tip of a bayonet coming up the ladder, followed by a helmet, then a head.”

It was a German soldier. “Hands up,” he ordered in perfect English. Clarence and his 6 squad mates had just been taken prisoners of war. They climbed down the ladder and stood with their backs toward the barn.

“On the other side of the courtyard, there was a German sergeant major,” Adams recalled. “There was a Frenchman with a bicycle. The way it looked is while the French girl brought us breakfast, the Frenchman had ridden to the village and brought back the Germans.”

While Clarence and his squad mates stood there, a German staff car pulled up. Two high-ranking officers were in the back seat. “They just looked at us,” recalled Adams. “One of the officers had a heavy baton in his hand. I had read that any German officer with a baton was a Field Marshal.” Clarence paused. “But I don’t know. Next to him could have been Rommel, because he was second in charge then.”

“They put us in these troop carriers; there were four of them. Each one carried 12 men, so there were at least close to 50 of us they captured that day. They took us to Bouchet and put us into a garage of a cafe. The German cook sent us a big boil of stew, with lots of meat. When we looked into the café, we could see the German soldiers coming in, sitting down, and drinking their beer. By that time, that part of France was occupied by the Germans.”

The next day, they were marched out again through France and over the border into Belgium. After one night in Ghent, they were marched to the border with Holland. Given nothing to eat except for three large beans during the trip, they were grateful to be given food by the Dutch when they reached the border.

Jammed into small Dutch trains, they were taken to the end of the Maas-Waal Canal, taken off the trains, and given bread. Adams’s loaf was green with mold. “I brushed it off to eat it,” he remembered.

The prisoners were put onto barges and taken down the Canal. “I remember passing under a bridge with the sign, ‘Nijmegen,’” he said. “We entered the river Rhine and sailed up the Rhine to the town of Wesel. It was five days on the barge with this loaf of bread, and a canteen of water with a dipper to take it out.”

They were taken off the barges in Wesel and kept there long enough for Adams to be sent on a work party digging up potatoes. He, like the others, stole as many as he could and ate them. Later they regretted it because their stomachs bloated and caused them discomfort.

They were once again moved, this time in livestock cars. They were given no food. After several foodless days, they reached their destination: Stalag VIIIB, a POW camp in Lamsdorf in what was then called Ober Silesia, next to Poland. “We called it Lamsdorf, not Stalag VIIIB,” he recalled.

After ten days at the camp, Adams and about 55 other men were put onto a passenger train and taken through Germany to a small town called Ratibor where they were put into an irrigation work party. Adams with his carpentry expertise repaired the tools and kept them in shape. Subsequently, he was sent to repair wagons on a nearby farm.

When winter arrived, the prisoners were put into an iron foundry to make parts for trains and for telephone infrastructure. The next spring, they were put back onto the irrigation project. The prisoners were billeted in a tiny unheated tavern, given firewood only occasionally, and given soup and one loaf of bread daily that six men shared. “It wasn’t enough to live on,” Clarence reflected.

One day, four Red Cross packages arrived all at once. They had bars of soap, which the men celebrated with a good washing up with water from the one spigot they were allowed to use. Along with the bars of soap were packages of cigarettes, non-smoker, Adams didn’t partake with the other men.

By June 1941, they were down to 50 men; 5 had returned to sick bay at the camp. Broken up into two groups of 25 each, they were moved once again. Adams was originally in the group to be sent to the coal mines, but with his skills he was soon transferred to the group that was sent to the airport in Breslau. They were bedded down in a schoolhouse on straw mattresses with two thin blankets.

Adams and his mates were directed to help build a camouflaged airport that the Germans hoped would be a decoy for Allied bombers. “One day they didn’t take me under the camouflage; they left me in a shed by myself,” Adams said.

A German officer who was the project engineer took Adams aside and had him make two toolboxes. For days, each day he made two toolboxes. The German would take them away then give Adams two cigarettes. “I thought he was probably selling the toolboxes,” Adams recalled.

When they finished building the camouflage airport, they were sent back to Stalag VIIIB by passenger train. “It was a pleasant trip,” Clarence chuckled, “The kids even waved when we went by.”

Sometime later, he was put into another work party and sent to Waldenburg. They marched to a glass factory and went to work making glass. Their quarters were finer than anything they had experienced. Because of his skills, Adams was put into a tischlerei, a joiner’s shop, repairing the wooden shoes the glass workers wore to protect their feet.

Adams was given other jobs, including repairing the blackouts used to block the windows during air raids, and building bookcases for the factory director’s home. While waiting for his partner to install the bookcases, Adams read a biography of Neville Chamberlain. Every day, the Dutch maids would bring him a cup of real coffee and two cookies. “That was a real treat,” he remembered.

Clarence remained at the glass factory until the end of the war. In November 1944, after hearing the big Russian guns getting closer and closer, they were surrounded. “We were surrounded with our backs to the mountains,” he said.

Although the factory had closed down in November, they stayed in the village until mid-February 1945 when they were ordered to move out. They marched over the Carpathian Mountains through the snow. The first night they stopped at a coal mine and were put in with French POWs who were ridden with lice. “Our biggest fear was getting lice because they carry typhus,” Adams said.

Adams recounted that the second night “was way high, high up in the mountains” and they “were put into a church.” As Adams remembered, “It was colder in the church than it was outside. If people were lucky they could sleep on the benches, but I wasn’t lucky. I slept on the concrete floor.

“The next day we started off down the mountains. We stayed in a Dutch barn, which is a barn that has no sides, just a roof.” They burrowed into the straw, where it was warm. The next morning when they woke up, the straw was covered in snow.

As they continued to march, his feet rubbed raw by ill-fitting boots, Adams fell and could not walk further. German soldiers carried him to the town of Trautenau where he was put into a work party with prisoners who were South African soldiers.

Moved by train once again, they briefly stayed just outside of Prague before re-entering Germany. They ran out of food again before receiving a tiny amount to keep them going. When they arrived at Nuremberg, they discovered the city was in ruins.

They were then marched to nearby Zeppelin Field, the site of enormous Nazi rallies before the war, where they were put into large tents. At first, they had plenty of room; then, more prisoners arrived. And more. Until they were packed in—shaved bald and all body hair removed to try to prevent lice.

Someone in the camp had a radio from which the prisoners would now and then get news of the war. “But I didn’t know about Pearl Harbor until after the war,” Adams said, although he had heard when Germany declared war on the United States.

In April 1945, the prisoners were moved out on the march again where they learned President Roosevelt had died the same day they departed. “Back on the march, we got one Red Cross box of food. The Germans didn’t give us anything. On the first day we walked along the Autobahn; after that, they took us on the side roads. I remember crossing the Danube River,” Adams said.

“One day, we stopped in a barn. The next morning the soldier who usually came every morning on his motorcycle never showed up to give the guards instructions for where to take us. No motorcycle. A Pole who was working with us in the barn told us American soldiers were going by on either side of us. So, we were liberated.”

“A jeep came down the road with an American lieutenant and some enlisted men. He had a beautiful camera he showed us. Awhile later he realized the camera had been stolen. Oh, he was so mad! I thought he was going to shoot everyone!” Adams laughed.

The now-former prisoners decided to march to Moosburg; as they arrived, a jeep went by with an American officer. “That’s General Patton,” their American soldier comrades told them. They tried to get into the newly-liberated local stalag to sleep, but were turned away. Knocking on doors, they were taken in by an old German couple whose son had been killed in France in 1940. “So, that was our liberation,” said Clarence.

“The next day, the Americans rounded all the prisoners up, and they put us into a factory that had been making the casings for shells and bombs. They locked the gates and put guards there so we couldn’t get out. I made a bed on top of two gigantic bombs, and we stayed there a few days. Then one day they told us to get ready to move out,” he recalled.

“They took us onto a parking lot and pumped us with yellow stuff for lice. We were waiting for transportation but it never came, so they marched us back into the factory. The next day, same thing! They pumped us with yellow stuff again, this time the trucks came and took us away.

“The trucks were side by side, going as fast as they could down the one-way road! These trucks were touching! I was about as scared as I’d ever been my whole life,” Adams exclaimed. “They took us into Regensburg, into the airport. They let us out on the landing field, they counted us out, 29 men. A plane came in, right close to us.”

After helping to unload, they boarded the plane, much to the pilot’s astonishment. “What are you doing here? I’m not leaving today!” the pilot said. But he made sure they got out on the very next plane.

“We landed quite close to the Eiffel Tower. They put us in posh hotels in bunk beds. The next day was V-E Day. They had a march through Paris . . . for food they told us to go to the American PX and they’d give us food. We had to take the metro, and I remember we went down the escalator to the bottom, and there was a Frenchman and he was drunk! He was trying to climb up the down escalator,” Adams laughed.

A couple of days later they were taken to Camp Lucky Strike, shown the movie “Gone with The Wind” that evening, and two mornings later were flown back to England. “The war was over for me. That was it,” Adams said.

Clarence was married; he and his wife wrote each other for the entire duration of the war, even while he was a prisoner. “We thought about escaping all the time, but what was the use? We were way out in Poland. You’d have to go all across Europe, then across the sea,” he reflected.

Adams was convinced that without the food from Red Cross parcels, he may not have survived. Certainly not on the scanty, poor rations from the Germans. Although he weighed less than 100 pounds by war’s end, he came through the war in relatively good health.

And he got to like the Germans, who treated him well. “They needed us for work,” Clarence said. One man in particular became like a father to him.

Mr. Adams recalled feeling terrified when they knew the Russians were approaching from November 1944 through to February 1945. He wondered how they would survive because “nothing coming in, nothing going out.” But they made it, and he reunited with his wife after five years apart. They immigrated to the United States in 1949. “I’m grateful I’m alive today,” he said. “I couldn’t see coming through the war alive.”

His tip for living to 100 years old was to “keep breathing,” he said laughing. But he also attributed his longevity to never having smoked and rarely drinking alcohol. Finally, his advice for current and future generations was “Don’t go to war.”

“We’re looking for volunteers for the Airborne.” Twenty-two-year-old Joseph Reilly was stationed at Camp Robinson, Arkansas for infantry basic training when two officers made the offer. “If you're successful at jump school, you’ll get your wings and be a qualified paratrooper.” Also, paratroopers were paid an extra $50 a month, double what Joseph was currently making in the infantry. He quickly volunteered.

He was sent to Fort Benning, Georgia where he made his five qualifying jumps with the 541st training unit. He’ll never forget the feeling of jumping from 1,200 feet, realizing all at once the danger and thrill of falling through the sky. The jumpmaster ordered the paratroopers to “stand up and hook up” on the static line which ran the entire length of the C-47. The static line was hooked to the troopers’ backpacks and upon jumping released the chutes. The red light by the door flicked to green, indicating it was jump time. There was no going back. Joseph jumped through the open door to the sound of roaring of engines thundering in his ears. The noise was abruptly replaced by the quiet, peaceful atmosphere of the sky as his chute opened and he gradually glided to land.

He was transferred to Camp Mackall, North Carolina for further training before being shipped overseas to southern England in the spring of 1944. Joseph became part of the HQ 3rd Battalion, 501st Parachute Infantry Regiment, 101st Airborne Division. He was a radio operator and carried 150 pounds of equipment on his jumps. His job was to relay communications to battalion and regimental headquarters.

Joseph’s first combat mission was the invasion of Normandy on June 6, 1944. As he prepared to jump behind enemy lines at 3:30am, he could see the armada of U.S. ships crossing the English Channel, silhouetted against dim shades of early morning light. He saw C-47s flying beside his own. Some were struck by anti-aircraft fire off the coast of Normandy and immediately became engulfed in flames. Paratroopers were dropping too early and drowned in the English Channel, while others were shot by Germans on their descent to land. Fortunately, Joseph made a safe jump and ended up exactly where he was supposed to land. He saw the outline of trees as he touched down in a little pasture near Utah Beach. “Right beside me landed the colonel of the 502nd regiment. We went from that little pasture to another one, gaining more stragglers until we finally had 100 people in our group.”

The Airborne stragglers were divided into two groups before forging into their first day of combat. Their objective was to neutralize the area and decrease enemy fire for the 4th Infantry Division before they came ashore on Utah Beach. The terror of June 6th lasted from 3:30am to midnight for Joseph and the Airborne divisions. Physically, he was exhausted and sweltering from the heat. Mentally, he was coping with the first day of combat and the death of his friends.

Joseph served thirty-nine days in Normandy, completing the objective of the 101st Airborne. He was then was put aboard a British vessel and returned to his base camp in Cherbourg, England where he was able to take a shower and eat a hot meal. His unit trained for the next two months and gained new recruits before their next campaign. During the interim, Joseph and his comrades received a seven-day furlough. They decided to spend their time at the Belle Vue Amusement Park in Manchester, England. It was there that Joseph met and fell in love with an English girl named Ilene. She promised to write him a letter every day and kept that promise.

On September 17, 1944 Joseph was back in combat, jumping into Holland during Operation Market Garden. Unlike Normandy where they jumped in the early hours, Holland was a daytime jump. The 82nd and 101st Airborne Divisions were under British leadership during the operation, fighting to free the Netherlands from five years of Nazi occupation.

“It was a disaster,” Joseph remembered. The American troops thought the British didn’t make up their minds fast enough and weren’t as aggressive as they should have been in the situation. The Airborne divisions had to take their orders from the British even if they didn’t agree with their tactics.

Joseph was in Holland for seventy-three days before going to a base camp in Reims, France. On December 16, 1944 an order came at two in the morning. The 101st had to board trucks immediately for another mission. Joseph climbed into the back of a truck in the bitter mid-night cold. They were told they were headed for the front. “Where the hell is the front?” They all wanted to know. “Bastogne” was the reply.

The drive took thirteen hours until they reached Bastogne, Belgium. Joseph saw U.S. soldiers walking along the road leading out of Bastogne. “I thought they had taken care of the area. They hadn’t taken care of area. They were surrendering.”

Joseph and his unit walked right into Bastogne as other units were retreating. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. “In combat, you’re either an aggressor or a coward. No Airborne division would ever be called a coward. Never. You go in and fight the Germans. You don’t come out and retreat. We never retreated.”

It was coldest winter on record in Belgium, and most of the U.S. soldiers didn’t have proper winter clothing. Among the paratroopers, they had raincoats, their regular uniform, and some only had fatigues. When they came across dead soldiers, they took their overcoats to stay warm. By December 18, they were completely surrounded by German troops in the Hurtgen Forest north of Bastogne. Artillery landed close to where Joseph was burrowed down in his foxhole. He could feel the reverberations shaking the frozen earth. Christmas Eve came with more fighting and the German bombing of a U.S. military hospital in Bastogne. The 101st fought hard and long to defend their position until January when General Patton came with heavy artillery and neutralized the area. “We were happy to see Patton come in with tanks.” Within three days, the 101st Airborne was relieved of their position.

Right after Bastogne, the 101st was sent to Strasbourg, France along the French-German border where the 42nd Division was trying to hold off a German battalion. “In three weeks, we cleaned up the whole damn mess.” On March 31, 1945 Joseph took his furlough and returned to Manchester, England where he married his war bride Ilene. It was Easter Saturday.

The 101st took Hitler’s Eagle Nest at Berchtesgaden in May 1945. The war ended on May 7th, 1945—Joseph’s twenty-fourth birthday. Standing on the defeated Führer’s balcony overlooking the Swiss Alps was a good feeling, but he would never forget his comrades who didn’t live to see the end of the war. “A lot of close friends got killed. We lost a lot in Normandy, a lot in Holland, and even more at Bastogne.”

Joseph returned to the states on December 31, 1945 and was honorably discharged at Fort Sheridan, Illinois. Ilene came to the United States with their first-born daughter on May 12, 1946. They raised three daughters in Wisconsin where Joseph worked for the Parker Pen Company. This brave paratrooper had no regrets and was proud of his country and those who defend its freedom.

Petty Officer 2nd Class Robert Blackmore traces his ancestry back to the city of Galway, on the west coast of Ireland. The family migrated to the US through Ellis Island and settled in Montana and eventually planted roots in California. He grew up the oldest in a family of six kids in East LA. He recalls that the family was unbelievably close. His father was known as a good "hustler", and a "jitney man", driving cabs in LA to put food on the table. Breaking his wrist, he was unable to drive his taxi anymore and found a gig delivering box lunches to factory workers in the industrial district. At 13, Robert spent his summers with his father on his deliveries at the local manufacturing plants where he sold lunches to truck drivers. He made 25 cents an hour playing "Parade of the Wooden Soldiers" on piano for kids learning how to tap dance. At 15, he swept the hallway of the All-Girls Catholic school, Saint Mary's Academy. Robert recalls working on his Ford coupe at the Walter Myers Texaco gas station when a stranger walked up and told him that Pearl Harbor had been bombed by the Japanese. Quizzically he asked, "Where is Pearl Harbor?" He attended Mount Carmel Catholic high school until his senior year when he dropped out to join the Navy. He didn't know anything about boats but his daily jaunts to bodysurf on the California beaches engrained his love for the sea. So, the Navy it was.

At the Navy training base in San Diego, the young seaman recruit learned the ropes and, after eight weeks, graduated as a seaman apprentice. He bounced around the west coast; first, at North Island Naval Amphibious base, Coronado, and learned how to pilot landing craft. Completing training at North Island, he was sent up to San Francisco to wait for an assignment. There he was issued a sheepskin jacket and a furry hat in anticipation of supporting the Battle of the Aleutian Islands at Attu.

With orders changed, cold weather clothing turned back in, Robert sailed to New Caledonia from Port Hueneme on July 3, 1943. There he joined the crew of the attack transport, John Penn (APA-23), bound for Guadalcanal. The John Penn sailed to Guadalcanal in August to deliver much needed supplies to the island. The young sailor stepped foot onto the beaches and supported the unloading of artillery shells needed by the brave marines. On the beach, he witnessed the sinking of the John Penn as it slipped stern-first offshore after being struck by a torpedo from a Japanese Nakajima B5N2 Kate. The torpedoed ship slipped to her final resting place with 98 men killed or missing and many other seriously wounded. Three days later he boarded an LST and headed for the invasion of Vella Lavella. There, he faced bombing and strafing from Japanese Zeros. While ashore, his LST was bombed and sunk offshore, with one sailor killed. Stuck on the island, he joined two young marines in their foxholes. He was told, "If you come out before daylight, you'll be dead by morning."

Robert remembers the PT-109, Lieutenant Junior Grade Jack Kennedy's boat, was not far from Vella Lavella when she collided with the Japanese Destroyer Amagiri. Life on Vella Lavella was tough, sleeping in foxholes and bearing the buzz of "Washing Machine Charlie", a Japanese bomber that would fly over at night to demoralize the sailors and marines on the island, dropping a single bomb every morning. Seaman 1st Class Blackmore began working with a Chief Shipfitter, who promised Robert the rank of Petty Officer 3rd Class in 2 months if he helped fix damaged landing craft. The two sailors were creative and built a dry dock out of an abandoned Model T and coconut logs to pull the boats out of the water for repairs. Times were eventful for the young sailor. He tells the story of how he rescued the Marine Ace and Medal of Honor recipient, Ken Walsh after the pilot landed his wounded F-4U Corsair in the water. Colonel Walsh went on to be one of the top American Aces of the war with 21 enemy planes shot down. 50 years later Robert and Ken became friends. Robert took his first plane ride in a DC-3 down to the New Hebrides where he got assigned to the USS Dixie, a destroyer tender.

The crew of the Dixie had not been on liberty in three years. Robert remembers that the word came out that the ship was bound for Australia for some much-needed R&R. The Dixie and her crew never made it to the ‘land down under’. At that time, the Navy was fighting Japanese forces at the Battle of the Marianas, known as the "Turkey Shoot" where the American fleet and her carrier-based fighter and bombers decimated the Japanese forces, destroying more than 600 planes. Robert returned to the States after the battle and was on leave in San Diego when it was announced that the US had dropped the atomic bombs. After taking leave he spent eight weeks at underwater welding school, learning how to repair ships using arc and acetylene torches. Ironically, he was discharged two days later. He later went on to own a successful catering business and a paper products company. He fondly remembers the sign on the front of his house that read, "This place is a zoo." Rightly so, The Blackmores had unusual house guests; two chimps lived in a bedroom, two otters made their home in the swimming pool and a kangaroo and wallaby lived on the side of the house.

Petty officer 2nd Class Robert Blackmore served his country with honor in the dangerous South Pacific during WWII. He recalls that the 25 months he spent on the islands of the Pacific and aboard ship, was a big adventure and the best years of his life. His advice for future generations is simple, "What we have to be prepared for is the other side."

Louis Cañedo was born to a loving family in the Logan Heights neighborhood of San Diego, California. His father Joseph was from Mazatlán, and his mother Pauline was born in San Jose del Cabo in Baja, Mexico. Louis and his older brother grew up in a close-knit community during the Depression where the local kids played together on the streets. Through the Depression, the Cañedo family always had food on the table and their father always had work. Joseph worked as a chef in Tijuana and later worked for U.S. Grant, a luxury hotel in San Diego. Pauline worked part-time at the local laundromat. At 7, Louis sold 5 cent newspapers and made 10 cents a customer shining men’s shoes in town. As he got older, he drove a grocery truck and delivered fruits and vegetables to stores, giving his pay to his mother. He was at a football game at Balboa stadium on December 7, 1941. The game was interrupted, and it was announced over the loudspeaker that Pearl Harbor had been bombed. All military members were instructed to report immediately to their duty stations. Louis received a draft deferment so he could graduate from St. Augusta High School. He did so on June 6, 1944, the same day as the D-Day invasion of Normandy.

Some of his friends who received draft notices headed back to Mexico to avoid the war, but not Louis. He was not about to do that. Instead he reported to Camp Roberts located in central California. He was one of 436,000 soldiers to train there during World War II. Training was scheduled for 16 weeks at the camp that taught young men to become U.S. Army infantryman, but training was reduced to 13 weeks due to the immediate need for U.S. fighting men in the Pacific. After training, he joined the men of the 96th Infantry Division at Fort Lewis, Washington. They boarded a crowded troop transport ship bound for Hawaii. He spent two weeks in November and December completing jungle training in Hawaii, afterward sailing on to the island of Saipan for additional exercises.

On Easter Sunday in 1945, three Army and two Marine Corps Divisions landed on Okinawa with a force of more than 180,000 men. When Louis arrived a week after the initial invasion, he had been assigned to a radio outfit. His unit, the 381st Infantry Regiment, was assigned to move to a reserve position on May 10 to relieve a unit from the 7th Infantry Division. His regiment had lost most of its medics in the fighting, so he was reassigned to care for wounded soldiers. As the 381st IR closed in on the front lines, he remembers one of the biggest battles near Conical-Oboe Hill area where the Japanese had set up artillery pieces hidden in caves. Fighting was intense, and in many cases, American GIs had to fight their way through three lines of Japanese resistance to take their objectives. The only saving grace was that the rifling on the Japanese guns had worn down, sending most of the rounds tumbling harmlessly at the American GIs. The battle for Okinawa was one of the bloodiest in the Pacific—although a victory for the U.S.—casualties were heavy with over 7,000 Soldiers and Marines killed and 32,000 wounded.

Louis treated the wounded on the Island of Okinawa while the fighting raged around him. On one occasion, the young medic was notified by his company commander that several U.S. soldiers near the front lines needed medical care. He quickly moved to the front and located the wounded men, loaded one on a stretcher, and with 2 walking wounded, escorted them 150 yards back to the American position and safety. Louis recalls that at one point during the rescue mission he was so close to the enemy he could hear the Japanese soldiers talking amongst themselves. He got those wounded soldiers out alive and later was awarded the Bronze Star for his heroism. Throughout the battle, “Doc” treated soldiers for sucking chest wounds, applied tourniquets and treated shrapnel wounds. He was grateful that no soldier ever died in his arms. The Japanese eventually surrendered the island in late June 1945. Louis concluded his Pacific Theater service on the Island of Mindoro in the Philippines. There he was ordered to report to the local doctor—an Army Captain—who put him at-ease and ordered him to enjoy a cold beer. It was the first luxury he enjoyed since arriving overseas and he appreciated it. To cap it off, the laid-back Army doctor promoted Louis to Corporal.

Back in the States, Louis was officially discharged at Camp Beale in Yuba County California in November of 1946. He was issued a $500 discharge bonus and sent on his way. He took the train back to San Diego and finished the trip with a cab ride to the front door of his parents’ house. His father, who had saved a special bottle of French champagne for that moment, uncorked it, and Louis celebrated his return with family and friends. After the war, jobs were scarce for returning GIs, but his brother was able to secure Louis a job at a local rendering plant. He met his wife at a youth group, and they were married on September 5, 1948. In 1965, he took a good job at Westgate Tuna company but left to attend college at the University of California at San Diego where he majored in biology. A devout Catholic, he joined the Knights of Columbus in 1947 and achieved the level of a 4th Degree Knight, a highly respected small brotherhood who don the feathered hat and wear the white-handled silver sword.

Louis Manzo's family migrated from Mexico to the Wilmington neighborhood of Los Angeles, California in the mid-1920s. His parents, Francisco and Natalia, raised their kids in the Depression era. Although times were tough for most Americans, the Manzo family did well because their father had a good job working in the fertile agricultural fields of California. At 12, Louis learned from his father how to plow the ground and prepare the soil for seeding. With that knowledge, he was able to rent teams of horses and plow local fields for pay. He loved sports and played blocking guard for the Phineas Banning high school football team and outran other local high school athletes on the 880-meter race. He was 17 when he heard on the radio that Pearl Harbor had been bombed by naval air forces of the Empire of Japan. Although he wasn’t sure where Pearl Harbor was, he did feel sorry for the thousands of U.S. service members who lost their lives that day. He graduated from high school in 1942 and signed up with the draft board. He worked odd jobs to make a little money until he received his draft announcement the first week of March 1943, right before his 19th birthday. It was his time and his duty to serve his country.

Louis headed up to Army Basic Training at Camp Roberts, situated in the wine country of central California, north of Paso Robles, 140 miles north of Wilmington. There he learned the ropes of becoming an Army soldier. He was ordered overseas 3 months later and jumped on a bus bound for San Francisco then boarded the USS Harris (APA-2) with the destination set for Guadalcanal. He sailed away from the shore of the U.S. without telling his parents he was going overseas.

The Harris passed by Hawaii on its way to the main island of the Solomons. From the deck, Louis saw in the distance the Hawaiian Islands which appeared like a sliver on the horizon. At Guadalcanal, Louis unloaded ships briefly then followed the 3rd Marine Division to Bougainville. The Island of Bougainville was invaded by Japanese forces in 1942. Those weary soldiers survived the American invasion in 1943 and received heavy bombing from the Allies but did not surrender until 1945. By the time Louis and the men of Company M, 148th Infantry Regiment arrived, the island had been secured but the entrenched Japanese soldiers continued to assail the Americans with machine gun fire and hidden snipers. The army cleared and secured the area and ultimately built an airstrip for allied aircraft. As the months progressed, the Japanese army offered light resistance, but Louis was delighted when an American pilot shot down a Japanese plane that had been relentlessly bombing his position every night. He and his fellow soldiers slept in foxholes and took shifts covering each other. After spending many months on the island, they became like brothers and stuck together like glue. After surviving Bougainville, the young PFC remembered being issued a pamphlet printed to teach soldiers to speak basic commands and useful phrases in Tagalog, a language spoken in the Philippines.

The 148th pushed ashore at Lingayen Gulf, Luzon Island in January 1945. On their march to Manila, they crushed many Japanese strongholds. Louis recalls a pitch-black night when he was assigned to guard the front gate of his post. He confronted a group of unidentified soldiers marching towards him. He challenged them with the code word “Deanna” and expected to hear “Durbin” in response. They turned out to be Japanese soldiers who did not know of Deanna Durbin, the famous Canadian born actress who stared in the 1944 film noir, Christmas Holiday. Knowing that they were not Americans, Louis dispatched them with hand grenades when they got in range. At dawn, the bodies of the Japanese soldiers were found scattered on the ground.

Like many American GIs fighting in the South Pacific, he slept when he could, ate C-rations, battled malaria and jungle rot, wore the same uniform day after day and lost a lot of weight. He was a big man of 200 pounds when he left the shores of the U.S. but returned a ‘sack-of-bones’ after the war. The fighting at Luzon was much more intense than what he experienced on Bougainville. He survived many close calls, especially with Japanese snipers who took undetectable positions high in the palm trees. Louis remained in the Philippines until the U.S. dropped the atomic bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, ending the war in the Pacific.

The skinny GI returned on a troop ship that anchored off San Pedro, Port of Los Angeles at Terminal Island. The returning soldiers were held aboard the ship for three days due to a longshoreman strike at the piers. His friend Dickey Flores snuck off the ship and visited the Manzo family to let them know their son was home. PFC Manzo was discharged on December 23, 1945, and, after spending 2 somber Christmases overseas, he spent the Christmas of 1945 shopping with his sister and enjoying his hometown. The war had been rough on Louis, and he spent a year suffering from malaria. Back home, he enjoyed a life where he could take a hot bath, brush his teeth, and change his clothes. Even with these comforts the war had frightened him, and he spent most of his time in his room and cursed a lot for the first few months after returning home.

The brave American soldier served his country without question at Guadalcanal, Bougainville, and Luzon. For heroic service against the enemy in the Philippines, PFC Louis Manzo was awarded the Bronze Star Medal. He also received the Army Good Conduct Medal for exemplary enlisted service and the WWII Victory Medal. He offered this wisdom to future generations, “Talk things over, communicate, and iron things out.”

In March 1941, Elton Barber left high school to join the Navy. “Me and school didn’t get along,” he laughed.

“The service was the greatest thing that I did for myself and my family,” Elton explained. They had struggled during the Great Depression. One of ten children, “we never had anything extra.”

Why the Navy? “That goes back to my nephew! He was 17 and came down to the house and said, ‘Hey, c’mon let’s join the Navy! We could join together.’ I said okay! His mother had to sign for him because he was 17, but I was 18,” Barber recalled. He’d never been on a ship before, only on a little homemade sailing boat.

Elton was assigned to the heavy cruiser USS Chester. At first, he worked in the ship’s services, such as laundry and the barber shop. In the Navy they jokingly called ship’s services the Ice Cream Parlor. And they really did make ice cream at night then put them in little containers. “We’d put ice cream in Dixie Cups,” he laughed. “And we taste tested!”

Mr. Barber was small—5’6” and 130lbs—and although he was initially assigned to the shell deck as his battle station, he couldn’t move the shells around. He was then assigned to what was called the powder pocket, which adjoined the gunnery room. “Two guys, when they wanted the gunpowder, it’d be sent up the chain to us. When the gunners needed powder, they’d open the sliding door to the powder pocket, and we’d shove two bags out,” he explained.

In October and November 1941, they were in the South Pacific escorting the aircraft carrier USS Enterprise to Manila and then returning with supplies from Wake Island when Pearl Harbor was attacked.

Chester was supposed to have arrived in Pearl Harbor by December 7th. But they were delayed by a heavy storm. “We heard on the ship’s PA system that the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor. We were one day away. It really made everyone pissed off. We went into port the next day, it was still smoky. There was still black smoke,” Barber remembered. They picked up stores and refueled before going back out to patrol Hawaiian waters.

In February 1942, the Chester was taking heavy fire from the island of Tarawa during a raid. Barber was in his powder pocket. “We were bombarding. We must have had 500 spent shells on deck from our anti-aircraft guns. There were Japanese fighter planes. Our lookouts were watching, all of a sudden somebody said, ‘Oh, those Japanese planes are taking off,’ and we trained our anti-aircraft guns. They were pretty damn high. One of the bombs hit us on the well deck, and what I remember there was a jolt. We didn’t know at first it was a bomb, which killed 12 members. It was a pretty good size bomb.”

It was his first combat experience. “Then we knew we were at war.” Later, after participating in various raids and attacks in the south Pacific along with the Battle of the Coral Sea, Chester in October 1942 was cruising in support of the operations in the Solomon Islands.

“We had the battleship Washington. We had four heavy cruisers plus destroyers, we were patrolling a certain area. That’s when we got torpedoed. We were on alerts—they called it. All of a sudden, I’m in the pocket, boy! Felt like somebody reached in grabbed me and slammed me against the wall. That’s how I found out we got torpedoed!” Barber remembered.

Barber remembered dealing with the ramifications of the torpedo: “We had the work crew laboring all night long to patch up what they could. Had a bucket brigade all night and by early morning—maybe 8 or 9 o’clock—they finally stopped the water seeping in. And from there we went back to the anchorage where we were before. And while we were there the crew got it good enough to move the ship at a slow rate of speed.”

Barber reflected on the men who lost their life in the torpedo attack: “This one kid—young guy—he would always come up from the fire room and take a break. He’d lean on the edge of the ship and take in the night air.” After the young man was killed by the torpedo, Elton carried his body on a stretcher down to the cooler to preserve it until they got to base. “Just bad luck,” he soberly remarked.

While in Sydney, Barber met a young woman who helped him by simply letting him talk. “If we were in the USA, I would have asked her to marry me. She was wonderful.” Elton has kept pictures of the two of them together. “I was really glad to be alive. That’s the way it was. Of course, we cuddled up and everything,” he smiled. They remained together for most of the two months he was there, Elton feeling wonderful to be with her. When they left on Christmas Day, he understood it was harder for her than him to say goodbye. They never kept in touch or saw each other again.

The Chester headed for Norfolk for a complete overhaul, where she remained for nine months. Barber was happy to be back in the U.S. On weekends off, he and his friends would travel to cities such as New York, Philadelphia, and Washington D.C.

After returning to the West Coast in September 1943 with Chester, Elton was set up by friends on a blind date. “She was going to be at the USO club wearing a red dress. So, I get there and there’s 15 girls in red dresses!” He went outside and called his friends from a phone booth. “We just talked with her!” they told him. He stepped out of the phone booth, “And all of a sudden a young woman exclaimed ‘That’s Barb! You’re Barb!’” Her name was Jacquelyn, and she had recognized him from the E insignia on his uniform. “That’s how we got acquainted.”

They stayed in touch after he shipped out. At first, she was just a girl he wrote to. But their feelings grew, and Elton and Jacqueline married in April 1945. “It clicked,” he smiled. They kept their many letters in a large box. “Now it’s until death do us part. We had a wonderful life.”

For the duration of the war, the Chester conducted wide-ranging patrols in the south Pacific, sometimes in dense fog. “At times we could hear the damn Japanese airplanes looking for us,” he recalled. But the fog provided safe cover.

From the South Pacific, they departed for Alaska, and, on arriving, they learned the war had ended. Barber felt relieved. From Alaska they were sent to Japan for occupation duty, staying a month before departing on several runs to transport troops returning home, finally ending up in San Francisco.

Over the course of the war, Chester conducted numerous bombardments, including Luzon, Samar, Leyte, and Wake Island. She bombarded Iwo Jima several times including providing cover for the invading forces in February 1945. Ultimately, she received 11 battle stars for her service.

When the war ended, Barber was assigned to the inactive reserves. He was called up during the Korean War and stationed in San Diego. The Lt Commander who was in charge of Barber’s office had been on the USS Augusta during World War II, and as he and Elton reminisced, they learned they’d berthed close to each other at the same harbor and had been on each other’s ship. “It was mind boggling,” Elton marveled.

Chief Petty Officer Lauren Bruner grew up in the westernmost part of Puget Sound, south of Seattle. He was born in Shelton, Washington to Leroy and Lucille Bruner. Laruen had lost his father at a young age and spent most of his formative years with his cousin Flora and her husband. He graduated from high school down the road from Shelton in Elma. On November 15, 1938, his mom and stepfather John Kellerman gave him a ride to the Navy recruitment office located in downtown Seattle. The future seaman apprentice dreamed of the warm sunny beaches of Southern California, home to the Naval Training Center in San Diego. Being a child of the Depression, he had to do what had to be done to survive poverty. Lauren was concerned that the Navy may not look favorably at his past record. At 8, he had already been caught helping moonshiners run illegal booze. The FBI arrested the whole crowd of runners including Lauren, who spent the day in jail until he was bailed out by a family member. Lauren did not report this little altercation and temporary incarceration to the Navy recruiters, but he was sure they would have let it slip by unnoticed anyway.

After a train and bus ride to San Diego, Lauren joined the other recruits preparing to learn the “Navy Way.” Immunizations, haircuts, and uniform issue set the stage for three months of good-old-fashioned Navy training that covered everything from Navy history to marching and shipboard firefighting. After basic training, Lauren returned to Washington via Greyhound and visited family. After boot camp, he achieved the rate of fire controlman, responsible for the weapons systems aboard U.S. Navy fighting ships. Lauren had the critical job of pointing the ship’s guns at the enemy.

At her mooring at Pearl Harbor, all 608 feet of the Pennsylvania class USS Arizona (BB-39) awaited Petty Officer Bruner. By law, U.S. battleships were named after U.S. states, and the Arizona was named in honor of the recent admission of the 48th state. Lauren reported just a month after his 18th birthday on February 11, 1939.

On December 7, 1941, the crew of the dreadnaught went about their Sunday duties, some setting up chairs on the deck for the Sunday religious service. Around 8 a.m., the air was filled with the hum of approaching Japanese fighters and bombers loaded with bombs and special torpedoes. The planes were flying at high altitude, destined for Pearl Harbor. At 8:07 a.m., a bomb dropped from 10,000 feet penetrated the thick armor of the Arizona, causing the mighty ship to shudder. The bomb had penetrated near the ammunition magazines which detonated seven seconds later, resulting in a cataclysmic explosion that tore the ship in half.

All 8 U.S. battleships were damaged that day with the Arizona and 3 others sunk. The other battleships were raised or repaired and returned to service in the Pacific to defeat the Imperial Japanese Navy. During the attack, Lauren suffered excruciating burns—over 73 percent of his body—and spent 7 months in a Navy hospital undergoing painful treatments. Lauren went on to serve aboard the destroyer, USS Coghlan (DD-606), which saw action at Baker and Tarawa islands in September 1943 and supported the attack on Wake Island in October of that year. He then served aboard the USS Duluth (CL-87) until his discharge in late 1946 at the rank of Chief Petty Officer. After the war, Lauren returned to the States and lived with his wife in La Mirada in southeast Los Angeles and worked at a plant that built air conditioning units. Over the years, he suffered many tragic losses in his life from the death of his mother and her husband in a tragic automobile accident and the loss of his brother, Clarence, at the young age of 27.

On that fateful day in 1941, of the 1,513 crewmembers on board the Arizona, 1,177 men lost their lives. Through the confusion and fog of war, the fighting men of Pearl Harbor faced the surprise attack with valor. For his selfless service and for injuries he suffered aboard the USS Arizona, Petty Officer 2nd class Bruner was awarded the Purple Heart.

In his book, Second to the Last to Leave USS Arizona, Lauren recalls minute-by-minute and hour-by-hour what transpired on the Arizona during the attack. Lauren also established a non-profit foundation as a gift to the American people and as a tribute to every man that served aboard the ship on that fateful day. One of Lauren’s friends, Rear Admiral Fernandez “Frank” Ponds, summed up Lauren’s contributions to his country during and after World War II simply: “Lauren Bruner is an American legend and Naval hero.” Lauren offered the following advice based on his own experiences coping with PTSD: “I chose to face the future and not let my past dictate what might lie ahead. And I decided to not let my mind’s wounds stand in the way of a full life.”

Born in Decatur, Illinois, Mr. Stoutenborough moved with his family to Riverside, CA at the age of four. Early memories are peaceful, filled with the scent of orange blossoms and dreams of open skies. His family occasionally drove by an airfield with a sign: “Ride a plane, $5.” After repeated begging, Stoutenborough got his wish. He had his first taste of flight and in that moment, he knew that was his dream. “I wanted to fly. It was almost like an obsession.”

The peaceful memories turned sour when, at twelve years old, Stoutenborough lost his mother. His father remarried soon after to a young girl of twenty, who had a daughter of her own from a previous troubled marriage. Irritability became a regular thing at home, and Stoutenborough seized any excuse to get away.

Living close to March Air Force Base, he’d run up the hill to where he could see the airfield, dreaming of flying. One day he was surprised to find a plane lining up to land that was both beautiful and odd looking. Mr. Stoutenborough was one of the first civilians ever to see the prototype of the P-38!

A few years later December 7th, 1941 came. Stoutenborough had just begun his second year of college when Pearl Harbor was attacked. He signed up for service right away into the Army Air Corps. After a few months of training in a Stearman biplane and later on in the P-38, he graduated and was sent overseas.

He arrived in North Africa and started to fly missions in his beloved P-38. His squadron progressed to Sicily and up into the mainland of Italy. “I learned more from my friends who had already flown missions than any other way.” He still would exchange notes with his buddies, teaching one another on and off the terrain.

Like most young people, twenty-year-old Stoutenborough wasn’t preoccupied with death. It was a reality — “A part of the game. It hurt when you lost a guy you knew well. Everybody was sharing the new experiences.”

Even if he did experience some dangerous missions that “scared the hell out of him,” his love of flying took precedent over fear. “I was having fun. It’s not hubris, just the fact that I always wanted to fly! This was a magnificent plane. You’d talk to people and they’d say, ‘You fly a P-38?!’ and I’d say, ‘Yep. Get one!’”

There was one mission, though, when Stoutenborough’s beloved plane let him down. Leading his own squadron into enemy territory, past Venice, one of Stoutenborough’s engines died. This forced him to turn around and head back alone on one engine. Just after he got into friendly territory Stoutenborough was horrified when his second engine died as well.

“I was losing altitude. I didn’t want to jump because I thought there was something that would make that engine go again, but nothing did. There was smoke in the cockpit, but there was no place to land. I saw a cross on a building as I was coming down and I thought ‘My God! Don’t hit the hospital, Stoutenborough!’ I landed in an olive grove beside it. It was bumpy and rough, but the noise! It was so noisy you couldn’t think!”

“I got out of a cockpit in flames and I got burned. I ran from the plane which had begun to explode. I was behind an olive tree, my back to the explosion and here came an ambulance. The hospital was only ninety seconds from where I was! This doesn’t happen,” he says, laughing, “You don’t crash next to a hospital!”

Stoutenborough spent three months in the hospital in Bari, Italy, but thanks to quick treatment his healing was complete. Questioned about it, he says he still feels odd that this incident earned him a Purple Heart. “I wasn’t in combat!”

After the hospital, Mr. Stoutenborough was sent back to his squadron only to be transferred to the command center, a very cushy post. “You lived like kings! The food was much better. You had a private room. And you could shower privately 24 hours a day.”

While working there, a very special assignment came through and he was given a forty- pound package to carry to Bovington in the U.K. Oblivious to what he was carrying, he flew low through France. Nearing dusk, as he passed the Eiffel Tower, weather turned dark on the horizon and Stoutenborough decided it would be safer to stop for the night. Landing at Orly, he got a room in the barracks and went out for dinner in Paris with the package in tow.

"I was in heaven,” he says. “The food was incredible, and they were having this holiday. People were in the streets. I was happy.” But as he returned to the barracks, he is given an urgent message to call a number in London. When he called a man picked up and screamed at him. “He couldn’t even tell me how mad he was. It was just gibberish.” As he hung up, Mr. Stoutenborough knew he was in for an earful the next day.

Leaving early, he arrived at Bovington but couldn’t find the airfield because of its camouflage. “They said ‘You’re in sight, sir. You’re headed the wrong way, sir. You are here! We are looking at your bottom.’ But I couldn’t see them! There was only a farm with cows!”

Finally landing, Mr. Stoutenborough met the colonel who had screamed at him the night before and got yelled at some more. “I learned I was carrying cans of 16mm film of the Italian surrender and it was for the President!”

After that special assignment, Mr. Stoutenborough flew two more missions, bringing his total to 76 combat missions. When asked what he’s proudest of, he says “That I did what I did, and that my wife was with me. I have never been happier than when I was in a P-38. I loved that plane, an amazing creation. Dreams can come true.”

Uldarico Tijamo was praying unceasingly. He was certain he was going to be killed. The Japanese imprisoned him after someone had betrayed him and identified him as a guerrilla fighter with the Filipino resistance.

After three days alone in a cell with no food or water, he was surprisingly released. A Japanese officer had vouched for him, telling Uldarico’s captors that he was a local farmer. He has never known why he was so fortunate to have been released that day, because, in truth, he was a guerrilla fighter.

For nearly three years, Uldarico risked his life as part of the resistance. He almost always worked alone because, as he explained, it was safer than working in larger teams. “If I was caught with someone else, I would have been killed too.”

He had two jobs—one as a medic and one as a guerrilla fighter. Although he had no formal medical training, he learned the basics of tending to patients from his mother, who was a local midwife. Uldarico treated wounded fighters as well as civilians. He stitched wounds, applied dressings made of cooked guava leaves, and cleaned injuries with hot water. There were no anesthetics. All his patients survived.

As a fighter, he used classic guerrilla warfare techniques of ambush and hit-and-run attacks. Uldarico, dressed as an ordinary farmer, would carry a tall basket of produce with several hand grenades hidden at the bottom. He would approach Japanese soldiers, toss a grenade, and flee.

Although he was stopped and searched several times, the enemy soldiers never found the grenades. He recalled that it was intense. “I would have been killed right then if I had been caught.” However, he always remained calm because he knew he was doing the right thing to avenge the horrific treatment of his people by the invading Japanese. Besides, “I couldn’t show I was afraid, or I would have been interrogated and killed.”

On one occasion, he accompanied one of his commanding officers—a doctor—to her home. Japanese soldiers appeared without warning at the front door trying to ferret out the resistance. The doctor alerted Uldarico, who fled out the back, rolled down a hill, and disappeared for several days. This occurred a second time, so he stayed away for two weeks, most of it hidden under a tarp in the cargo area of a small boat.

When he did work on a team, there was usually three of them who conducted ambushes on Japanese truck convoys. While hiding on the side of the road, they would toss grenades under the trucks, killing nearly every soldier in them and then fade into the fields of sugar cane that towered over their heads. Every few months, Uldarico returned home to his parents. Although they worried for his safety, they supported his service with the resistance.

Nothing in his childhood prepared him for being a guerrilla fighter. Uldarico was born in Cadiz and grew up in the town of Escalante, a part of the Visayas Island Group of the Philippines. Beginning at the age of nine, he fished with his father at night and on weekends. They alternated between river and ocean fishing and would bring the shrimp, crabs, and fish to his mother to sell to people in their town. His brothers worked in the sugar cane fields on the plantations that surrounded Negros and Cebu.

Uldarico wanted to serve with the guerrillas after the Japanese invaded not only because he felt sad that the Japanese were killing innocent women and children but also because his own family was in danger and he wanted to protect them. He had no formal military training, but he would sometimes participate in drills with his neighbor.

He and his fellow resistance fighters were allied with the U.S. forces, who supplied the guerrillas with arms and other supplies by submarine. A U.S. Army officer arranged the rendezvous and weapons acquisition. “But no uniforms,” Uldarico laughed. “We were too poor.” Besides, wearing a uniform would have earmarked them as resistance fighters, putting them at far too much risk. The guerrillas had to look like ordinary villagers.

The U.S. Army returned to the Philippines in 1944. When they reached Cebu, the townspeople were out in the roads cheering and waving. Uldarico figured the war was coming to an end and wound down his service as a guerrilla fighter. He spoke with his father about starting a business. In 1945, when the Japanese did in fact surrender, an Army officer ran through the town and exclaimed, “Everybody! The Japanese surrendered!”

Uldarico started a rice merchant business before joining the U.S. Army in 1946. He liked military life and wanted to be a part of the U.S. Army that had trained him as a guerrilla fighter. On the day he joined, everyone in his group of recruits was asked if they had served as a guerrilla fighter or with the Philippine Army. Uldarico proudly identified himself as part of the resistance. Immediately, he was placed in charge of a team working directly with the 1st Sergeant.

For the three years he served, Uldarico reached the rank of Staff Sergeant and was recognized by his superior officers as a born leader. He was often asked to stand in for his officers and won ten drill competitions.

After leaving the Army, he worked as a taxi driver. He met his wife when she was among a group of young women passengers. After he courted her, they married and had five children. Uldarico then worked for almost 20 years with the Bureau of Telecommunications Malacañang in the Presidential Palace as a telephone technician where he leveraged the skills he had learned in the service. He then left to buy a jeepney and started his own business.

In the early 1980’s, Uldarico moved to the United States by himself to claim his citizenship. For three years, he worked non-stop to get enough money to bring his family over from the Philippines. His wife and children came over a span of several years in the mid- to late 1980’s.

In his 94th year, Uldarico sat straight and waved his hands for emphasis as he gave some advice: “Whatever it takes for you and your family to thrive, do it! And do it the right way.” And for people who want to come to the United States, he wants them to know: “Help the government. And do that the proper way too.”

Leonard Zerlin was aware of what was happening in Germany years before the United States entered World War II. He remembers his grandfather reading a Jewish newspaper to him in Yiddish. “Grandpa, what’s happening?” he would ask as a young boy, deeply interested.

His grandfather told Leonard about Jewish persecution in Germany and families he knew that were taken from their homes. Leonard also listened with anger to radio broadcasts about the German Blitz over London. It bothered him that the United States was doing nothing. This acute awareness would later propel Leonard to enlist in the Army Air Corps and fight to help end Nazi persecution.

After the attack on Pearl Harbor on December 7, 1941, Leonard decided to take an aircraft engineering course in New York for three months to get a head start before enlisting. He loved the idea of flying and knew that the Army Air Corps was where he wanted to be. When Leonard told his parents he was enlisting, they begged him to reconsider and obtain a defense job instead. Everybody tried to talk him out of it, but Leonard and his friend took off for Grand Central Station to sign-up. When it was Leonard’s turn, he was almost sent home.

The doctor shook his head when he saw the hole in Leonard’s back caused by a childhood operation. “We can’t accept you. Go home, kid. Get a good defense job. Your parents will be very happy to see you back.”

Leonard wouldn’t take ‘no’ for an answer, not after finally convincing his family he was going. He asked for another opinion. The doctor hesitantly agreed and called in Dr. Horowitz. After Leonard explained that his back wouldn’t be a problem, Dr. Horowitz asked his reasons for enlisting. His answer was direct. “Pearl Harbor was attacked, and he knew the Jewish community was disappearing in Europe.”

Leonard’s drive to fight for the freedom of others caused Dr. Horowitz to give the ‘all clear’ for his enlistment. If he had accepted the first doctor’s opinion, his life would have been vastly different.

Leonard underwent six weeks of boot camp at Fort Dix, New Jersey, an intense experience of misery and hard training that created a brotherly bond between the soldiers. After boot camp, Leonard went to South Carolina to train on the B-26, an aircraft that was nicknamed the “widow maker” because of its high accident rate, especially in training. The short wingspan made the B-26 more maneuverable than other bombers, and its speed matched that of fighter planes. Before they were even in combat, Leonard lost comrades in training accidents every week. Eventually, the B-26 became safer, but only after severe loss. Leonard served as the aerial engineer and top turret gunner.

His crew was stationed in England, thirty miles from the English Channel. They were the closest bombing group to the channel and were frequently attacked by German Luftwaffe who were bombing their airstrips. The airmen dug foxholes outside the perimeter of the airstrip to protect themselves against nightly raids. One evening on base, a new recruit named Rick arrived. He jumped in the cot next to Leonard and fell asleep. Leonard and his comrades didn’t have a chance to warn him about the nightly bombing raids until the sirens sounded. As everyone hurried to their foxholes, Leonard shook Rick awake, shouting at him to get in his foxhole. Leonard soon found out that the orderly never told Rick to dig one. “Well, you better get the hell up because we’re gonna be bombed pretty soon,” Leonard warned.

They both took off into the night. Leonard could feel the concussions as he ran to his foxhole. He stopped short when he discovered it was occupied by Rick and there was not enough room for the two of them. Leonard trying to pull him out, but Rick wouldn’t budge. By now the concussions were so bad that they knocked the wind out him. Leonard kept running, until he dove on the cold, wet ground and covered his head.

When he finally heard the all clear siren, Leonard was flaming mad as he prepared to tell Rick off. That’s when he saw a group gathered around his foxhole. One of the bombs landed in his foxhole, destroying Rick. They couldn’t even find his dog tags. Leonard was shaken hard from the experience. He wasn’t allowed to fly for three days as he tried to process Rick’s fate and how close he had been to his own death.

Leonard’s first mission was to the mountains of Holland. Their objective was to locate and bomb the area where Germans were assumed to be working on the V-1 rocket. They spent close to five hours trying to locate the area in horrible weather and finally headed back to base without ever finding it. The crew was told to go back in three days to find the target. In the meantime, Leonard was experiencing pain in his shoulder. What started out as a blister grew into a large sore that had to be cut open and stitched up. He was grounded for three days.

Leonard had to miss his second mission. The worst part was watching his group take off without him. After a few hours, he went to the control tower and waited for the group to come back. After six hours, they lost radio contact with the planes. The twelve planes on the mission never came back. It was assumed that they had engine problem, but months later they learned that half of the planes crashed while the others were shot down. The airmen on Leonard’s plane—men he went through training with—were killed. This was the second time Leonard cheated death.

One mission will forever be stamped in Leonard’s memory. As they were reaching their target, the bombardier pulled the cable to arm the bombing pins and let the bomb load drop. One armed bomb didn’t release and was hanging from the belly of the aircraft. Because he was the smallest, Leonard was told to go down to the bomb bay and release it. He took off his flak jacket, parachute, and heated gloves before dislodging the bomb cabling with a screwdriver, all the while being hung out of the catwalk by his feet in -30-degree temperature, thousands of feet above the ground.

After they returned to base and debriefed the missions, one of the airmen recounted the events of Leonard’s heroic feat. A month later, Leonard was notified that he was to receive the Silver Star for his actions that day. Leonard was honorably discharged from the Army Air Corps on November 11, 1945.

Sergeant Marcus Goldberg hailed from a typical Jewish family in the residential neighborhood of Brownsville in eastern Brooklyn, New York. Marcus and his four siblings were close, but he always felt very different from them and other people. Marcus had a very high IQ and had little trouble getting through school and would tutor his brother who struggled with his studies. The Goldberg family lived in a cold-water tenement house during the Great Depression, and the family huddled around the kitchen stove in the cold New York winters. As a child, Marcus remembers how quickly the world was changing, witnessing the first street and traffic lights being installed by city workers. He recalls the evicted lining up on the sidewalk with no place to go after being pushed out of their homes. He recalls that the people of the Depression were kindlier to each other because everybody was in the same boat. On December 7, 1941, Marcus was at a pool hall watching the Brooklyn Dodgers and New York Giants football game on TV. He heard over the radio that Pearl Harbor was being bombarded by the Japanese. The next day, President Roosevelt made his famous “A day that will live in infamy” speech. Many answered the call to service, including professional athletes. Up to the end of the war, nearly 1,000 NFL football players served in World War II, including the great George Halas who received a Bronze Star for heroism while serving in the 7th Fleet. Marcus graduated from Tilden High School in June 1939 at the age of 17. While attending City College, he got a pre-draft notice in 1943. Not hearing back from the draft board, Marcus marched down and volunteered only to find out that his name had been dropped off the draftee list due to a clerical error. Ironically, if he had kept his mouth shut, he could have missed the entire war.

Marcus attended Army Basic Training at Camp Bowie in Brownwood, Texas. The recruits learned to march and were taught weapons maintenance and marksmanship. Training culminated with a live fire drill and a 26-mile march in full gear with a rucksack. Marcus was sent to tank school in Texas where he learned to operate, aim, and fire the guns on American medium tanks. They were introduced to the M-3 Grant, which was being phased out and replaced by the M-4 Sherman. Marcus trained with his tank in the deserts of the Southwest in preparation to join the American tank battles raging in the deserts of Egypt and Libya, fighting the strategic genius Erwin Rommel, “The Desert Fox.”

The young tanker shipped out from the United States and arrived in Wales in February 1944. He was assigned as a tank gunner to B company, 749th Tank Battalion. While waiting for the invasion, they began waterproofing their M-4 Duplex-Drive Sherman tanks with float screens. They were delayed several weeks behind the main invasion on June 6, 1944 because numerous temporary piers in Mulberry harbor had been washed out by a storm. On June 29, his battalion arrived at the Utah landing site, unloaded and slogged up onto the beach. The 747th and 745th battalions were on the initial invasion, but many of the tanks got swamped having landed too far from shore. The Army’s new tank, the lightly-skinned Sherman sported a 75mm cannon, a peashooter compared to the Germans high-velocity 88, but the M-4 was faster, reaching speeds up to 28 mph. The Shermans were cheap to produce and were prolific on the battlefield enabling the allies to “gang up” on German tanks. In the European theater, the Sherman battalions, composed of 3 companies with 5 tanks per company, were tasked with providing cover for the advancing U.S. infantry and taking out machine gun positions.

Marcus’s “Bastard Battalion” joined the 79th division who had just taken Cherbourg, France on June 25, 1944. After breaking out of the landing area at Utah beach, the tank battalion pushed through to Le Mans and liberated it from the Germans later that August. Sometime during the intense fighting, he relieved his tank commander who had decided to leave the front lines, and the young Corporal was promoted to Sergeant. The 7th Army and B company moved west during the Battle of the Bulge to fill in the gap left by General Patton’s 3rd Army, that had moved north up into Bastogne to relieve the beleaguered US soldiers surround by the Wehrmacht. After the famous Ludendorff Bridge crossing at Remagen, they joined the 3rd Army and crossed the Rhine River in the middle of the night with little resistance. During their ramble through Germany, he avoided visiting any of the Jewish concentration camps. Being Jewish, he thought that a visit would trigger a violent reaction against the local German civilians. He did witness the labor camps atrocities and toward the end of Marcus’s tour in Europe he liberated English POWs captured in Tobruk. The prisoners had been there four years and were in bad shape and emaciated. In January 1946, he was discharged at Fort Dix where he was paid $250 in discharge money. Many of his friends were called back up to serve in the Korean War, but Marcus returned to City College and finished his degree and resumed a normal life without war.

Marcus Goldberg served valiantly in World War II, bearing the strain of combat and mental fatigue that caused many GIs to “snap.” He was stirred by the memory of almost being killed by a bullet while peeking his head out of a tank and watching his company commander get killed when a German round struck his tank. Marcus’s brother served in the Army’s 3rd Infantry, nicknamed “The Rock of the Marne,” and was wounded at the battle of Anzio in central Italy but made it home safely. Sergeant Marcus Goldberg, proud Sherman tank commander, was awarded the Bronze Star for willingly putting himself in harm’s way to direct American fire on a hidden German gun emplacement. His advice to future generations was simple, “Study history and learn from history. If you ignore it, you'll repeat it.”

Robert had quit high school in his senior year and joined the Navy in January 1943 at age 17, choosing the Navy because living along the coast he had gotten used to the ocean. “The Navy was my thing; I didn’t want to join the Army laying around in mud and rain! I wanted a good clean Navy life,” he chuckled.

Robert Pritchard was a Navy seaman aboard the LSD, USS Rushmore heading out to sea from Pearl Harbor without having the faintest idea where they were going. “About the third day we were given a pamphlet full of maps and information about where we were headed. It was Yap Island. Every day we were told what to expect. . . Anything that may happen to us when we hit the beach. Didn’t know how the enemy was going to be, no idea how many Japanese on the island, whether or not they had an air force.”

Then suddenly their plans changed. No Japanese had been found on Yap. “We went around and past the island. Nothing happened so I guess they were right—nothing was on the island. Two days later we were told we were going to hit Leyte Island in the Philippines,” Robert remembered.

The Rushmore’s crew received substantial briefings about Leyte. “There was quite a maneuver that had to be done by the Navy to get into the island itself. There was a cove and before we could get into that harbor and hit the beach, we had to go through a very narrow strip with land on both the starboard and port side of us. We had to be in there at a certain time because they had a Japanese force guarding the entrance, and we had to take out that particular force before the Navy could move in and hit the beach.”

“Our boat was given an assignment to a particular ship, and we were told where to help unload their cargo, back and forth to the beach. We were unloading pretty near all day and all that night, taking supplies to the beach. That first night we were coming back from the beach, and we were given a warning to tie up to any ship that was close by because there was a Japanese air raid. And U.S. forces laid smoke signals that covered the whole bay. You could not see 5 feet in front of you. That was why they wanted us to tie up and stay put until everything was clear.”

Mr. Pritchard continued, “That smoke came in. They covered the entire bay so the Japanese couldn’t tell where to bomb or what to hit. And that’s when all hell broke loose again; the Navy opened fire and off the northern end—Subic Bay I think it was—that’s where most of the Japanese ships were sunk. American troops secured the beaches, and we started unloading some more.”

Pritchard and his crewmates were first in. They unloaded the tanks from their landing craft; then the Army moved in and cleared the beach. “The Navy did a pretty good job, things were tight for a while. There were so many Filipinos—mostly kids—they just swarmed the beaches . . . welcoming us. They were going crazy . . . and the tanks had a hard time maneuvering, getting these people off the beach again. It got rough . . . thousands of kids!” he exclaimed.

“About a half an hour later we were told, ‘Do not leave the beach. Stay right where you’re at. Don’t move’ by the military police. Then an LST came along, pulled up right next to us, and the ramp dropped down, we saw all these civilians get off! And we thought ‘What the hell’s going on?!’ you know, they were photographers. And as I was standing on the bow of the boat, MacArthur stepped off the landing craft and onto the beach. Just as clear as day! I thought ‘Oh my god, there’s MacArthur’. “

“All these photographers. . . Matter of fact in my house I have a picture of him hitting the beach and I was in the background. It was quite an experience for me; I was quite pleased,” he beamed.

After that day, they picked up anchor and shoved off just in time before another air raid hit. “We were told to get the hell out of there. I think the Old Man shoved the ship full steam, and we plowed right out of the harbor and headed for New Guinea, which was a safe haven for all the ships.”

Pritchard’s most frightening wartime experience was indelibly etched in his memory. “Once we went down to Borneo to unload troops, tanks, the whole enchilada. It was an early morning operation. We unloaded everything 5 or 6 in the morning. The strangest thing happened; I’ll never forget it; in fact, I still think about it a lot.

“Our ship pulled out from the rest of the landing craft. We were the only one that left. We followed the coastline down. No destroyers, no escort, no nothing. And we started to wonder, what’s going on? What’s happening?”

“We went down maybe 150, 200 yards off the beach. Our ship headed right to the beach. We were at General Quarters. We didn’t launch our boats, we didn’t do nothing, just sat there. Pretty soon we heard the anchor drop. What are we doing down here?”

“We sat there all afternoon. That evening we were told to turn out all lights, no hatches to be opened, no lights to be shown at all during the night. We went in and played cards or whatever in the mess hall. Most of the guys were just chewing the fat. Got up the next morning we were still there.”

“I had breakfast. I remember going back to my bunk. We were told we could open the hatches if we wanted. I climbed up and opened up the hatch that morning, and it was a nice bright sunny day. So, I walked out on the deck, over to the port side of the ship, looking around. The tide was going out and our ship had shifted. I was curious what was going on, on the beach. It was all foliage, no sand.”

“I was leaning against the rail, and all of a sudden I saw this torpedo coming right for the ship. I turned, and I yelled toward the bridge, ‘Torpedo 11 o’clock!’ and about that time I can vaguely remember hitting the deck. And about the time I hit the deck I heard a ‘Ping!’ But no explosion. And I peered over the side and I could see the torpedo bounce off the ship, and it went out about 30 feet, flipped over, the screws stopped going, and the torpedo just sank.

“That’s all I can remember. I wound up down in sick bay; that’s all I can remember about that day. Apparently, it scared me to death.” He had been the only one out on the bow that morning.

Near the end of the war, at Samar at the entrance to Leyte Island, they received orders to bring an abandoned Japanese submarine aboard, completely intact except for its crew. Although they were curious about the sub, the Rushmore’s crew was forbidden to go aboard. They’d been on the way to San Francisco but after they brought the sub on board Pritchard and his shipmates were ordered off the Rushmore and sent to New Guinea for several weeks while their boat continued to San Francisco.

Shortly afterward they had anchored in the Ulithi Islands with hundreds of other boats and ships awaiting orders to participate in the invasion of Japan when they learned the A-bombs had been dropped and the war was over. Their mission changed to transporting troops to Japan who were to participate in the occupation.

Even when he first enlisted, Robert knew he wanted to make the Navy a career. But his request was declined. He was sent back to San Pedro, California, given his discharge papers and $100, and hitchhiked as far as Santa Monica where he caught a bus to his dad’s place. He arrived at 2:00am, knocking on the door and responding, “Dad, it’s me, Bob!” to his father’s sleepy question, wondering who was at the door.

In his youth, William’s family did a lot of traveling. However, one place would hold a special memory. It was in West Sand Lake, New York. It was here, at the age of twenty that he heard President Roosevelt giving his speech on the radio, following the attacks on Pearl Harbor. That was when he decided to join the Army.

Willis passed the exams for air training but was told that at that time they didn’t have an opening for him. Willis was told to go to the draft office and have his name removed from the list, which he did, but ended up being drafted anyways and was sworn in during the fall of 1942 as a private.

Willis was sent to Camp Breckinridge, Kentucky where he was assigned to play in the field artillery band. Often the band was up at two in the morning to go on long hikes, and they would spend the rest of the day playing music, shining the instruments and marching. It wasn’t an easy life, but it was enjoyable.

After six weeks in the Army band, Willis was called to the Captain’s Office where he was told he was being transferred to cadet training. Willis was then sent to Santa Ana Army Air Base in California. This is where his military pilot career started. It started with pre-training, testing skills and knowledge: coordination, recognition, mathematics and machinery. Then came primary training which involved airplanes. The cadets would fly with an instructor before flying alone. Graduating in November 1943, he became a Second Lieutenant. After some additional training, he was sent to England.

They boarded a ship and sailed as part of a Europe-bound convoy. Willis remembered he was up on the boat deck, when all of a sudden, he felt the ship shake. Willis ran to the other side and one of the cargo ships had its bow sticking out of the water. It had been hit by a torpedo. Willis’s ship had just made a turn, and if it had not made that turn, it would have been hit instead. His ship made the rest of the trip unscathed and arrived in Scotland. Willis and the others were then sent to the 55th Fighter Group and stationed at Wormingford, England.

Willis was then dispatched to the 343rd Fighting Squadron, and his first mission finally came. They took off and flew a fighter sweep. “Previous training instructions were to look behind and up above to see who is diving down at you, and I did plenty of looking. The mission went smoothly. We flew across the English Channel and into France, before heading back to base,” Willis said.

The following days were spent in and around the aircraft. In the evenings, they spent plenty of time in the barracks playing poker. Willis remembered thinking, “This is the life; it wasn’t so bad.”

Then came D-Day. They flew cover over the ships. Flying the P-38 Lightning, Willis had a balcony seat to the invasion. Fortunately, Willis was up too high to see any casualties, but he saw shell fire from the shore hit the water and make those big geysers.

Once they secured France, it was back to routine. Willis’s new role was flying the P-51 Mustang, escorting bombers. Some missions they would replace our drop tanks with bombs. They’d carry a thousand-pound bomb under each wing, and they’d drop them in various places like on bridges or other targets. Our objectives were to destroy the Germans’ transportation system.

As Willis remembered, “A good buddy of mine had his plane go down, and the French Mafia picked him up and hid him. Unfortunately, not everyone was that lucky. I remember another buddy that I had played poker with every evening was shot down. He survived the crash, but some German farmers found him and pitchforked him to death. That has always bothered me.”

After the war, Willis remembered someone asked him if he ever feared for his own life: “I recall that it never got scared at the time; I would just react. That is what my training taught me to do. But war leaves no one unchanged.”

One mission in particular stood out to Willis: “I remember a mission where we were strafing some targets, and as I pulled up, I could see tracers going by my left wing, so I took evasive action. Then my wingman come on the radio and said, ‘If you want to make another pass, he won’t bother you anymore.’ At that time, I thought it was great that we took out the enemy. Since I’ve gotten older, I got to thinking—that guy had a family. He was doing the same job we were. He had orders to man that gun and he was doing exactly what he was supposed to do.”

Finally, late in 1944, Willis flew his 270th hour and, as was protocol, he was sent home. Once he arrived, he was given the assignment he hoped he would never get: being an instructor for cadets. In some cases, it could be more dangerous than flying in combat.

After the war ended, Willis was put into the Reserve. Staying on temporary commissions, he would fly around bases as an instructor and perform instrument checks.

Willis retired from the Air Force as a Lieutenant Colonel and was a proud holder of a Master’s Degree in mechanical engineering. Willis was fortunate to spend his life with his wife of 73 years and enjoyed spending time with his children and grandchildren. When asked for advice for future generations, Willis simply smiled and said, “Take a dream, and work towards it.”

Lieutenant Laverne Peck surveyed the empty sea and equally empty air. Alone and injured, with thousands of square miles of lonely waves about him, he floated. After 16 hours, a destroyer on the horizon, too far to signal, and with no chance of seeing him passed slowly. Suddenly, the ship made a lurching 90 degree turn and came roaring towards the small life raft raising and falling slowly as the waves tossed about. Looking to the sky, Peck joyfully exclaimed, “Thanks, God.”

Born on March 23, 1921 in Dekalb, Illinois, Laverne Harry Peck idolized his father, a career law enforcement officer. Peck developed a fascination with flight as a twelve-year-old when he waited patiently in line, clutching money he had saved for a ride in an exhibition aircraft at Chicago’s World Fair. A man shoved Laverne out of line and took the last seat. The pilot, standing near, seeing the heartbreak in the boy’s face, announced that his co-pilot had fallen ill, and he needed someone to take his place. Laverne’s first flight was as the copilot! From that moment, all his thoughts were of aviation, inspiring Peck to earn a private pilot’s license while still in school with his mother as his first passenger.

Later, as World War II raged in Europe, Laverne knew it was only a matter of time until he would be drafted. With pilot’s license in hand, he applied for the Naval Aviation Cadet Program. Accepted, Laverne left college and reported to Corpus Christi, Texas. Peck was home on leave when the Bears-Cardinals game on the radio was interrupted with news of the attack on Pearl Harbor. Peck returned immediately to Texas.

The good natured, brashness of a pilot was evident in his childhood delight of Halloween trickery and generally rambunctious nature. In flight school, he exhibited the confidence—bordering on arrogance—that defined fighter pilots. In solo flight, he performed an inverted spin, a dangerous maneuver only allowed with an instructor pilot. Peck noticed other aircraft circling around, and two accompanied him to the landing strip. The two instructor pilots came rapidly toward him, and Peck was suddenly aware he could be dismissed from training for safety violations. Quickly, he told the senior instructor, “I needed to practice so on my “check” ride they would be impressed with how well my instructor taught me to fly!” Stopped in their tracks, the instructors first stared at Peck, then at each other. One blurted, “I’ll be damned. He’s a fighter pilot!” Another incident occurred just prior to his deployment. While at NAS Alameda, California, unauthorized flying beneath the Bay and Golden Gate Bridges was a routine occurrence in bad weather when it would be difficult to identify the pilots. On one such flight, he and a fellow pilot clipped the telephone lines and cut calls across the Bay area. When caught with wire hanging from their aircraft, Peck explained to the senior officers that they would need to quickly punish him so he could go to war. He went without punishment.

Aboard the small “jeep carrier” USS Manila Bay, the F4F “Wildcat” fighters of Fighter Squadron 3 engaged in fleet reconnaissance and scouting sweeps, combat air patrols and finally combat. Peck’s first mission was uneventful, but he admitted, “I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t scared stiff” as he strapped in and roared off for the first of 47 combat missions in World War II. Later missions involved close air support of Marines landing on the beaches of Kwajalein and Tarawa Atolls, as well as being nominated for the Distinguished Flying Cross!

Flying reconnaissance missions from the USS Manila Bay was a dull, but necessary task. The Wildcat had been relegated to air-to-ground and scouting missions, but it was still a potent fighter! Indelibly marked in Peck’s memory is the scouting mission and the moment that he and his wingman saw a flight of Japanese fighters banking over to dive on the two patrolling fighters! Instead of turning away, Peck and his wingman began to climb, launching rockets that they each carried. As the rockets exploded, Peck flew around, through and under the explosions until suddenly, the sky was clear! Peck was credited with shooting down two Japanese aircraft. On another flight, at 500 feet of altitude, his aircraft suffered engine failure and dove straight “into the drink.”

Knocked unconscious, Peck awoke sinking beneath the waves and into the darkening depths of the sea. Following the path of air bubbles, he was able to escape with both his life and his raft, breaking the surface eight minutes after his crash. Injured, he bobbed on the sea as the waves lifted and lowered his raft. After sixteen hours, a wave lifted him, and he saw a distant ship. A sailor, high in the crow’s nest, glimpsed the raft with his peripheral vision as he turned his head from his assigned sector in the interminable search for Japanese periscopes. Passing word of the sighting, the ship heeled over and made full speed toward the lone, injured aviator clinging to life. Peck would survive.

Peck was returned to his squadron and resumed combat flight. At the end of the war, Peck was serving as a Weapons and Tactics Instructor at Pensacola, Florida. He was offered the choice of continued active duty or participation in the Organized Reserves. Peck chose the reserves, so he could return to college.

In the Reserves, he served again during the Korean War and flew 67 combat missions. He later held squadron command and finally retired as a Captain. At the end of his Naval Career he tested the early space suits and served as the safety officer for the Naval Space Program. When NASA was created, he went to work as the NASA Safety Officer and was involved in the Apollo programs as well as the moon landing.

Laverne Peck had a strong sense of patriotism, duty, and faith and often repeated the words he uttered when rescued in the Pacific Ocean: “Thanks, God.”

Anthony Lombardi was born in Montclair, New Jersey, on January 17, 1922. He was the third youngest of nine children. His father Benjamin, worked in a print shop and his mother Elizabeth, was a stay-at-home mom. Lombardi describes his relationships with his siblings as “not really close, didn’t have much.” After all, they grew up during the Great Depression.

In high school, he was on the track team, basketball team and football team. He was an exceptional athlete and was the captain of his high school football team. He was such a good athlete that he was scouted for the Brooklyn Dodgers and the Green Bay Packers. And, as a boxer, he won the coveted Golden Glove. He graduated high school in 1939 and only a couple years later, the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor, it was December 7, 1941.

Over seventy years later and Lombardi still remembered that day. “I went to the movies that night, came home, it was starting to snow.” He described chills going through his body as he learned of the news. “Oh no!” he added.

He was then drafted and continued to work a short while after. The Army called him first, but he chose the Marine Corps instead. “I wanted action,” he said of the reason why he chose the Marine Corps. “I had a lot of nerve. Yeah, nothing scared me.”

Three of his brothers also joined the military. Vincent and Joe joined the Army, and Carl joined the Navy. That’s where it all began. Lombardi served in the Marine Corps. He was 3rd battalion, 21st Marine Regiment, M Company from 1942 to 1945.

He described his basic training experience in Parris Island, South Carolina as a “hell hole,” adding, “Oh my god. It’s all sand, you know? They took us out in that sand, and they marched us back and forth, back and forth. Guys just dropping out.”

“It was really rough,” he said. In November 1942, they were shipped to Guadalcanal, a province in the Solomon Islands. By the time they got there, all of the fighting was over, except for the bombings. The Japanese still bombed the camps at night.

Lombardi laughed as he remembered the one and only time he had fun while away at war. He recalls all of the guys were sitting around in a circle talking about their girlfriends. “They were all my best friends,” he said. “I got my hand grenade, opened it up, poured out all of the powder.” Then he announced that he had pulled the pin. The guys quickly scattered, while Lombardi laughed. His friends didn’t find it funny.

The fun quickly ended as they were sent to Bougainville “ready to fight.” Bougainville Island, is on the north end of the Solomon Islands. On the way to Bougainville, they were attacked.

It was here that Lombardi had a close call. The Japanese would fly in low and “come in from the side where the sun was, where they would blind you,” Lombardi remembered. “They came and dropped a bomb right in front of me, hit the boat next to me and blew the front end off,” he added.

Shortly after they arrived at a bay, and it was time to disembark. Everyone got in their landing craft. Every ship had a few landing crafts and none of the ships took off until every last soldier was aboard. Once all were aboard, they took off and stormed the beach.

“When you hit the beach, it's nothing but smoke,” Lombardi recalled. “The Japanese kept firing,” he said. They positioned themselves on the sides of the mountains, which made it very difficult to access and kill them. The Marines kept firing back. They advanced until it was time to rest, where they would “dig in” to their fox holes. They were in Bougainville for a month before the Army came in and took over, only to return a month later.

Upon their return, they were Banzai attacked. During the attacks, Lombardi said he wasn’t scared. Instead he focused on the job he had to do and did it. Lombardi described Bougainville as “all jungle.” He said, “I remember going through the jungle and I approached this one area” when he heard something.

“I looked up and it was a Japanese soldier swinging across on a rope. Oh my god. There’s other guys ahead of me so when he decided to come back, you can imagine how many rifles were on him when he came back. As soon as he started swinging back all you could hear was this guy hollering all the way to the ground, boom, and that was the end of him,” Lombardi recalled.

They kept advancing through the jungle and decided to visit a spot where they previously fired mortars. Lombardi recalled one incident in particular. “Me, brave me, I said I gotta look up ahead and see what happened, so I went up ahead and all these dead Japanese laid there . . . and I look around, you know, and in the corner of my eye I caught one winking his eye, he blinked his eye. I turned around real fast, and I shot him. He had a grenade in his hand, yeah, so I got rid of him.”

A month later, they were in Guam. It was 6 or 7 a.m. when they landed on the beach. He described battling the Japanese as battling “gophers.” According to Lombardi, they would dig holes and hide until they were ready to attack. They hid with machine guns in the thick roots of the trees. It wasn’t easy to find them but when you did, you knew where to shoot.

They fought their way uphill for three days when they found out that the 9th Marine Regiment were pinned down next to them. Again, his curious nature led him to want to find why and how he could help the pinned Marines.

Three of his battle buddies agreed to cover him while he investigated. On their way back downhill, the Japanese came running at them. Lombardi began to shoot but quickly realized he was the only one shooting. He looked to his partner and realized his weapon was jammed.

Lombardi said he could not take on the attackers alone so he and his battle buddies slowly backed out and just as they were doing so, “boom, they threw a grenade at me and hit me in my ribs,” he said. “There were a lot of Japanese down there,” he thought to himself. “If I can get up and get out of here, I’ll be okay.”

Fortunately, his battle buddies were able to drag him back uphill, where he was put on a gurney and taken back to ship to see a doctor. All three battle buddies were injured, but all survived. One of the three survivors was shot through the heart.

Not long after serving in Guam, Lombardi returned stateside and was stationed in Miami in charge of guard-duty for almost a year when the war ended with the surrender of the Japanese. “It felt great; it felt great. No more killing. It felt great,” he said of the news.

Looking back on his experiences following the war, Lombardi agreed that he had animosity towards the Japanese following the war: “Years and years go by, and then you start thinking what were we fighting for? It didn’t seem right, killing all of these people that had family—Japanese with young kids . . .”

Anthony D’Acquisto loved engines—especially airplane engines—his whole life. So, when he joined the Navy at age 17, it was only fitting that a few months after boot camp he became a Boiler Tender, a job that kept him in the engine room of the two ships he served on.

He enlisted rather than wait to get drafted at 18 because then he could choose the job he wanted. Although Anthony wanted to be a flier, he didn’t have enough schooling. He had left school after eighth grade. “I really didn’t like school!” he laughed. D’Acquisto’s father, a Sicilian immigrant, had served in the Navy in World War I, making Anthony’s choice of branch simple. And his older brother also served in the Navy as a radioman during the war.

Mr. D’Acquisto’s first duty ship was the USS Cottle (APA-147), an attack transport ship that took troops to and from combat operations. Or, as Anthony put it, “We were like a shuttle service!” The ship was on her own rather than part of a task force.

One of his memorable trips aboard the Cottle was when they were on the way back from the Philippines. They stopped at Guam and took 200 Japanese prisoners on board, bound for Pearl Harbor. D’Acquisto often pulled guard duty on the prisoners. “They didn’t like our food. They complained about our food,” he recalled. “They wanted fish and rice. A couple of them spoke English; one of them told me he could jump overboard.” But in the end the prisoners were no trouble at all.

D’Acquisto was headed to San Francisco on the Cottle when he received a transfer to the newly-commissioned aircraft carrier USS Randolph (CV-15) in January 1945, which he served aboard for the remainder of the war.

Although the Randolph’s engine room was much hotter than the Cottle’s because of the size and speed requirements of the ship, D’Acquisto was delighted to be a part of air operations because of his lifelong love of planes. The ship carried Corsair fighters along with dive bombers and torpedo bombers.

During regular duty, he worked 4 hours on and 8 hours off. Off duty, he’d go watch the airplanes take off and land. “My free time I was always topside, walking the deck, watching the planes.”

The Randolph supported the battles of Iwo Jima, Okinawa, and Japan. She came through unscathed, but, while anchored for repairs at Ulithi Atoll, the ship was hit by a Japanese aircraft, killing and wounding a number of the sailors. “I heard the blast and thought ‘My god, what happened?’” It wasn’t long before people came running to the engine room and told them about the hit and resulting casualties.

Mr. D’Acquisto didn’t personally know any of the sailors who’d been killed or wounded, but even decades later the pain shone in his eyes. And he realized how fortunate he’d been. “I was lucky,” Anthony reflected. “I was in the engine room.”

During the battle of Iwo Jima, while the Randolph was anchored was a few miles offshore, Anthony remembered watching the planes take off for combat and learning that most of them returned. But even if they did return, sometimes the pilots would crack up on landing, miss the hook, and run into the barrier that kept the plane from crashing into the rest of the planes. D’Acquisto recalled that once one of the pilots was badly injured when a cable snapped and wrapped itself around his head.

His experience during the battle of Okinawa was similar to that of Iwo Jima. In his off-duty time, he’d be up on deck watching the planes. His love of flying never left him. After the war, he joined an air wing in the reserves and got to ride in planes with some of the pilots in his unit.

During the war, they were at sea most of the time, but when they could he and his friends would go ashore on liberty. “We’d drink that cheap beer,” he chuckled. He wasn’t at all homesick. “To tell you the truth, no, I didn’t miss home. I just loved being at sea.”

When the war in Europe ended he was aboard the Randolph at sea, preparing for another combat operation, before realizing the war in the Pacific was likely going to end soon too.

After the war, the Randolph—with D’Acquisto aboard—returned to the U.S. East Coast. They brought back troops from Italy and then were designated a training ship. Their duties included picking up midshipmen from the Naval Academy at Annapolis and taking them to Guantanamo Bay for training.

In 1951, Mr. D’Acquisto, driven by his love of airplanes, went to work for Pan Am Airlines, where he remained for 33 years. He began as “a regular helper and started working my way up. I went to school to get my A&P license, became a master mechanic, and eventually I got to be a supervisor.”

Mr. D’Acquisto chuckled as he recounted how immediately after the war he lived with his parents who by then had moved to San Francisco. For a year he didn’t work but collected his “52-20” before his dad took him down to the fish market where he worked and got him a job cutting up fish. After a short time doing that, he worked at a restaurant on Fisherman’s Wharf before landing a job with Consolidated Airlines in San Diego.

Anthony recalled that once the war ended, being in the Navy was normal. “Sailing here and there, going ashore.” And his advice to young people was, “If you want to go in the military, take the Navy! It was a good deal. Better than roaming around on the ground humping through the mud and stuff like that. You had a shower every day if you wanted it. It was much more pleasant!”

Corporal Ralph B. Sutherland was the first in his family to be born in the U.S.A. His father, Augustus, was from Jamaica and his mother, Maude, was born in the Cayman Islands. His older brothers and sister were all born in Cuba. He was the youngest sibling. The family was close, and he remembered his father saying, “Everything that goes on in the family stays in the family.” The Sutherlands lived in Depression era Los Angeles, California. They did well with his dad owning his own grocery store and his mom running a crew of 23 women manufacturing women’s blouses. His father owned some land in southern California and raised corn, black-eyed peas and tomatoes. At 13, Ralph sold his dad’s corn on the corner of 103rd street and S. Central Ave for 20 cents for a dozen ears. He started playing trombone in the fifth grade and continued to perform through junior high and high school. When the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor the young musician was going to a movie in the Watts neighborhood. He didn’t realize the significance of the attack until one of his older brothers joined the service. He graduated from high school, and by 19, was joining pickup bands playing jazz and the blues in local speakeasies. He remembers making 51 dollars for a three-night gig. His music was influenced by the likes of Duke Ellington, famous jazz conductor, piano player and bandleader and Count Basie, the big band jazz extraordinaire. Ralph received a note from the draft board and was called in for a physical readiness examination. Three weeks later, he got a letter from the war department instructing him to report to Fort MacArthur in San Pedro.

The 19-year-old recruit reported to Fort MacArthur and was issued his uniforms and then shipped out a week later. He was sent to Camp Ellis, Illinois, for basic training. While there, he was interviewed by the base staff who took interest in his musical abilities. After playing the Washington Post and Stars and Stripes Forever for an evaluating officer, he was selected to play in 1332nd Engineers band. He continued combat training like the rest of the soldiers for three months, not only enduring the rigors of Army life but also the racial prejudice that went along with being black in a segregated army. It was not until President Harry Truman signed executive order 9981 in 1948 that racial discrimination was abolished in the Army. After the band was formed at Camp Ellis, the musical group was tasked with producing a full show in 6 weeks. They quickly developed a variety show with big-band jazz, singing, and comedy themed “From Bach to Boogie” that ran over 3 hours. Some of the band members, known as the Sad Sacks, sang Over the Rainbow while Ralph sang the blues. They opened up the show with Count Basie's One O’clock Jump, a real foot-tapper.

Ralph and the men of the 1332nd Engineers Band arrived at Camp Kilmer, New Jersey, a staging area for troops destined for Europe. His band played on the dock while the soldiers marched onto the ship. The officer in charge marched the band up the gangplank, and they played until the ship pulled up anchor and started to head out to sea. After 7 days, they arrived in Birmingham, England and quickly got settled in. One of their first shows was for the 6888th Central Postal Directory Battalion, the only all-black WAC unit that served overseas during World War II. His band continued to play at Stanton and just about everywhere there were U.S. troops in England. They played in hospitals before wounded GIs and for soldiers on R&R from the front lines. Ralph, like many of the Army musicians, played multiple instruments. For Ralph, it was the trombone and baritone horn. In England, the tight-knit band played for many GIs who were in bad shape, and they unfortunately lost one band member who drowned while swimming too far off a beach in southern England.

After performing for 8 months in England, the band sailed west across the Atlantic, through the Panama Canal, and up to the Philippines. Ralph distinctly remembers one engagement where they played at Luzon stadium after a screening of Humphrey Bogart’s The Big Sleep. They were stationed at San Fernando La Union about 8 miles out of Manila and took buses and jitneys into town from time to time to have their uniforms pressed by local women. At that time after the war, the U.S. military was giving honorable discharges for 24 months of service. After 8 months in the Philippines, he met the required 24 months of service. Ralph was ready to come home. He returned from the Philippines on the May 1, 1946 and reported to Camp Beale, California where he was honorably discharged. He turned in his uniforms and M1 carbine but took home his valve and slide trombones.

Arriving back home, he went straight to Mile High and Franks restaurants for a hamburger, hot dog, and a malt. After that, he returned to his family’s neighborhood and surprised his folks with his unannounced return from overseas. Returning to civilian life, Ralph went back to what he was good at—playing trombone in jazz bands. He played at the renowned “Slim Jenkins Supper Club” in Oakland, California and other jazz joints in the state up until 1948. By then, he had figured that the “band life” was not for him. He put his horn down and never looked back. He was married in 1952 and worked as an apprentice butcher before he got into painting and decorating for Los Angeles County. He eventually started his own income tax service which he ran for 66 years.

Corporal Ralph Bird Sutherland entertained wounded and homesick soldiers in both the European and Pacific theaters during World War II. His wonderful music and comedy acts brought joy and improved morale for men fighting for liberty from fascism and imperialism on bloody battlegrounds around the world. His bravery did not manifest itself on the battlefield but back at home in the U.S. living through segregation and the Civil Rights movement. Ralph took his hat off to those who fought for the Civil Rights movement and turned things around for African Americans in the U.S. Perhaps based on his experiences with segregation and discrimination, he offered future generations the following advice, “Learn to love everybody.”

Standing in the door of the C-47 transport plane Thomas Rice was afforded a spectacular view of the light show created by tracers. Flying too high and way too fast, the red light above the door turned green. Shoving a 300-pound bundle of supplies through the door, he was knocked back and down as the slipstream thrust the bundle back in. With another mighty push, the bundle went out and so did Rice, the 1st paratrooper in the transport. Buffeted by the slip stream, he was caught by the arm in the door, half in and half out, flopping in the wind as other paratroopers exited. Freeing himself, he began his descent and watched as the ground came to meet him. It was 0121 hours, June 6, 1944.

Thomas Rice was the older of two children born to Marcus and Catherine Rice. His father was killed in a naval aviation accident, leaving Catherine to raise the two children alone. During the Great Depression, Thomas was able to earn money by “gopher trapping,” receiving a quarter per gopher. In high school, he began running long distance and cross country, continuing as a student at San Diego State. While playing basketball with friends, the news of Pearl Harbor came over the radio, and Rice thought seriously of enlisting.

A natural “risk taker,” he learned of the burgeoning parachute forces and thought it looked “mighty nice.” Rice “went for it” and on November 17, 1942 was on his way to Camp Toccoa, Georgia. Rice fell right into the strict 13-week training regimen of physical conditioning, weapons and tactics training. Those who could not adjust were quietly sent away to complete regular infantry training. The iconic Mount Currahee was a constant presence, and Rice proudly maintained that he beat the time record running the mountain though he kept this quiet while training. After Toccoa, the soldiers went to Fort Benning, Georgia for additional infantry training and Jump School before unit maneuvers and transfer to Europe.

Having reported to the 501st on Thanksgiving Day, 1942, he celebrated New Year’s Day, 1944 in the quarantine ward of a hospital in Glasgow, Scotland suffering from mumps. Combat training continued, though not with the previous intensity. Three practice jumps were made, although the third “jump” was made from the bed of moving trucks! During the first week of June, the 101st Airborne Division moved into marshalling areas and waited. After a false start on June 4, the 18 men of Rice’s stick loaded aboard their C-47 on the 5th, and left England at 2221, English Double Summer Time.

Evasive air maneuvers left thousands of troops scattered throughout the Normandy area. Airborne troops, trained to coalesce into small groups, reorganized on the ground. Soldiers accomplished their missions with whatever group they found themselves in. Rice joined together with one of these groups after discarding most of “the crazy bric-a-brac, death dealing equipment” he no longer needed. Encountering an elderly man, wearing a white, tasseled stocking cap, white night gown and carrying a candle caused Rice to break out in laughter as the resemblance to Charles Dickens’s A Christmas Carol was simply too much. Leaving the man behind, Rice led several soldiers forward though he did not yet feel the gravity of war. Rolling a live grenade into the ditch alongside that road finally registered that “the war was on from there.”

The men of the 501st fought enemy units, attacked, captured, patrolled and garrisoned road hubs and communications centers. The first day Rice’s unit encountered a German unit whose commander felt it was “too early in the day” to surrender. This was Rice’s first battle. It was on the second night of the invasion that Rice realized “the gurgling sound of a dying man stops all conversation.” There were 35 more nights before he returned to England to prepare for his next combat jump.

In England, replacements were received and integrated into the now veteran units. On September 17, what appeared to be a routine training event suddenly changed, as ammunition was issued for the first time since Normandy.

For Rice, Operation Market Garden began in the wrong place. With no opportunity for mission specific training, his aircraft overflew the drop zone forcing Rice and his men to run 10 km to get to their initial point, the town of Veghal. The paratroopers were surrounded by joyous Dutch citizens as the soldiers desperately tried to set up defensive positions. Soon after, in a classic hammer-and-anvil maneuver, Rice’s battalion trapped a force of Germans rushing to counter the Americans. Rice, a mortar squad leader at the time, fired three rounds at the mass of Germans on the road. Realizing their precarious situation wedged between the forces of an entire airborne battalion, 400 German soldiers promptly surrendered. Rice would spend three months in Holland, returning to France for much needed rest in December 1944.

His rest was interrupted on December 19, by the German Ardennes Offensive. Loading aboard trucks, his unit left for Bastogne at 4 a.m. Despite mind numbing exhaustion and extreme cold, Rice and his fellow soldiers helped defeat this final German offensive. Rice’s participation was short, however, as early in the battle while leading a patrol, he was shot twice by a sniper and evacuated to England.

Rice noted ruefully others received the “luck of the wine and the fraulein” while he was recovering. Reassigned to the regimental track team, Rice placed 2nd in the Third Army 5000m when news of the surrender of Japan arrived. Rather than remain with the Army of Occupation, Rice returned to California to attend college. Always a risk taker, he joined a glider organization for excitement and continued to run marathons until 1990.

Rice returned to Europe several times and made multiple jumps since, in honor of the Anniversary of D-Day. He noted simply that the “wounds have healed, but the scars remain. We did what we had to do.”

442nd Infantry, We’re the boys of Hawaii Nei

We’re fighting for you, and the red, white, and blue

We’re going to the Front, then back to Honalu-lu-lu

Fighting for Dear Uncle Sam, “Go for Broke,” we don’t give a damn

Let ‘em come, and run, at the point of a gun, for Victory must be won!

These stirring words from the Japanese American 442nd Regimental Combat Team’s fight song are sung with gusto by a man who ironically missed service in the Imperial Japanese Army by a mere three days. Instead, he went on to serve in the United States Army, earning a Bronze Star and Purple Heart as a member of the most decorated American unit of World War II.

Noboru ‘Don’ Seki was born in Honolulu, Hawaii on December 16, 1922. The youngest son of Japanese immigrants, Noboru grew up eating rice and fish during the Great Depression as his parents performed crushing manual labor on the C&H Sugar Company plantations on Oahu. Noboru fished and swam with neighborhood boys in his free time but began working construction at age 16 before graduating from McKinley High School. Noboru’s parents planned to retire to their home in Japan after he completed school, but Noboru refused to return with them. He saw his parents off as they departed for Japan on December 4, 1941. Three days later while reporting to his construction job he saw FBI, CIC agents and military members “running all around” as the Imperial Japanese Navy bombed the port and air facilities in Hawaii.

Unlike the mainland, Hawaii depended upon the hardworking Japanese immigrant families as both workers and employers vital to the Hawaiian economy and social fabric. Noboru, unable to enlist, was able to go to work as a civilian employee of the Army Corps of Engineers. By 1943, the need for wartime manpower became increasingly severe. Noboru was offered the opportunity to serve his country in uniform instead of as a civilian performing military construction. Noboru joined approximately 10,000 other recruits of Japanese ancestry volunteering for service forming the 442nd Regimental Combat Team. The RCT received initial training at Camp Shelby, Mississippi where Private Seki’s most vivid memories are of oppressive heat and humidity, snakes, and the ignored warnings to not “visit the black areas of town.” Trained as a rifleman and infantry scout, Seki was in superb shape when his unit finally arrived at Newport News, Virginia for shipment to the European Theater.

Seki’s first experience in combat was a confused, disorganized night action where his platoon leader was killed, and his Japanese American platoon sergeant took over. Surviving this brutal baptism by fire, Seki understood the RCT Motto “Go for Broke,” and from that day on, went all out for victory. Whether he died or not was no longer important; what became important was doing his duty and helping his country win the war. Combat became so common that it’s absence fills his memories rather than the violence. The memory that stood out most was not the attack and capture of Florence or Leghorn, Italy or any of the other mountains, towns, and villages through which he battled, but the time in Florence stationed next to a beautiful Italian lake eating canned combat rations. Seki was beside himself with boredom and frustration. With no fishing equipment available, Seki and his comrades improvised and began lobbing grenades into the lake. Collecting the stunned fish as they floated to the surface, Seki and his comrades feasted on the fresh fish their ingenious methods brought them.

Returning to combat duty, Seki was involved in the rescue of the 1st Battalion of the 141st Infantry, isolated and surrounded by superior German forces in the Vosges Mountains of France. Seki’s 3rd Battalion was ordered to rescue the “Lost Battalion” of Texas National Guard troops, and despite tremendous violence and stiff German resistance, Seki’s unit rescued the Americans, but the cost was high. In the cold, rainy, fog enshrouded mountains, the Japanese Americans fought until the surrounded men were able to break out. Overall, more American troops were killed and injured in this action than were rescued, but nonetheless, it “felt pretty good” to know that his unit had rescued fellow Americans and helped hold the line against the German army. It was in these mountains, a few days later, that a machine gun opened fire, striking Corporal Seki multiple times in his left arm, ending his time in combat, but not his service.

Treatment in a field hospital was immediate, but they were unable to do much more than stop the bleeding and treat him daily with antibiotics. His left arm was amputated at the field hospital before he was evacuated to a huge 5,000 patient hospital in Utah. Mentally, Seki was in shock, wondering how he would be able to fish with only one arm. In Utah, during nine months of convalescence and therapy, he was able to ride horses and fish. At peace with himself, Seki accepted a civil service position that allowed him to travel to Japan as a translator where he was able to reunite with his parents. After several months, he resigned and returned to California where he became a foreman at the Long Beach Navy Yard.

The awards the surviving members of the 442nd received have continued to grow over the years. Awarded the French Legion of Honor and the Congressional Gold Medal, several combat awards have also been upgraded as well so that what in World War II was the most decorated regiment of the U.S. Army now boasts even more awards. Laughingly, Seki stated that if he had gone to Japan with his parents, he would have been drafted into the Japanese Army and been the enemy. But proudly, he was able to live his life “in the greatest country and be a good American” as his parents taught him.

Elmo ran supplies 13 times through the Himalayas to U.S. troops and their Chinese Army allies fighting the Japanese in the jungles of China. “They taught me ways to survive. Be by running water. Know your direction by the North Star. You eat only things the monkeys eat because they know what’s no good. These are survival things because when you’re out in the jungle everything looks the same, no lights, and what have you,” remembered Mr. Espree.

He’d been sent to the front lines so often he figured because he was a rebel, and, as a black man, he always questioned why there was segregation, whether official or de facto: “I thought they were trying to get rid of me.”

The U.S. Army was officially segregated, but that never stopped Elmo from questioning the policies. It particularly perturbed him in India, when thousands of civilians were killed and wounded but were not permitted to be taken to the hospitals in their own country even though British and American troops were.

“10,000 to 15,000 people died, strewn like flies, and we were told if we saw a dead body to just kick it aside,” Mr. Espree explained.

Even when Espree and his African American unit had boarded the ship George Washington in San Pedro, California for India, he questioned why they were allowed to board first. Then he realized they were given quarters in the bowels of the ship, where the air conditioning was all but useless and they were packed in like sardines.

Mr. Espree was stationed in Assam, India (now Bangladesh). He took whatever the Chinese and U.S. troops needed. “Guns, ammunition, food, you name it,” he explained. “It was just like a Kmart. We supplied (the quartermaster) then he supplied the men who were fighting.”

Each trip was fraught with danger. Snipers were embedded along the heavily forested road they traveled. The climate was nightmarish with two months of monsoon rains and ever-present mud. Malaria and wild animals were a constant concern. “Parachutes only lasted three months,” recalled Espree.

A trip to the front took at least five or six days and sometimes longer, depending on how much forest the heavy equipment operators had been able to cut back.

Back in Assam, he and his friend once had an infuriating experience with the Red Cross in Calcutta when they were refused entry because of their race, despite the sign out front saying all were welcome: “I came 12,000 miles in this uniform to fight the Japanese and you’re telling me I can’t come in here?” he recalled saying.

“We headed over to the Red Cross designated for black soldiers,” Elmo recounted. Although he felt welcome and enjoyed himself, he remained indignant over being refused entry to the first one.

When the A-bomb was dropped on Japan, Mr. Espree was in China. He spoke out against the bombing because of the innocent people who were killed, and he believed the U.S. had nearly won the war anyway without it.

When he returned to LA after the war, he was unable to get a job in transportation. Even when companies advertised they were hiring truck drivers, he’d be told they weren’t. Black men couldn’t join the union either, making it even more difficult to get a job. Eventually, he became one of the first black streetcar drivers in the city, a job he held for ten years. In the end, he always had a job supporting his family, noting, “And always had my health which is more important than material things.”

Although he was passionate about the civil rights movement, constantly reading to keep abreast of developments, he didn’t actively participate because as a federal civil servant there were restrictions in place on the political activity he was permitted to participate in.

But as a self-described black activist after his retirement, Mr. Espree’s focus for decades was on making jobs available for black people, especially young black men, to be able to support themselves and their families. University professors consulted him over the years to learn from his experiences, and his children and grandchildren have been highly educated, some with multiple degrees.

In his 90s, he remained a passionate advocate of the black community. During a visit to the Veterans Museum in Balboa Park, San Diego, he questioned why there were no photos of black soldiers in the World War II collection, and ended up giving an impromptu education to a group of young people about the China/Burma/India theater after they started asking him questions.

Decades after the war, Mr. Espree and his wife petitioned the U.S. government for official recognition of his exploits. He’d kept the original Army paperwork confirming his 13 supply runs to the front, and one day as his wife was going through them she asked him “Where are your medals?” “They didn’t give them to me,” Elmo replied. His wife, finding this unacceptable, spearheaded their campaign, which resulted in him receiving the awards he had earned.

When asked for his advice, Mr. Espree responded, “Be like Canadians. They treat each other all the same. . . . Don’t do the stereotypical thing when you’re around minorities. Know right from wrong, and you’ll stay out of trouble. I tell young people, be ready for change and do something to counteract it because you can’t stop it.” Elmo has spent much of his time talking with young people because as he said, “They keep me young.”

He was emphatic that preparing for the future is critical, not simply living for today, and has made caring for his health an imperative.

Mr. Espree has long been an inspiring example of a man who has devoted his life to service and remained committed to serving as long as possible: “Because the good Lord left me here for a reason.”

Richard Cendejas loved being in the Army. As a soldier in the 91st Infantry Division, Cendejas initially deployed to North Africa. A month after he arrived he fell ill. By the time he recovered, he was sent to Rome where the 91st had relocated.

While in Rome, Richard witnessed one of the Allied bombings. He recalled seeing the huge bombers flying overhead. His first combat experience was in Italy. “The captain made a mistake,” he recalled. “The whole company moved forward,” leaving the company’s rear exposed. It was hot, and they patrolled through many hills where the enemy was always above them.

Mr. Cendejas was in a team with three other soldiers near the Po River in Italy when he was wounded. He was covering his face with his forearm as they took mortar fire when shrapnel tore into his arm. He was medically evacuated, but two weeks later he returned to combat. “I wasn’t afraid,” he recounted. Richard never feared for his life.

Once he warned his lieutenant that a German soldier was behind him. Inexplicably, the officer ignored Cendejas’s warning. It cost him his life.

Richard had been drafted in 1943. He’d been working in a bakery, making pies, doughnuts, and cakes for restaurants. Once he passed the physical he was sent to basic training. As much as he enjoyed the Army, basic was not something he remembered with pleasure: “It was the same old stuff—hut, 2, 3, 4!—all day every day.”

When the war ended, he was delighted to be going home. Although the war in the Pacific theater was still going on he was never on orders to go there. Instead, he was sent straight back to the US and discharged from the Army.

Mr. Cendejas returned to his hometown of East Los Angeles. The bakery he’d worked at before the war called and asked him to come back. He did and then took a different job making women’s shoes. In his 30s, he married his wife Jenny, and they raised three children.

He wanted to be remembered as he was in the picture he has of himself just after he finished his Army training, a fresh-faced 21-year-old who was excited to be in the Army going to war. Although his memory has faded and he’s bent with age, when Richard was asked if he would serve again if called, he snapped upright and with a glint in his eye gave an intriguing answer: “I couldn’t serve because I’d fall over,” explained the 95-year-old veteran. “I’m not the same as I used to be.” But his demeanor spoke to a willingness to serve his country again if only he could.

William was born in Detroit, Michigan as the oldest son to his parents who emigrated from Greece in 1914. His father John, fought in Northern Russia in World War I as part of the 339th Infantry Regiment, and later opened his own barbershop. William’s mother was a seamstress who specialized in creating young girls’ party dresses.

As a very young entrepreneur at age eight, William sold bottled spices and condiments to the neighbors; then he sold “Liberty” and “Saturday Evening Post” magazines.

Economic times were tough during the “Great Depression” so Bill dropped out of school in the 11th grade and joined the CCC, to earn money for the family.

He returned to Detroit with the intention of completing his high school education but instead he went to work at Cadillac Motor Company at $0.80 per hour, grinding the connecting rods for the Allison engines that were mounted in the P-38 fighter planes. It was here that he heard about the massive, murderous attack on Pearl Harbor.

On February 8, 1943, Bill and two close buddies enlisted in the Army. He was sent to Camp Gordon near Augusta, Georgia. The weather there was surprisingly colder than in Michigan. Bill was in the 257th Field Artillery Battalion. His basic training included firing the 105mm howitzer.

Three months later, the 938th Field Artillery Battalion had finished their basic training, completed the “Obstacle Course” and needed 25 men to join them to fulfill their complement of men. Bill and twenty-four others volunteered to join the 938th.

While sailing on a troop-ship in a 60-ship convoy, Bill’s ship had a boiler explode, which left them stranded alone along the coast of Portugal. The area was known as “Torpedo Junction” where many German submarines lurked.

Overnight, his ship’s repairs had been completed. The first duty the next morning was for all men to stand at attention while a bugler played “TAPS.” An American flag was draped over a long, large, wooden box that contained the bodies of three sailors who were killed in the boiler explosion.

They eventually landed at Oran, Algeria in North Africa. The troops began more training. From Oran, his unit drove eastward to Tunis to prepare for their battles in southern Italy against the Italian and German forces.

The Anzio Beachhead began in early January 1944. The Germans were completely taken by surprise, but General Lucas ordered for all our troops to stay on the beachhead until all the ammunition, food, and other necessary supplies were unloaded. This untimely delay allowed the Germans to bring in more of their troops to surround the Americans. This was like being “a fish in a fishbowl.”

The 938th Battalion landed at the port of Anzio, Italy on January 29, 1944. They had the new two split-rail artillery howitzers so the ends of the rails would dig into the ground and allow more stability and accuracy each time they fired.

Bill became an Artillery Forward Observer. His job was to climb high into trees and telephone poles or behind the tops of buildings trying to stay hidden from the enemy snipers. He looked for and reported the locations of the enemy trucks, tanks, trains, bridges and enemy encampments; anything the Germans could use in combat.

In February 1944, the Germans launched all-out attacks for several weeks to push the troops off the beach. As the enemy moved closer, the artillery battalions sent a message to the infantry telling them to get down as low as they could. The artillery lowered the barrels of their weapons to point straight ahead and opened a heavy concentration of shelling against the German Army.

From his position as a forward observer, Bill watched through his “BC” scope and reported the impacts as the high explosive shells tore into the enemy targets resulting in massive destruction. To protect themselves from the enemy’s counter-attacks the Allies dug underground dugouts. They used dirt-filled sandbags and empty ammo containers as added protection against the barrage.

One night, enemy shells struck several of the dugouts. All the survivors huddled into Sgt. “Mousie” Reed and Bill’s dugout. As the shells continued to strike all about them, someone noticed that there were thirteen soldiers all cramped together in this dugout. Very concerned, he whispered this to Bill and warned him that number thirteen was unlucky. After a moment of thought, Bill told him, “If you are so concerned, you are free to leave.” The man declined.

They were without fresh water for three weeks, surviving on only one canteen a day until a truck carrying thirty, five-gallon water cans drove in to their position.

As everyone tried to shave and body-wash, another barrage of German artillery fire rained down close by. One enemy shell struck a tree, and the ensuing explosion blew a large limb into Bill’s face, knocking out his four, top front teeth.

One of his buddies, Herb Foxx drove them to a field hospital, where a medic pulled out a loosened tooth. They “rested” for two hours, then returned up front, fighting their way off the beach and toward Rome, arriving in the city on June 4, 1944.

In early August, the battalions boarded a ship again headed for somewhere unknown. On August 15th, off the southern coast of France, the Navy battleships opened up with their long guns aimed at the German shore installations near Marseilles. This was far from the quieter landing they had made at Anzio, and Bill was awed as the big guns of the fleet blasted away at the German positions.

The bombardment was so effective, and when the men landed, they met little opposition, finding breakfasts abandoned on tables as the German forces had fled. From there the troops fought their way northward to Alsace Loraine, then southward. Bill’s unit crossed over the Rhine River on a pontoon bridge. Continuing their way successfully southward toward Munich.

When they reached the beautiful city of Heidelberg the artillery battalion prepared to begin their shelling. Bill was in a position where he saw through his BC scope, women beating German soldiers on their helmets and shoulders with their mops and brooms to drive them out of Heidelberg.

Bill quickly relayed the information to Lt. Gilbert who called “Fire Control.” They ceased fire and the beautiful cathedrals, and all the other splendors of Heidelberg were saved from utter destruction.

As they moved toward Munich, they could smell the burning human flesh three miles away from the Dachau concentration camp.

They were moving through Austria when word came that the war was over, much to everyone’s relief and delight.

Bill returned to Detroit to his parents’ home, without notifying anyone he was on the way. Upon arrival, he rang the front door bell, then sprinted around to the back door. When his family came back from an empty front room, they found Bill in his Army uniform, standing in the kitchen.

The warmest greetings, hugs and kisses were overwhelming for the family. Bill greatly enjoyed his first home-cooked lamb dinner in three years.

Born and raised on a farm in Monroe County, Mr. Havekost remembered well when the war made its way into his peaceful life. “I was squirrel hunting when my father came to me and said Pearl Harbor had been bombed. He seemed to feel that I may be going into service. But as a kid, you [don’t] take it too seriously.”

Yet, a mere eight months after graduating high school, Mr. Havekost was drafted and sent to Fort Custer, Michigan to sign up for military service. Mr. Havekost accepted it. “I just wanted to get into it and get it over with. That was the attitude that most of us had. Get this job done and get back home.” Mr. Havekost left the family farm on March 23, 1943, two months before celebrating his 19th birthday.

From March to December, Mr. Havekost traveled from Michigan to Texas to Tennessee to North Carolina, from camps to forts, earning promotions and learning what would become his job as record-keeper. Around Christmastime, he was selected as an Administrative NCO for overseas duty and shipped from New York soon after New Year.

After a quiet time near Leek in Staffordshire, Mr. Havekost’s unit was sent to Gillingham in the Kent, a mere 40 miles from London, where they could hear the nightly bombings on the capital. There Mr. Havekost recalled the broadcast from General Eisenhower telling the troops that the invasion was imminent. He remembers gliders carrying men, jeeps, and provisions filling up the sky, heading for Normandy.

Twelve days after D-Day, Mr. Havekost’s unit moved to Southampton where it embarked onto troop ships, but bad luck struck, and a storm blew away the landing docks at the other end. Unable to unload heavy equipment, the fleet halted in the middle of the English Channel while the docks were being rebuilt. The wait lasted fifteen days. “I felt like a sitting duck!” But all went well, and the unit could unload onto Omaha beach where it stationed near the town of Saint-Lô in France, “a crossroad for German supplies.”

After the Allies bombed Saint-Lô, Mr. Havekost’s unit was sent into the town for report. Mr. Havekost recalled seeing pieces of German equipment, animal corpses, and human bodies littering the streets of the pulverized town. “That was our first exposure. The really tough facts of what was going on hit us at that point.”

The Germans promptly retreated from the area and Mr. Havekost’s unit left for Paris, going through many towns on the way. “The people were so kind to us,” Mr. Havekost recalled. “They’d throw us loaves of bread. Sometimes you’d get a bottle of champagne which you had to share with [your buddies] and maybe get a sip!” he said, laughing.

The unit arrived in Paris at the end of August. Rapidly assigned to the 29th Infantry Division, it then traveled north with them through Belgium and stopped in the Netherlands.

Setting up camp on the Dutch-German border for most of the winter, the unit became the lead division in the north for the United States. Mr. Havekost said it was the scariest part of the war for them. “Should the German have been successful in winning the Battle of the Bulge and taking Liege, we would have been completely cut off!”

But no matter the fear, the troops performed the jobs they’d been hired to do. “They say that it takes fifty people to service one combat person; you’ve got truck drivers, people delivering gas and supplies, intelligence people trying to decipher the German codes. I’m no hero, I just did my job!”

When spring came around, the unit launched an offensive into Northern Germany, marching through industrial towns. Mr. Havekost sadly recalled, “The children and women started cleaning up those towns as soon as we went through them. They were picking up the bricks and stacking them, sweeping the streets, getting things in some order, living in rubble. They didn’t pay much attention to us.”

The unit claimed more ground in the north as the Germans were huddled south for larger battles, and soon stumbled upon a discovery that would shake Mr. Havekost: a German ammunitions plant where prisoners from all over Europe were forced to work. “There were very high fences as people were trapped. You couldn’t identify much of them. They were just skin and bones. Life had gone out of them.” The unit liberated them, and, when asked how he felt about it, Mr. Havekost said: “Sad. Just hatred for what the Germans had done, and I’m German, my ancestry!”

The unit eventually moved on and met with the Russians at the Elbe River. “We entertained them. Our guys jitterbugged for them; they did their Cossack dance. They drank our whiskey, we drank their vodka, but we didn’t trust them completely.” The Soviet Union then moved southward into Berlin, and war in Europe came to an end on May 8, 1945.

Mr. Havekost’s unit then started making its way back. In August, they were sent to Bremen, Germany. Mr. Havekost recalled having a lot of time on his hands. “We were on a point system as to when we would go home. The guys with the Battle Star and [those] with the Purple Heart, they had a lot of points, and I didn’t have enough. I didn’t leave until January.”

Mr. Havekost remembered traveling into Amsterdam to visit a transferred colleague and seeing rusting German landing crafts. “They were just lined up in the canals, ready for the invasion of England! That was interesting to me to see how far Hitler had advanced in his plans to take over England if we hadn’t intervened. God was with us; that’s all I can say.”

Finally, the order to travel back home arrived, but things had changed. “I grew up so much. I told my dad that farming was not for me. I went to college, which I hadn’t anticipated, and I found a job in the auto industry.”

When asked about the future, Mr. Havekost pinched his lips. “We seem to be on a road where we’re going downhill more than we are up. I just spent two weeks with eleven great-grandchildren, and I look to their future. . . . What is it going to be?”

Finally, when asked how he would like to be remembered, Mr. Havekost smiled. “Oh, just as a good husband, father, and grandfather who did his duty. That to me is everything.”

As one of nine children growing up in San Fernando, Rodolfo remembered his home as comfortable. “We weren’t poor, but we weren’t rich.” His father provided manure for fertilizer to the citrus farmers that lived in the area. Magdaleno went to school until he was 16 when he quit to start working. Half the money he earned went to his mother, and he was allowed to keep half. Saturdays were paydays. Sometimes Rodolfo would run out of money by Friday, and then he’d ask his father to lend him some to tide him over. His father would always refuse because he believed his son should manage his money more carefully. Rodolfo would talk some of his co-workers into lending him money, but, in the end, he realized he learned a valuable lesson from his father about money management.

He was only 15 when the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor and hadn’t really paid attention to the war. It seemed so far away, and he thought the war would be over by the time he was of age to be drafted. By the time he was called to service at age 18, three of his brothers were already fighting in Europe. When it was his turn to deploy, his mother grew very emotional. “I hope you come back,” she wept.

Magdaleno had a collage of all four of them in uniform, which he proudly displayed. More importantly, “we all came back,” he said softly.

When Mr. Magdaleno had arrived on Okinawa, he was issued a bandolier with 8 clips of ammunition for his M-1 rifle plus hand grenades. Although he felt his training had prepared him very well for combat, he learned nothing substituted for experience. “One time we were moving through a dry river bed, and someone fired a flare overhead. You could see people dropping down . . . but the platoon leader said, ‘Don’t move, just stay where you are, because then you’re less visible.’”

“At night in a foxhole while you’re sleeping, your partner’s awake. You sleep for a couple of hours then he wakes you up; he goes to sleep while you’re awake. You take turns,” Rodolfo explained.

Around 3 a.m., while Magdaleno was on watch and the others slept Roldolfo shouted “Halt!” from his foxhole at a shadow moving slowly in the darkness of Okinawa. When the shadow turned and fled, Magdaleno opened fire. In the morning, they examined him and found a hand grenade tied with cloth to his hand. “If he’d seen you, he probably would have thrown that grenade, you got him before he got you,” remarked one of Rodolfo’s squad-mates.

Rodolfo’s foxhole had been unusually crowded that night. The previous night they’d turned away a banzai charge, “. . . a big one. They’d overrun us. And nobody sleeps when that happens . . . so we told a Sergeant, radioman, and medic they could sleep with us the next night because they were tired.”

It wasn’t the first contact Mr. Magdaleno experienced. Earlier on in the Battle of Okinawa, he was sitting on a slope awaiting orders “when all of a sudden bang! Bang! Bang! A lot of firing from the bushes. . . . Everybody hit the ground. I’d left my rifle up above on the slope. . . . I felt like I was naked! If they’d come over and I had no rifle, I’d be doomed. So, I went up and got my rifle. Anywhere you go you take your rifle with you. That’s your life,” he recounted.

Civilians on Okinawa were wary of the American troops, having been told by the Japanese that the U.S. soldiers would harm them. Once Rodolfo offered a piece of candy to a little boy who refused. Magdaleno realized the boy probably believed the candy was poisoned. He ate a bite himself to show the boy he had nothing to fear. When he re-offered the chocolate, the boy took it.

One of the toughest experiences he would have is dealing with the deaths of his comrades. “We got to a ridge overlooking a valley. . . . We dug in; the guys could see down a little ways into a cave. We went down, threw grenades into the cave. Nothing. Then suddenly bam! Bam! Bam! The guy next to me yelled that he’d been hit! I jumped into a shell crater for cover,” Magdaleno explained.

At one point they stopped, and his sergeant yelled “How many men do you need?” “Three!” was the answer. “Okay, you, you, and you [pointing at Magdaleno], go with them,” ordered the sergeant.

Rodolfo was greeted by a soldier named Naviz who fired questions at him: “How are you, what’s your name, where are you from?”

“California,” Magdaleno answered. “California? Me too! I’ve got cousins in San Fernando!” exclaimed Naviz. He was a veteran of the battles of Leyte, Kwajalein, and Attu.

As they moved across Okinawa, the Japanese had moved around behind them. Magdaleno recalled, “When we stopped, they stopped too. Naviz wanted to scout and see what the Japanese were doing. . . . He stood up. Bang! Snipers got him. He fell down. We called ‘Litter bearer! Litter bearer!’ for him. . . . They carted him off.”

Later Rodolfo asked about Naviz and was told that “he didn’t make it to the hospital.” Magdaleno’s voice shook as he remembered Naviz’s death. “I felt bad. He was very nice . . . after four battles . . .” his voice trailed off.

Okinawa was mountainous, the terrain foreboding. At night, shadows of rock and bushes became suspect. “The Japanese would creep in at night, closer and closer, spring up and yell ‘Banzai!’ then start firing,” Magdaleno explained. “One time there were about 20 Japanese attacking us. We’d run at them firing back.” Sometimes they called in air support.

During firefights, he recalled, “Planes used to go by and strafe their front line. We moved through semi-jungle. . . . We were afraid the Japanese were hiding behind bushes and trees, so we called for a tank that came over and sprayed fire and a flame thrower.” The tank’s radioman would then call to say the way was clear.

After six weeks of non-stop combat, sleeping in foxholes, wearing the same fatigues, unable to bathe or shower, they were relieved for two days of R&R. Mr. Magdaleno vividly remembers how good it felt to shower and change into clean clothes, luxuriating in the feel of his feet clad in clean socks.

Amid the stress of combat were moments of serendipity. Rodolfo’s squad was being relieved from patrol by another squad when he saw a man he knew from San Fernando. “Hey, Peter!,” Magdaleno called out. “We waved at each other and that was it,” said Rodolfo. “The next time I saw him was two years ago at the American Legion!” he marveled.

He and his unit had spent weeks after the battle preparing to invade the Japanese mainland before the atomic bombs were dropped and the Japanese surrendered. They learned of the bombing when a movie they were watching was stopped and an announcement was made. Magdaleno and his comrades began to cheer because they believed they’d be going home soon.

Several months after the battle of Okinawa ended, Rodolfo was sent to Korea for a year, working to disarm the Japanese soldiers who had occupied Korea. From there he was sent directly back to California and discharged from the Army.

But “life wasn’t the same as before,” Rodolfo recounted. His girlfriend from before the war said she’d wait for him but didn’t. She was dating another man. He met the young woman who’d become his wife at a dance in Venice where Xavier Cugat was performing. They married not long after they met and raised three children. Mr. Magdaleno supported them doing construction work. He bought a house using CalVet, a program especially set up for California veterans to qualify for home ownership. Rodolfo grew visibly emotional when describing how he and his wife were married for 63 years before she passed away.

To the men who didn’t make it back from the war, Rodolfo understood they were doing what they had to do. And for 26 years, Mr. Magdaleno proudly volunteered for burial squad duty serving at veteran funerals.

When asked for his advice, Mr. Magdaleno wanted people to live their life as best as they can. “I’m hoping there are no more wars . . . hoping that life will be better for you, for the new generations.”

Chet Sowinski was studying at Pulaski High School when he attended a local airshow that sparked his interest in becoming a pilot. They were giving a free flight to a lucky winner whose name was on the chosen ticket. That winner happened to be Chet. “It got me started flying. I was gonna fly.”

That day Chet knew he was going to become a pilot—another Charles Lindbergh—as his friends used to say. On Sunday afternoons, you could find Chet at the airport watching airplanes take off and land. He got to know the pilots and sometimes they would even take him up for a free ride.

After Chet graduated from high school, he began working as a draftsman at Rex Chain Belt in Milwaukee. When war broke out on December 7, 1941, he had to decide. Should he continue working or should he enlist in the Army Air Corps in hopes of becoming a pilot? Becoming a pilot was Chet’s goal, but he thought it might be a far-fetched notion because he hated school and knew he would need a college education to fly.

“I’m thinking about this war and I’m thinking about this job. Piloting was still my thing, but how would I ever get to do that?” Chet finally left his job, deciding he didn’t want to work at the Chain Belt for the rest of his life. He had a goal to reach.

One day in June 1942, Chet took off, telling his foreman that he had a business deal in town. He went down to the Federal building where the Army, Navy, and Marine Corps enlistment offices were located and enlisted into the Army Air Corps. For a few days, Chet didn’t say anything at home or work about his enlistment. When he finally had to tell his mother and girlfriend, “they had a fit.”

Monday morning came, and Chet was on the train bound for basic training. Chet went to Aircraft Gunnery School and was quickly promoted. He became friends with the pilots who encouraged him to sign up for pilot training. “I’m supposed to have a college education. I can’t do it,” Chet said. “Chet, there’s a way you can do it," one of the pilots encouraged him.

The pilot put in an application for Chet. After taking written, mental, and psychological tests as well as physicals, Chet was accepted into pilot training. He went through primary, basic, and advanced training and graduated as a 2nd Lieutenant. He was rated as a B-17 Flying Fortress Bomber Pilot.

Becoming a pilot was the best achievement of his life, but despite the satisfaction of reaching his goal, Chet realized that “a pilot’s job is a hard job.”

Chet’s favorite assignment during the war was the Airplane Ferry Command. He flew anything and anyone wherever they needed to go. “Best job I ever had.” His favorite planes to fly during the war were the B-17 and the C-47. Chet received his silver wings in November 1944, and, upon returning home after the war, he served in the Air National Guard until he retired as Major in 1964.

After the war, Chet worked as a Manufacturing Superintendent and later became the Vice President of Manufacturing at Oven Systems, Inc. Chet didn’t stop flying after his Air Force days. He owned his own plane—a 172 Skyhawk—which he flew weekly at the Fullerton Airport.

To celebrate his 95th birthday, Chet took to the skies and flew a plane from the Fullerton Airport, always believing that the best place in the world was in the air.

Paul Martinez was born in San Antonio on March 13, 1926 to Jose Martinez and Rosalie Zepeda. When Paul was five, his father left the family, so his mother worked in restaurants and took in laundry to keep food on the table. At nine, Paul shined shoes and sold newspapers to help his family get by. He remembers watching the movie Sergeant York when it was interrupted with the announcement of the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor. He had also found out that the Army paid twenty-one dollars a month—a lot of money. Paul enlisted in the Army on August 15, 1942 having lied about his true age—16 at the time. He and a friend, Joe Varela, passed the physical exam, headed to Fort Sam Houston and spent a week waiting for a train with his fellow Texans.

Having read a “Jump into the Fight” World War II recruitment poster that claimed paratroopers could earn fifty dollars extra a month of hazardous duty pay, Paul boarded a train for Georgia and paratrooper training. Camp Toccoa, established in 1940, was an Army paratrooper training base located at the foot of Mount Currahee, just ninety miles northeast of Atlanta. After spending his first night in a leaky platoon tent, Paul woke and found out that he and his colleagues from Texas had been assigned to the 506th Parachute Infantry Regiment, Dog company. Leroy Shipman, built like a truck and who served as Paul’s first platoon sergeant, led the men in daily activities from weapons to physical training. One thing that stuck in Paul's mind was the daily run up and down Mount Currahee and the exhausted soldiers shouting the refrain, “Three miles up and three miles down.” After the 13 weeks of basic training, he left for jump school where Paul and his fellow soldiers learned how to pack parachutes, jumped from towers, and practiced landing techniques. On December 25, 1942 he was awarded his paratrooper wings.

The D-Day invasion was delayed by weather until June 6, 1944. The Allied forces got a break in the weather, and Paul boarded his C-47 that was to head into Normandy around 1 a.m. During the mission, the echelon began taking ack-ack as they approached the coastline and broke formation. Paul said of the drop, “We were dropped 200 feet off the ground” and “I was loaded down like a mule.” He landed in three feet of water. “God, don’t let me die like this after all my training,” he reflected of his dilemma. Joining two guys from the 82nd Airborne and five from the 101st who had also dropped well away from their intended drop zone, they proceeded to the sound of gunfire when they came under fire themselves. They got out of the scrap after they fired back at the Germans under the cover of darkness. It was around 1:30 a.m. when they came across a sign the read “Carentan,” a town located on the Cotentin peninsula in Normandy, about three miles away from their objective of St-Come-du-Monte. To the rear, the patrolling GIs could hear the bombardment on the beach. The Navy was still shelling German gun emplacements. At dawn, they could see the Allied gliders start rolling in.

On the D-Day +4, they fought their way into Carentan and took it from the Germans. That same afternoon, the Germans regrouped and drove them back out. During the battle, Paul, in concentrated machine gun fire took a bullet fragment near his eye. He was red-tagged and sent back to England where they removed a piece of lead from his eye.

Paratrooper Martinez rejoined his unit on their return to England after they had spent a month in France. They made their second combat drop into Holland during the afternoon of September 18, 1944. Operation Market Garden was primarily a British operation, joined by two U.S. paratrooper divisions—the 82nd and 101st. The battle lasted until late November for his unit when they were relieved and sent to France.

On December 16, 1944 the Germans had broken through the Allied lines in Belgium and were fighting their way up to Antwerp. The next day, the 506th began its trek to Bastogne by truck to fill in the front lines in the Ardennes Forest where the Germans had busted through with their Blitzkrieg. Paul and his fellow GIs found themselves quickly surrounded by better equipped German troops and panzers. During the worst winter on record in the Ardennes, allied planes were grounded, and the U.S. Army was starved of food and ammunition. The 506th PIR had supplies and ammo for 3 days, the standard issue for paratroopers. Ten days later, they were desperately running out of ammunition but held the Germans at bay. The troops survived the unforgiving onslaught of German 88 shells and “Screaming Mimi” rockets. Paul recalled a scene that occurred every morning and evening as the German Wehrmacht made their assault trying to break through the lines: “The ghostly figures of German soldiers were all dressed in white.” After the weather cleared around Christmas, the Allies were able to strike back from the air, P-47 Thunderbolts strafed German troops and tanks, and C-47s dropped precious supplies of ammunition and rations on the beleaguered Allied troops. Sergeant Martinez remembered the drop and having his first hot meal in weeks—turkey, corn and potatoes. By then, he had lost most of his company and what was left, returned to France.

Starting their German campaign in March 1945, they fought their way through numerous towns on their way, including Berchtesgaden where they met very little resistance. They enjoyed the Fuhrer’s private reserve of spirits while staying at the Third Reich's mountain outpost called the Eagle’s Nest. In November 1945, Martinez was shipped out of Berchtesgaden and eventually back home to the U.S. Although the U.S. forces and Allies were victorious, the Battle of the Bulge proved to be the costliest battle the U.S. fought in World War II with 89,000 American casualties, including 19,270 who were killed.

Staff Sergeant Martinez, a member of the greatest generation, was pinned with many medals and ribbons for his honorable and courageous service in World War II. They include the Purple Heart, Bronze Start Medal with Oakleaf Cluster, Combat Infantry Badge, European Campaign Medal, Good Conduct Medal, World War II Victory Medal, Army of Occupation Medal, Nation Defense Medal, French Croix de Guerre, Belgium Croix de Guerre, World War II Orange Lanyard for Holland Campaign and two Presidential Unit Citations, but he is most proud of earning his Paratrooper Wings. Paul Martinez, who admitted he had a hard time maintaining rank during his service, was honorably discharged from the Army in December 10, 1945.

Seventy years after the war, Richard Chase was awarded a Bronze Star. “I’m not a hero,” he said quickly. “I’m just another 90-year-old GI.”

He’s more proud of his Combat Infantry Badge he received in Europe near the war’s end. As a recon scout with the 97th Infantry Division, Mr. Chase had fought his way through Belgium into Germany. He survived the Battle of the Bulge and witnessed thousands of German soldiers surrendering afterward. “All of a sudden all you see is all these Germans coming with their hands over the top of their heads,” he recalled. Richard’s unit was sent to Czechoslovakia where they engaged German troops in combat in Prague and finally in Pilsner, which is where he was when VE Day was declared.

His team of three men would go on patrol for 24 hours, return, and the next team would go out. They were assigned with a tank unit “right on the infantry’s tails, when they needed fire support we were there,” Richard explained. “Wherever the infantry went, the tanks went. . . . They were M7 tanks—four of them in my unit.”

Sleeping in foxholes was a regular occurrence. Chase and his team would bury themselves to blend into the terrain. They had no camouflage like soldiers today. “Twice we went behind enemy lines. . . . We screwed up, read the compass wrong. We realized when the sun came up where we were. Talk about digging foxholes! We put brush over us and hoped to hell they didn’t run over us. The Germans were close. We dug in and waited until they disappeared the next day. I was thinking, ‘There it is. Your luck’s run out.’”

But it wasn’t always so fraught with danger. “The biggest party we ever had—we had in Czechoslovakia. I don’t know how any of us survived. We drank— the whole outfit passed out—wine, vodka, beer, champagne, enough to kill a guy!” he laughed.

When the war in the European Theater ended, Chase was shipped to South Carolina, put on a train to Ft. Lewis, WA, and then ordered aboard a ship to Japan by way of the Philippines. It’s not what Richard had in mind; he figured he’d get to go home once the war in Europe ended.

Shortly before his ship reached the Philippines, the atomic bombs were dropped on Japan, ending the war there. Mr. Chase spent several months in Japan, digging enormous holes with a bulldozer to bury trash and dismantling Japanese planes. When that assignment ended, he was shipped to the U.S., discharged, and given a Greyhound bus ticket to San Diego. But he hitchhiked down the California coast, figuring it would be faster, a decision he regretted once he realized he likely would have been home sooner had he taken the bus.

Once back in his hometown of San Diego, Richard returned to the job he’d had before the war, milking cows at a family-owned dairy. He easily re-adjusted to civilian life as he settled into a familiar routine.

When he reflected on his wartime service, he explained, “You’re drafted in the Army to do one thing—go over there and fight . . . to get rid of Hitler and free the country. And that’s what we did. We whipped his butt.”

“It’s an experience I’ll never forget,” he continued. “I let a lot of piddling little things go that didn’t mean a damn thing after seeing what was going on over there.”

Chase never thought he’d be in the war. He was in his junior year of high school, getting up at 3:30 a.m. to milk cows before school and spending his evenings after school milking them again before he was drafted. He simply hadn’t had time to think about what the draft could mean for him. Once drafted, he remembered thinking, “Hey, that’s just the way it is.” You did what you had to.

He wasn’t officially trained as a reconnaissance scout, but picked it up after deploying to Europe. “You’d get out the binoculars and look to see if there were any pretty girls or German Nazis,” he joked.

Then he turned serious as he considered what kind of country we’d be living in if we hadn’t won that war. “I don’t know,” he said. “I really don’t know. You were just happy it turned out the way it did.”

And he had a little advice for current and future generations: “Seems like today everybody’s got problems and can’t sit down to talk about them. Use a little common sense and talk about things; then we’d get along a little better. It’s not just me, me, me, me; it’s us, us, us. It’s a tough apple to bite, but that’s the way it is.” Wise words from a man who had been married nearly 70 years.

Robert Hecker grew up in an itinerant family during the Great Depression. He was born on May 26, 1922, in Provo, Utah. His father, a truckdriver, moved the family to Long Beach, California for work. Shortly after, they returned to Utah to be with family. After a year in Utah, the family moved to Idaho Falls to work the farms. There his parents lived in a two-room shack. Consequently, Robert and his brother lived in a tent because there was not enough room in the simple shelter. Eventually they moved back to Long Beach where he attended Long Beach Polytechnic High School and learned welding. He went to work for the Lockheed Corporation in 1940, building bombers that were to be shipped overseas as part of the Lend-Lease program. Prior to America’s entry into World War II, he attempted to join the Army Air Corps, but he was turned away. At the time, the Air Corps required two years of college. Determined to join, Robert began working the night shift at Lockheed and attended Polytechnic Junior College during the day for a year and a half. He remembered hearing about the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor while at church on Sunday December 7, 1941. After enlistment he was sent to Utah where he completed the last six months of college required for bombardier school. His brother, who was two years older, had already joined the Navy in 1941 and was serving as an Electricians Mate in the South Pacific. In 1943, Robert got orders to Santa Ana Army Air Base for basic training and distribution to follow on training commands.

Having lived close to the airport while in Long Beach, Robert appreciated aviation and flying. He wanted to be a pilot and was sent to an air base in Arizona where he was told that the Air Corps had enough pilots but needed navigators and bombardiers. He attended bombardier and gunnery training for six months while stationed at bombardier school in Carlsbad, New Mexico. During training he learned how to operate and repair the Norden Mk. XV, a bombsight so highly accurate that it enjoyed the highest levels of secrecy during the war. Training began on the ground conducting simulated bombings with the Norden, but quickly advanced to flying practice missions aboard the twin engine AT-11 Kansan, loaded with dummy bombs. Like the other cadets, Robert would fly a hundred or more dummy bomb drops during the daytime and at night while being scored for accuracy. He recalled his training and the steps required for a successful bomb drop. The navigator guided the plane to the initial point thirty miles from the target and then the pilot handed the airplane over to the bombardier. Throughout the run, the pilot would maintain speed and altitude, while the bombardier, peeping through the Norden, would keep the crosshairs on the target until he released his bombs.

Lieutenant Hecker’s B-17 landed in Scotland in July, 1944. During the flight over the Atlantic, he got an opportunity to navigate and pilot the Flying Fortress. The crew then grabbed the train down to RAF Deenethorpe located in Northamptonshire where he joined the airmen of the 8th Air Force, 401st Bomb Group, 615th Bomb Squadron. Most of his and his fellow airmen’s bombing missions over Germany in the B-17 were risky at best and deadly at worst. The missions began at 4 a.m. with a briefing, and then the crews would load up on their bombers in the dark. The B-17s would take off one-by-one and circle the airfield waiting for the other planes to join the group, assembling 36 planes in all. The young bombardier recalled on a few occasions that there would be collisions in the darkness when two groups, taking off from different airbases would accidentally cross paths. Seeing the explosions in the night sky scared him more than any other threat he experienced overseas. On one of his first missions, his B-17 got caught in the propwash of another plane and flipped upside down and spun downward from fifteen thousand feet. After pilot worked to get the plane back under control, Robert attended to the bombs that had freed themselves from the bomb rack. That bomber—a Boeing B-17G dubbed “Rugged but Right” by its crew—was not adorned with the “nose art” seen on many Allied aircraft during the war. Instead, on the nose of the aircraft, the last three digits of the planes serial number “888” had tails and ears added so the numbers resembled three cats. After the mission and upon landing back in England, the crippled plane fell apart on the end of the runway. Robert remembered the plane’s engineer uttering, “What have you done to my plane?” The crew survived but the “Rugged but Right” could not be repaired, so they salvaged her for parts.

Robert and his crew were originally required to fly 25 missions over Germany; however, at that time, the Allies were losing about 10 percent of their aircraft per mission. He recalled that some groups would go out and return with no lost aircraft while some groups would have 20 or more losses. Allied bombing raids in Europe were costing American casualties of 60 to 600 men per mission per group. Overall, the 8th Air Force would lose over 27,000 men during the war. Long-range high-altitude bombers faced three major threats during the daylight bombings over Germany: fighters, flak, and cold. The Super Fortresses were formidable, flying in large formations with hundreds of 50-caliber machine guns covering the sky like a shield. However, B-17’s that broke formation due to engine loss or damaged oxygen supplies were easy prey for the German ME-109 fighters.

By the end of the war, Robert Hecker had flown over 30 bombing mission as a lead bombardier, dropping his bombs on specific strategic targets, such as German airfields, manufacturing plants, and railroad yards. Robert returned to the United States in 1945 and began training to fight in the Pacific Theater, but the war ended before he could deploy. 1st Lieutenant Robert Hecker was honorably discharged in 1946 and later spent 30 years in the Air Force Reserve and retired as a Lieutenant Colonel.

Lieutenant Colonel Hecker, whose courageous service as a B-17 bombardier, contributed to the defeat and eventual surrender of the Axis powers in World War II. He was awarded numerous medals for his service, including the Silver Star, Air Medal, Distinguished Flying Cross, and the French Legion of Honor.

Sandford Robert Willford, known by friends and family as Sandy, grew up in a tight knit family on the West coast. His folks had met in Utah but moved to California before he was born. His father supported the family by working as a waiter in Hollywood. Times were tough then, and Sandy recalled how happy his dad was when he came home from work and beamed about making 17 dollars that day. At the age of 17, Sandy took a job in Hollywood as a parking lot attendant. But like many young men and women at that time, he was inspired by the patriotic movies that played on the big screen that celebrated the adventures of the American GI. After graduating from Hamilton High School in February 1940 and not yet 18, his parents gave their consent for Sandy to join the Army under the condition that he became a pilot. He knew he wanted his pilot’s wings after watching the 1941 movie I Wanted Wings, which starred Bill Holden and Ray Milland, playing young cadets. His older brother had already joined the Marines and later served as a medic overseas. After swearing in, the young recruit boarded a train and headed to Santa Ana Army base for training.

From the beginning, Sandy wanted to fly the P-38 Lightning, a fighter plane dubbed the “Fork Tailed Devil” by the enemy pilots that had to face its air superiority. The highly armed long-distance fighter/bomber considered an ugly duckling by many critics, was instrumental in winning the war in the Pacific. However, piloting a fighter during the war was a challenge for Sandy and other young men because the Army needed pilots for the multi-engine bombers required to make the daylight bombing runs over Nazi Germany. Determined to fly the P-38, the 18-year-old 2nd Lieutenant graduated flight training in 1943 and became an expert in instrument-only flight, necessary skills for a pilot to fly at night and in inclement weather. The Army valued those skills and ordered him to California to be an instructor, teaching young cadets how to guide their aircraft with only instruments and sounds—"flying the beam” as it was called. Training involved hundred-mile missions with instructor and students flying the single engine BT-13 trainer under a blanket of darkness. Sandy enjoyed training young men in the art of instrument flight and was able to return from every training mission safely.

By the time the young Lieutenant joined the Fifth Airforce’s 49th Fighter Group, 9th Fighter Squadron—The Flying Knights—in the South Pacific, they had been completely equipped with P-38s. Before the upgrade, they had been piloting P-40 Hawks made famous by American airmen known as the “Flying Tigers,” fighting in South China. Having arrived at a forward base in New Guinea, he met his squadron leader, Richard I. Bong, America’s top fighter ace that went on to shoot down forty Japanese planes during the war. Sandy was in good company flying with some of the finest American aviators of the war. Sandy’s missions in 1944 paved the way for General Douglas McArthur’s famous stride through the surf onto the Philippine island of Luzon on January 9, 1945. The P-38 pilot flew his first of many combat missions from an airbase on the Island of Leyte. In 1944, the men of the 49th were tasked with engaging Japanese planes, providing close air support for Allied ground forces and covering the invasion of Luzon by American troops.

Although Sandy never got the opportunity to shoot down an enemy fighter, he contributed to the success of critical U.S. operations by flying close air support for American ground forces fighting in the Philippines. His missions ranged from highly effective bombing runs dropping napalm on a Japanese ammo dumps and enemy soldiers to flying in foul weather and ditching his P-38 in a rice patty for lack of a nearby friendly airfield. On that unforgettable mission, he found himself on the ground with the Army Infantry, waiting to have an airstrip built. He smiled and recalled confusing a swarm of fireflies for approaching Japanese soldiers. He was also a sight for sore eyes to American submariners who had to surface to recharge batteries and take in fresh air. The presence of his P-38 kept Japanese pilots, who relished such a vulnerable target as a surfaced submarine, at bay. After his successful tour in the South Pacific flying the P-38, Sandy returned home to the U.S. only to find out that his brother-in-arms, the great American Ace, Dick Bong, had died test-piloting the new P-80 Shooting Star jet at the Lockheed Air Terminal in Burbank, California. Sandy returned to college and remained in the U.S. Air Force reserve and retired as the rank of Lieutenant Colonel. Sandy was happy to report that his brother had returned home safely as well and that the two brave brothers had survived World War II.

Sandford Willford flew 119 combat missions while serving in the South Pacific. His missions were critical to the successful liberation of the Philippines, the survival of American troops on the ground, and the eventual surrender of the Empire of Japan. A true hero, Sandy claimed that he was never afraid of combat—only of the bad weather he encountered during missions over the Philippines.

Lawrence Vera was drafted into the U.S. Army in September 1941 right before the attacks on Pearl Harbor. He was the second oldest child to Manual and Eleanor Vera. His father had served in World War I and owned two women’s shoe manufacturing plants in southern California.

When the Selective Training and Service Act of 1940 was enacted on September 16, it required all American males between the ages of 21 and 35 to register with local draft boards. Once passed, Lawrence did his patriotic duty and registered for the draft with his number being drawn and him reporting for duty in September 1941.

Lawrence was first assigned to Camp Roberts, California for training but never finished as war had broken out with the attack on Pearl Harbor. His unit was quickly organized at Camp Roberts and sent to the coastal region of Washington for about 2 months, which was a climate shock for the California-raised Lawrence: “From a Southern California boy to a cold like that—I mean—it got so cold, rained all the time, trees all over.”

After the short stint in Washington, Lawrence and other soldiers were sent to San Francisco, California, where they loaded a ship and travelled up the coast of the United States towards Alaska in an attempt to fool Japanese forces, but they eventually returned to the Bay area. His unit was then deployed across the Pacific Ocean to Camp Seymour near Melbourne, Australia, where he would perform the majority of his service during the war.

The trip across the Pacific was one of the worst experiences for Lawrence. The ship was a converted cargo ship with artillery weapons strapped down on the deck, and majority of the soldiers getting sea sick, including the ship’s Captain.

“Sea sick … everybody. I was on the .50 caliber machine gun that was tied down, but you had to lie flat to fire it. I was there, and I got sick. I said to heck with this noise and left it. I looked around, and everybody else was already gone. They told me even the ship’s Captain was sea sick going out of Frisco. We were going up and down, up and down.”

Serving as a scout, Lawrence’s primary mission was to go out and spot the enemy or to find the best possible way ahead for the 41st Infantry Division. His unit faced the Japanese forces on several fronts and pushed them back as they attempted to take over airfields coming across New Guinea and the islands surrounding Australia.

New Guinea was a whole other experience for Lawrence. The island was full of caves and swampland with grey water coming up to the soldier’s belts. Japanese forces had taken over the cliffs and various holes, ultimately killing some of the soldiers in Lawrence’s unit, before being driven out of the area. Due to the success of the U.S. Navy in the Pacific, Japan’s supply channels and carriers were destroyed, which led to many Japanese ground forces starving to death in the area.

One day, on the Island of Biak, Lawrence was sitting perched atop a hill with his .50 caliber machine gun on a modified pivot table from a tree trunk. Lawrence recalled the time when their position was attacked by three Japanese bombers. The Japanese bombers mistakenly took their camp for an airfield, dropping three bombs on their location as both sides exchanged artillery fire as well. The Japanese bombers continued up the Australian coast, though, looking for airfields to bomb. The battles on the island of Biak were some of the bloodiest engagements the 41st Infantry Division had ever seen.

After Biak, Lawrence’s platoon entered Hollandia in New Guinea shortly after the U.S. Air Force bombed the entire town. The only thing left standing was the town’s bank. It was a Japanese held location, including a well secured airfield. Due to proper positioning and troop movement, it was a highly successful amphibious assault by the division, but Lawrence didn’t spend very long there with a quick mission of “scouts in and scouts out.”

While in Biak, Lawrence came down with malaria from the local mosquitos. He was way out on the outpost and almost died, as his unit just rolled him over and put a canvas tarp over him. In his own words, “I just worked it out I guess.”

Lawrence was awarded the Bronze Star for his heroic service while engaged in combat operations against an enemy of the United States. He was discharged from the U.S. Army and returned home to California where he worked for General Motors Company for the next 44 years. At 99 years old, he offered a great piece of advice, “Try to enjoy life without problems. Just a normal everyday life. Find something you like to do and work on that. Be happy.”

Natividad Carbajal was born to Inez and Marcho Carbajal in 1926. He grew up in Anthony, New Mexico, a small town located between Las Cruces and El Paso, Texas, in the fertile farmland of the Mesilla Valley. Maximilian, his grandfather, lived on the other side of town and ran a farm on the outskirts of Anthony. Natividad labored in the fields at 15 and would pick cotton with the other workers. His father weighed the cotton and his grandpa would transport the cotton to a gin in a wagon pulled by mules. The farmlands of New Mexico became part of the great American Dustbowl of the early 1930s, and the state was hammered by dust storms that swept away the topsoil and left the land barren. Agriculture in the “Land of Enchantment” was hit hard, and many crops were only worth half their market value pre-Depression. Times were bleak, and his father convinced him to join the service to escape poverty. After the attack on Pearl Harbor, the young field hand realized that he was destined to join the military to defend his country.

At 17, he enlisted in the Army and joined the nearly 50,000 residents of New Mexico who were drafted or volunteered to support the war effort during World War II. His older brother joined the Army Air Corps and served as a waist gunner on a B-29 Superfortress, flying bombing sorties in the Pacific. His younger brother joined the service and later served in the Korean War. Many of Natividad’s friends were drafted into the service, and some were killed in WWII within their first year of combat.

He originally wanted to volunteer for the Army Air Corps or Navy, but he was told at the recruiting office that he was going into the Army. He attended boot camp at Fort Bliss, Texas, then shipped off to Las Cruces for field training. At camp, he learned marksmanship on the rifle and machine gun at the ranges and learned to toss hand grenades. After learning the ropes, he was assigned to 101st Airborne Division, known as the “Screaming Eagles,” and completed paratrooper training, earning his basic parachutist badge. After arriving in England, he recalled that on the night of June 5, English runways were filled with C-46 and C-47 transports. In England, the 101st had prepared to land behind German lines in France the morning of the D-Day invasion. He remembered how nervous all the GIs were prior to boarding the planes. The transports took off early in the morning carrying the tense troopers to their drop sites. After his plane had crossed the English Channel, it took anti-aircraft fire and crashed shortly after he bailed out. His chute opened and he drifted down from the drop altitude of 400 feet, hitting the ground safely. Other paratroopers of the 101st landed safely, but many got caught in the trees while others were fired upon by German soldiers on the ground. The surviving troops gathered in groups on the ground and proceeded on their mission to push the Germans out of France.

After the 101st jumped into and liberated the Netherlands, they moved east towards Germany. Natividad found himself in the Ardennes Forest during one of the coldest winters of the century. There he was wounded after the Battle of the Bulge near the Black Forest. Sometime during the battle, he recalled being hit in the leg by machine gun fire while jumping into a foxhole. Medics quickly transported him to medical tent in the rear where he joined other soldiers suffering from cold weather injuries and combat wounds. He recovered in a few days, and, after 2 weeks, he was walking unassisted again, so he was sent back to report to his unit. A week later he got back his M1918 Browning Automatic Rifle and was sent back into combat.

When the war ended in Europe, Natividad and his fellow GIs were ordered to patrol a German airbase that the U.S. had taken over. He was overjoyed with the news of the death of Hitler and the end of the war. After watching with amazement, the German soldiers surrendering by the thousands, the young PFC celebrated the end of the war with a cold beer in Munich. Back in the States, he returned to New Mexico and lived off his army severance while he could and eventually worked on a farm loading alfalfa and hay bales, earing $25 a week. He was one of the estimated 250,000 to 500,000 Hispanic Americans who served in World War II. They served in both theaters and in every major battle of the war. He reflected on the time he spent fighting in Europe and stated simply, “It was hell, it was terrible. You never knew if you would make it.”

Isaias Peña grew up with little schooling and few positive childhood experiences in the South Texas town of El Paso. His mother, Mary, died when he was 11, and his father re-married a few months after her death. He was the youngest of 11 brothers and 2 sisters. It didn’t help that his stepmom did not like him, and what made life a bigger challenge was that nobody in the family ever really took care of him. His family eventually moved to New Mexico and, as he grew older, he found himself working in labor camps with pick and shovel in hand for $1 a day. He moved on to live with his sister Martha, washing clothes in a laundromat, pulling in a respectable $30 a week. After the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor, many U.S. citizens joined the service, including Hispanic Americans like Isaias. They fought in the European and Pacific Theaters of war and also served on the home front as civilians, working in factories, covering for the men that had been sent off to war. Although he never got past the 4th grade, Isaias proudly joined the Army at the age of 20.

Recruit Peña arrived at Army basic training at Camp White, Oregon for a year and a half of training with the 91st Infantry Division, known as the “Wild West Division.” The division with the “Fir Tree” insignia would go on to endure 271 days of combat and suffer 8,744 casualties while fighting to take Rome, Italy and the Arno River. At Camp White, called “The Alcatraz of Bootcamps,” he endured grueling 9 to 25-mile hikes that would last 6 hours or longer. During his training, while on leave, he met the love of his life and married her. Afterwards, he continued on to Norfolk, Virginia for additional training before boarding a ship in New York to make the trip across the Atlantic. His ship was part of the SL 138 convoy, on its way to drop off supplies and troops at various ports in the Mediterranean. Isaias, along with the 91st ID, departed on April 3, 1944 for the 18-day trip to Africa. Once there, they executed amphibious landing exercises meant to simulate the future landings in Italy.

In Italy, on July 12, 1944, the 91st ID under Major General William G. Livesay entered action. The 91st assisted the 34th and 88th Infantry Divisions and the U.S. Japanese-American 442nd Regimental Combat Team in the capture of the port of Livorno on July 19 before reaching the banks of the strategically located Arno River with the rest of the Fifth Army on July 23. Private Peña and the 362nd Regiment experienced their first combat role while fighting their way to the Arno River where they met up with the 363rd. Both units were the first to overcome the rugged terrain and enemy resistance in an effort to reach the river. The fighting was so bloody that Isaias remembered the Arno turning red. During his first day of combat, Isaias recalled being fired upon and nearly hit. Although he escaped injury and death, he lost several buddies to small arms fire before capturing 4 German prisoners who had abandoned their damaged tank. He was 22 at the time and fearless as the battle raged around him.

During the fighting and march north from Livorno to the Arno river, he remembered the Germans firing deadly 88mm shells at the advancing Americans. The Americans braved the artillery strikes and pushed through the tough terrain and the advance looked promising. General Mark Clark was said to have said, “We've got them on the run.” Isaias’ company was the first to get to the Arno river. They were so close to the front lines that they could hear the Germans talking among themselves on the other side. As they crossed the river, they took 9 more prisoners who appeared to be younger and older than average American soldiers. At that point in the war, Germany was desperately trying to fight off the advancing Allies, and it was common to see teenagers younger than 16 and men approaching 60 on the front lines.

During the fighting in Italy, Isaias had injured his foot while taking cover in a fox hole. The injury was debilitating so he was sent to Rome, which had been liberated by the 5th Army on June 5. At first, he took care of his fellow patients, and later, he was assigned to the front gate of the hospital and pulled guard duty. It was a good fit for him because he liked to be outside. He stood watch at the gate for 8 months and made friends with the local Italian civilians. At that point in the war, the U.S. Army was granting soldiers with 80 points or more orders back to the States. Isaias did not have enough points to qualify but instead took the offer to serve for one year at Camp Kilmer, New Jersey, which had been opened in 1942 to serve the New York port of embarkation. He was discharged from the U.S. Army in 1947.

Isaias had been in Rome when the war in Europe officially ended with the surrender of Germany on May 8, 1945. He had also learned that President Roosevelt had passed away the month before. He eagerly returned to his wife and daughter back in the US. Although he had found it initially difficult to adjust to civilian life, he gradually settled back into normality and went on to raise two kids.

Isaias Peña served his country bravely and endured the fierce fighting in Italy during WWII. He faced danger honorably and lost several friends during the allied march to liberate Rome.

In the early days of World War II, Joseph Bessolo dreamed of flying a B-17. After leaving his job at Walt Disney Studios, he went to work for Lockheed Corporation and become a B-17 repairman, hoping to gain as much experience with the aircraft as he could. One day after work, Joseph saw an ad in the newspaper stating that the Army Air Corps had changed their program. Instead of having two years of college behind him before enlisting—which Joseph didn’t have—now he only needed to pass a written exam. “I wanted to be a pilot. I was young, probably stupid, and I wanted a B-17.”

Joseph passed the exam with flying colors and was sent to mechanic school in Sheppard Field, Texas. After four months in Texas, Joseph was put on a train to Santa Ana where he went through the Cadet Aviation Program for nine months. He was officially sworn in to the Army Air Corps at Fort MacArthur before being shipped back to Texas for more training.

He learned of the high mortality rate in the 8th Air Force as he listened to radio broadcasts late at night. “Thirty-bombers went down today” was a frequent message he heard, the number growing larger as time went on. With ten men on each aircraft, Joseph began to realize the danger and reality of flying.

“There was a week when I started thinking maybe I should stay a mechanic. Then I thought, ‘Hell no. I want to fly a B-17.’” Flying was Joseph’s goal, and he wasn’t going to give it up. Joseph received his wings at Stockton Field before reporting to Roswell, New Mexico. That’s where he learned to fly B-17s.

It was early one October morning when he first got close to the aircraft and was allowed to sit in the cockpit. After that, Joseph didn’t see the plane for a week. In the interim, he was required to submit three planes he would like to fly. “You never get what you want. You get what they want. But I got it!”

Joseph learned the ins and outs of the aircraft until he knew everything about the B-17. He was transferred to Dyersburg, Tennessee where he met his crew and practiced formation flying. There’s one training flight that is forever stamped on Joseph’s memory, one he still feels the aches from. The flight crews had been practicing formation on old aircrafts. As Joseph started to climb, he lost an engine, but kept going with the three he had left, confident that the plane would run on them. He leveled out and started catching up with the other planes when another engine went out. That’s when he knew he had to turn back.

“I realized the plane was not holding that altitude. I started looking for someplace to land.” He was flying over mountains with nowhere to make an emergency landing. Suddenly, he crossed over Holliday, Tennessee—a small town with crossroads. Joseph told his crew to orientate themselves as they went down and to meet at the crossroads. They started to bail as he turned on automatic pilot. Joseph wanted the plane to crash into the mountain, so it wouldn’t kill anyone in the town. At that moment, a crew member shouted up to Joseph: “The radio man forgot his chute!”

Joseph quickly grabbed his parachute and handed it to the radio man. “You guys better hurry up and jump. We’re getting low.” He turned off automatic pilot and got back in the cockpit to prepare for a crash landing. He went through the procedure of turning off the gas valves and oxygen as he brainstormed a plan.

He spotted a cornfield on the side of a hill with a forest beyond them. Joseph decided to come in low with wheels up at a stalling speed. He figured by the time he reached the forest his plane would be slowing down. As he reached the cornfield he realized the nose of the plane was about to go straight into the ground. He pulled back the wheel and put his head down. The plane was bouncing and sounded like “gravel being poured over a tin building.” It skidded up the hill sideways before stopping on rocky soil. It was wedged in the ground, digging a 4-foot trench. Everything went still and quiet. “I figured God was my co-pilot because He changed things from the way I had it planned. If I hadn’t gone sideways I would have landed and hit the forest at quite a speed.”

A few hours later, he spotted jeeps, trucks, and cranes. Joseph and his crew were taken to the hospital and checked over. The doctor insisted that Joseph get an x-ray. He refused. “You might find something wrong with me and put me in the hospital. I may lose my crew.”

Joseph had a terrific crew and didn’t want to give them up. It’s a decision that he has felt in numerous aches and pains ever since. “After 70 years, I'm still paying for that—my shoulder, hip, and back.”

After their training was complete, Joseph and his crew were given a B-17 and took off for Europe. As he flew over the Atlantic he listened to the Saturday night Hit Parade which reminded him of home. The radio signal grew weaker and weaker as he flew further across the Atlantic. “I wondered if I’d ever hear it again. In the back of your mind you think these things.”

Joseph and his crew were stationed on a base outside of London and attached to the 91st Bomb Group, 324th Squadron. Their B-17 was dubbed Little Miss Mischief. They went deep in the interior of Germany where factories and railroads were their main targets.

Joseph witnessed the high mortality rate of the 8th Air Force in action. During a mission, one of their planes was flying low over the treetops. He watched as it burst into a big ball of fire and plumes of smoke filled the sky. It dove toward the ground in a crash landing. One night after returning to base, Joseph saw airmen picking up the clothes and lockers of three of his roommates who didn’t come back after a mission. Joseph didn’t sleep that night. “That morning they were with me, but then they didn’t come back. We tried to be brave, but we’re human. You make and lose friends real fast.”

When Joseph’s crew was disbanded in 1944 and airmen were heading home, the 8th Air Force suddenly called for a “maximum effort” mission over Germany. Joseph had 27 missions under his belt and was supposed to be leaving for the states in a few days, but he decided to stay. He only needed three more missions to achieve the rank of captain. A crew was quickly thrown together, and they were given a broken-down plane that wasn’t fit to fly. “I’m flying and getting blown to hell and thinking what a fool I am. I could be on my way home. I thought I wasn’t gonna make it.”

His crew suffered casualties, and an ambulance quickly pulled in as he landed on base along with his commanding officer. “If you were a cat, you used up 8 of your 9 lives. I'm going to get you out of here.”

A few days later, Joseph was bound for home on the Queen Mary after three years in the military. Upon returning to the U.S., he married, had two children, and ran a Ceramic Shop for 52 years.

It was a cold, pitch dark night as the line of soldiers made their way between a series of steep gullies to one side and minefields on the other. Clinging to the rope marking the only safe path, these soldiers from the 87th Infantry Division were moving up to the line. A 105mm artillery battery firing to one side and machine guns to the other, three men continued along the rope-line. Finding a hay stack the men burrowed in to sleep in relative warmth. Waking early, the first day of combat for John Moran was set to begin.

John Thomas Moran was born on September 3, 1925 in Superior, Michigan. The Great Depression did not make too great an impression in some respects. As a younger brother he was already used to “hand-me-down” clothing. His father had owned a department store but was forced to move into the insurance business as his retail customer base was ravaged by the Depression. Although his family felt the effects of the Depression, John and his older brother were sheltered from the full effects. Living near the edge of town, the brothers spent their summers fishing and swimming, roaming the woods and playing summer sports. In the winter they played cards and winter sports.

John began working at a grocery store when he was 15, and earned $2.50 each Saturday, sometimes working Sunday as well. When extraordinary news occurred, the newspaper would print supplemental “extra” pages, and John would rush to buy as many as he could for two cents to resell for a nickel. It was selling the “extra” on December 7, 1941 that John learned of the attack on Pearl Harbor, Hawaii.

John had followed the war in Europe closely concerned what Hitler might do, but found it “shocking that the violence had come to our country.” John planned on enlisting in the Army as soon as he came of age. Graduating high school in 1942, he was still too young and attended college for two semesters “killing time” and playing golf until enlisting in the “Army 5” (Specialized Training Program) in 1943. Private Moran was enrolled at the University of Wisconsin to received accelerated technical training that would be of benefit to the Army. Unfortunately for Private Moran, it seemed the greatest benefit he and the other “Army 5” enrollees could provide for the U.S. Army was as desperately needed casualty replacements and soldiers to build the new divisions.

A few weeks into his first term, the “Army 5” program was cancelled, and Moran found himself traveling to Fort Benning, Georgia for infantry training then assignment to the 87th Infantry Division staging for movement to Europe. Moran was relieved at having not been assigned as an individual replacement or to a combat unit designated for the Pacific where he would have to engage in jungle warfare.

Moran arrived in the British Isles in October 1944. For the next month, his unit engaged in light refresher training that culminated in a two-day, storm ravaged crossing of the English Channel. He began what would be over 150 days in the combat zone, most of it in sustained combat.

In early December, having spent the night in a haystack, Moran stepped off in the first attack of his Army career. Immediately, an 88mm artillery shell struck and “knocked down” three men to his right, quickly followed by more shells and more injured. In Moran’s first 15 seconds of combat, 7 of his comrades became casualties. They captured their objective and “chased” the Germans away but at grievous cost.

Combat became a grim routine. Moran would sleep for 1 ½ - 2 hours at the bottom of a foxhole, eat K-Ration meals and spend every hour in the weather. Cold, tired and hungry, the soldiers suffered daily casualties resigned to the fact that they were “either going to live or going to die.” He continued to slog along facing the relentlessly violent environment and “luck” of war. Promoted to squad leader and sergeant when his squad leader was killed, he led his men in the Saar Valley, the Ardennes and the Battle of the Bulge, crashing through the Siegfried Defensive Line.

Crossing the Rhine River was a terrifying experience. In the dead of night on March 23, Moran led his men to the river where wooden boats awaited. Eight to a boat, plus an engineer; 144 men began to quietly make their way across. In previous days they had suffered from hidden snipers, nothing prepared them for the hell that awaited. Desultory fire gave way to the staccato of 5 heavy machine guns, then 20mm Anti-Aircraft Guns joined as “bullets [were] screaming off the water.” Moran’s boat was struck numerous times, rounds passed over him and pierced the heart of the man behind as the bullets continued to “zing off the water.” About 70 men were left to climb the banks and assault to the edge of town where they wait for daylight to clear the buildings. They would “chase” the Germans out of town continuing the assault through Germany. Along the way earning a Bronze Star and a Purple Heart, Moran ended the war on the Czech border.

As Germany surrendered on May 7, Moran contemplated his unit’s planned movement to the Pacific. Little did he know that he would return to the United States in July or that while training at Fort Benning, the war would end. Nor did he think he would go to Marquette University and meet the young lady he would marry.

Moran believed he fought a “just war,” but also that “war is a stupid thing.” He was proud that he was able to contribute and bring some fellow soldiers home alive. Moran was also proud he managed to keep his honor through the horrors of war, and he thought of those that were “willing to stand up and take the risk.” A devout Catholic, he believed “God will be kind to them.” John was quick to remind others that we are all “brothers and sisters” and exhorted all to follow the “golden rule” and love one another.

David Rosen found himself below deck on a Liberty ship named Carter. It was the early part of World War II. The ship carried cargo, airplanes, 20mm guns, and other unassigned army troops across the Mediterranean. It was headed for Algiers for the North African Campaign. Rosen was only a recent high school graduate and did not know what lay ahead.

“On the way to Africa, we had a three-day running battle in the Strait of Gibraltar, via air and sea. It was a frenzy of panic and we were not allowed above deck,” Rosen said.

The men on board Liberty Ship Carter could hear the crashing of bombs and pictured the worst. The lead ship in the convoy was sunk by a German submarine. Cries and wails would echo down below deck. Liberty Ship Carter would make it, but experienced other hardships along the way.

David Rosen served as a corporal in the Army Air Force and came from a family who did whatever they had to do to survive. The youngest of five, Rosen lived with his family through the Great Depression and survived by selling fruits off their walnut farm in El Monte, California. When he was drafted, he did not realize the gravity of going off to war.

“I didn’t have enough brains to be scared [back then]. Unless something seriously happened to you, it was sort of like a game. It wasn’t until I almost got killed in a bombing in Naples that I realized I could die.”

Something that would always encourage Rosen was the spirit of all his buddies. All young high school graduates signed up. They were eager to fight and stand up for something. Rosen would try to connect with his friends stationed in Naples, Italy, but unfortunately, he would not be able to. All would die in the war.

“When you get drafted or enlist, you’re all gung-ho, but you have no idea of what is going on,” Rosen said.

Rosen completed basic training in Fresno, California and from there traveled to Mt. Rainier in Washington. From there, he was shipped to Kelly Field, Texas, and then began the journey to North Africa.

From Texas, they traveled to Newport News, Virginia, where they were trained to disembark the troop ships via rope ladders. After training, they would embark to Algiers and Tunisia as unassigned soldiers to transport equipment up and down the coast of Africa for 2-3 weeks. Rosen’s first few days in Algiers were nothing like he expected: “We got into the Casbah and had heard a lot of different things about how dangerous it was. We walked through and bought a few things. Pretty soon, we were surrounded by the French police.”

An assignment came through for them to be transferred to the 1793 Ordinance Depot, stationed in Algiers. They were then told that the 1793 Ordinance Depot was in Naples, Italy. In Naples, Italy, they were told it was in Africa. In Africa, they were sent back to Italy. Army Headquarters in Italy would not tell the men where their unit was stationed. They marched up and down Italy for a week looking. They ended up in Bari, Italy, in a huge Army camp and then sent to Naples to locate their unit. They finally found a truck with the corresponding numbers on it, and the truck gave them a lift to their company. It was a journey just getting stationed and assigned as a corporal.

They would finally settle in Naples for about three years. During the course of the trip, the men would also run into a food shortage, promoting worry and panic from the entire group. They would be saved by a few oranges provided from a pastor on board.

Rosen received Air Force training and was originally intended to become a gunner but would become a mechanic due to a shortage. He also retrieved tanks and large equipment from ravines. He was surrounded by men who would become like family. It would remind him of his own family and the time spent together on their walnut farm. Throughout the war, Rosen would write letters to his older brother, who was stationed in the Unites States during the war.

Rosen’s time in the Army was colored by a handful of experiences. No two days were alike, especially while stationed in Naples.

Among these experiences, Rosen would nearly be killed in a bombing in Naples and would discover bodies among the rubble. It was during this time that he would fully grasp the mortality of war. Rosen was very young when he left and would even experience some anti-Semitism. He would also befriend eight Austrian POWs and escape an erupting Mt. Vesuvius in Campania, Italy.

When the war was over in Europe, Rosen felt he would never go home. He felt that he would continue serving in the Pacific. He would always serve.

“Nobody cared about anything too much, because you never knew if your last day was tomorrow.”

He would come home once the war was over. Some time was spent figuring out what to do next, when a friend got him a job. It was the push needed to eventually start a business. He would get married and also start a family with two children.

Rosen’s legacy reminds us to always be present. “When the chips were down, I stepped forward and was there to be counted on,” Rosen said.

He also encouraged younger generations to follow the news, be critical thinkers, and not lie dormant when history is unfolding before our very eyes: “Get involved in politics and do not be afraid to vote.”

Yeoman Second Class Richard Kellis grew up playing baseball and shooting marbles on the abandoned neighborhood lots of Los Angeles, California in the 1930s. He and his brothers, Leo and Larry, survived the Great Depression years with little food and sometimes ate oatmeal three meals a day. His grandfather worked at the American Can Company and helped the family by dropping off groceries from time to time. His father, a Yellow Cab driver, moonlighted as a bookie and was prone to have a few run-ins with the law. His mother studied at the University of Southern California and later worked at North American Aviation Incorporated in El Segundo as a quality control inspector, ensuring the aircraft leaving the plant met all industry and military specifications. The Depression was hard on families, and many children found themselves working at a young age. Richard took his first job at 15 working at the Thrifty Drug Store in Huntington Park washing dishes. He quickly advanced from waiter to soda jerk. By then he was making 35 cents an hour and gave his entire paycheck to his mother. When he was 16, the war ignited in the Pacific when the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor on the Hawaiian island of Oahu. He had been working at the store when he heard the news. He admits he was too young to understand what was going on but learned a great deal about the war in the Pacific listening to FDR’s evening fireside chats over the radio. Richard graduated the following year at the age of 17 and joined the Navy the next day. He recalls picking the Navy because he wanted to avoid hand-to-hand combat and dreaded the thought of shooting someone on the battlefield. In February 1943, he boarded a train for San Diego, ready for basic training.

At boot camp, the Navy required him to pass a swim test. Richard, now a young seaman recruit, could not swim and had to take remedial swim training on his own time. He passed with flying colors thanks to a distracted swim tester who did not notice the recruit was walking on the bottom of the pool not swimming. Like Richard, many young Americans at that time did what they had to do to join the service; sometimes it meant lying or cheating or both. Both a non-swimmer and colorblind, he reported to his first assignment, the USS Doherty (DE-14), an Evarts-class destroyer escort where he served chow on the mess deck to the crew and bussed tables. The ship sailed to Pearl Harbor where he got to witness first-hand the devastation and destruction that had been wreaked on the 7th Fleet by the Japanese invasion force. The destroyer continued to Anchorage, Alaska and then onto the Aleutian Islands and patrolled while U.S. ships supplied the Soviets with Lend-Lease materials. The young sailor apprentice then requested a transfer in May 1944 to Newport, Rhode Island to help commission the USS Pasadena (CL-65).

Richard sailed aboard the Pasadena, aside the USS Missouri to Trinidad for a shakedown, testing the light cruiser’s operational capabilities. After returning to Boston, the Pasadena headed south and traversed the Panama Canal then sailed straight across the Pacific for the Philippine Islands. They set off accompanying 3 other cruisers and 5 destroyers. Upon reaching the Philippines, they provided patrol support and bombarded Mindanao from offshore, softening the area for the impending American invasion.

In enemy waters of the Pacific, Yeoman Kellis manned a lookout aboard the Pasadena. His job was to scan the horizon with his binoculars and report Japanese plane positions to the ship’s 5 inch and 40 mm gunners. It was a hazardous job, and Richard recalls the Pasadena being hit by a damaged Japanese plane, and one of his fellow sailors being killed by the impact. He remembers being shaken by his shipmate’s burial at sea and by the gun salute for the missing Marine pilots who flew the ship’s spotter planes. Those pilots never returned home from a scouting mission, and he never found out what happened to them. The Pasadena, sailing with TF-38, survived Typhoon Cobra in December 1944. He remembers that during the storm sailors roped themselves to their bunks and that the deck reeked of vomit. The typhoon inflicted havoc on the task force, causing three destroyers to sink in the high waves and torrential rain. 790 U.S. sailors were lost to the storm. The Pasadena survived the typhoon and went on to provide costal bombardment and support to U.S. invasion forces on Iwo Jima and Okinawa. The cruiser later sailed into Tokyo harbor where the crew witnessed the signing of the Japanese Instrument of Surrender, hosted aboard the USS Missouri, which officially ended the war in the Pacific.

Richard’s last assignment was aboard the seaplane tender, USS Salisbury Sound, which endured a long career servicing aircraft and delivering cargo in both the Korean and Vietnam wars. After WWII, he joyfully celebrated VJ day on the road from San Pedro to Los Angeles. He hung up his Navy uniform and attended California State University Los Angeles where he had met his future wife in psychology class. He quickly worked his way up to general manager at a local manufacturing plant.

Richard Kellis served for 72 days at sea in hostile waters, surviving a massive typhoon and the constant threat of Japanese dive bombers. Every day of the war he received a letter from his loving mother. As a Yeoman, he was responsible for the records of enlisted and officers aboard the ships he served on. But as a brave American, he was the eyes of the ship’s gunners, searching for and spotting Japanese planes determined to sink the American fleet with bullets, bombs and in last desperate attempts of kamikaze attacks. He was a true hero who offered this advice to follow on generations, “The most important thing you can do is vote.”

Jack Trull was your average teenager that loved sports—baseball, basketball, and football—and enjoyed watching movies with his favorite actor, Jimmy Stewart, playing any sports role. When the attack on Pearl Harbor struck on December 7, 1941, young Jack was surprised about the turn of world events.

“It sure was a shock. I hadn’t never had any idea that it would be affecting the whole country like it did. Because I know Hitler was taking over in the early 30s as a matter of fact, I never thought that much about it because I didn’t think we were gonna be involved in any war, so I didn’t think that much about it.”

Growing up in Wichita, Kansas, Jack lived with his grandmother on his mother’s side. His parents and 5 siblings were a short drive away in Oklahoma City, Oklahoma. His brothers, Ellis and Maurice, would also serve in the war with the U.S. Army and U.S. Navy respectively. Prior to graduating Wichita East High School, Jack and his family would relocate to Woodlake, California, then settling down in Los Angeles. His parents managed a hotel in southern California, and Jack and Maurice would work in a theater cleaning up after shows.

Then in April 1943, Jack was drafted into the U.S. Army right before he volunteered to join the U.S. Navy. He was ready to serve his country and excited about the great adventure. Jack was sent to Camp Mackall, North Carolina, to train on the 55mm Howitzer weapon system. While at Camp Mackall, he was also selected to learn how to use the machine gun and went to South Carolina for training.

“I enjoyed that machine gun section. I was kinda hoping that I would get to play with the machine gun, but I still had to go back to the Howitzers.”

But his training wouldn’t stop at the Howitzers as he was appointed to the Airborne Division to serve in glider operations: “I don’t know how they chose . . . but I didn’t care. I thought at first it was gonna be good—might be like a pilot or something in the airplanes, but it didn’t have anything to do with airplanes. Gliders,” he said with a smile.

His glider training focused on take-off and landings. The two glider pilots were able to control the vehicle going left or right, but landings were basically controlled crashes and hitting the ground you were either lucky or unlucky. “We had good landings. Some of them didn’t. We were just worried about all the guys with us; we all needed each other.”

The Howitzers that Jack trained on previously would ultimately be loaded/un-loaded from gliders being pulled by C-46s and C-47s with a tow rope. As the rope was cut and the glider flew around 1,000 feet above the ground at 50 miles per hour, they would routinely take on flak and small-arms fire from the enemy when overhead.

Jack left North Carolina for England in August 1944, and then from England to France via a small ship across the English Channel. While in England, he would support the 75mm Howitzers field artillery unit, shooting rounds across the water at the German ground forces. When orders came down for the Battle of the Bulge, Jack grabbed his gear, his M1 carbine rifle, and was ready to fight. His biggest challenge, though, during that time was the cold weather.

“I couldn’t believe how cold it was. . . . It [coffee] was hot when they first poured it but before you had it drank down it was cold.”

During the Battle of the Bulge, shortly after landing in a glider, Jack remembers pulling a bazooka out of the glider and helping one of the glider pilots shoot down range, ultimately knocking out a German tank. The battle lasted a couple weeks before seeing the German’s retreat.

“It was funny one time this one German guy [soldier]—I don’t know where he came from—but he was out there. He said, ‘Ruskie coming from that way, Americana coming that way, I run to Americana.’ He didn’t want no part of the Russians.”

After the Battle of the Bulge, Jack went back to France and enjoyed a very short rest and recuperation period. Then the 17th Airborne Division was tasked and deployed to Operation VARSITY, the largest airborne operation in history to be conducted on a single day and in one location. As his glider landed behind enemy lines, he heard the differences firsthand between U.S. and German machine guns.

“The Germans were shooting machine guns. And we had machine guns. And when they would shoot, their machine guns would go ‘brrrrrrrrt,’ and ours would go ‘dot dot dot,’ and we usually heard ours last which was a good thing.”

With the skies filled with U.S. paratroopers and other gliders, Jack and his comrades worked hard to get the Howitzers unloaded from the gliders to be used against enemy forces. The paratroopers and gliders were sitting ducks. Upon landing, Jack felt “like the infantry” at this point, shooting his carbine down range and ultimately capturing a bunch of Germans that were surrendering.

As World War II died down, Jack was forward deployed to Austria to serve as military police detail. After a short time there, he returned to France as the war ended. Jack was discharged in January 1946 and returned home to California after the war.

Jack worked various jobs and met his wife while working at Goodyear Tire, marrying Betty in 1950. Jack and Betty would ultimately travel back to many places where Jack fought at during World War II, including visiting his brother-in-law’s grave in Belgium. Jack would continue to serve his community as a sheriff for 27 years, including time guarding Charles Manson, before retiring in 1980.

In August 1945, Marvin Artell Paske passed through the Union Pacific Railroad Station where his father worked. Asking the rail-workers if they knew his father, the men pointed in the direction of the shop that his father was working. It was too far to walk in the short time the train would be at the station. His reunion would have to wait a bit longer.

Marvin was born in Browns Valley, Minnesota on March 7, 1920, but grew up among a tight group of friends in the Belvedere Gardens neighborhood of East Los Angeles. Virtually every one of his childhood friends served in the military during World War II, and almost all came home to settle in their old neighborhood after the war.

Paske’s childhood was like others during the Great Depression. Finances were tight and the six children of the Paske household were given oatmeal for dinner on occasion as their mother tried to stretch the budget. The children all pitched in performing odd jobs to bring in money. Paske would wake at 3 a.m. to deliver newspapers for $10 per month until graduating high school in 1938. With no work available, Paske enlisted in the Civilian Conservation Corps and worked in the national parks in various conservation and ecoscaping capacities, and fought a few forest fires for $30 each month. Afterwards, he worked a series of manufacturing and labor jobs until drafted into the U.S. Army in November of 1941.

Requesting the Signal Corps while in-processing at Fort MacArthur, California, Paske was arbitrarily assigned as a medic. The rudimentary first aid training received at Camp Barclay, Texas seemed adequate until their commanding officer called the new soldiers together and announced that Pearl Harbor had been attacked. These soldiers would be going to war, and their 21-month term of conscription would be extended.

Completing training quickly, Paske served briefly at Camp Robinson, Arkansas and Fort Barrancas, Florida until sent to Fort Dix, New Jersey for loading aboard a troopship for the two-week journey to Europe. Once in England, Paske served as a ward attendant at the 152nd Station Hospital in England until late May 1944. As the D-Day Invasion loomed, Paske was assigned as the driver of a refrigerated truck used to transport whole blood products. With a complete load of 600 pints, Paske crossed Utah Beach in the days after the initial invasion and immediately traveled to Cherbourg, France and then participated in the Saint-Lô breakout where the landing forces were able to advance from their beachhead positions and begin their roll through Europe.

The destroyer escorts on his cruise to the war had fended off German U-Boats, and he had witnessed the Battle of Britain from the ground, but Paske was shocked at some of the sights he would see as he crossed Europe. As he travelled to support the individual aid stations and the field hospitals with “fresh, rich blood,” Paske saw a detached hand lying beside the road as well as a German officer burned to death as his tank was engulfed in flames. He experienced Buzz Bombs and V-2 Rocket attacks, and once shrapnel from a German bomb blew out the tires of his truck. Despite all that he experienced, Paske was fervent in the belief that he “was gonna get home.”

Paske was decorated with the Croix de Guerre by the Free French Forces for delivering blood to the beleaguered and surrounded airborne troops in Arnhem, Holland during Operation Market Garden. Overshadowing this award, however, was the opportunity to see his younger brother while overseas. Requesting permission, he drove until he found first the divisional, then regimental and finally company command posts of his brother’s unit. Whisking his brother out of a foxhole—with permission—from the periphery of the Battle of the Bulge, he took him back to his parent unit—a hospital—for three days in which his brother was able to get clean, eat, and sleep in a bed. Paske recounts this as being one of his best memories, and he and his brother spoke of it often after the war. The worst memory, however, was taking part in the liberation of the Buchenwald concentration camp in the last days of the war. Paske expressed shock and dismay to this day that “one person would do that to another.” Years later, Paske was still shaken by the memories of “corpses stacked like firewood,” and some laying on the ground, “too far gone” to save.

Returning to the United States, Paske and his fellow soldiers heard rumors of being transshipped to the Pacific Theater of Operations, but just prior to their arrival at Charleston, South Carolina, they learned of the surrender of Imperial Japan. Traveling cross country by train, Paske passed through his home in Los Angeles on the way to Fort MacArthur, his entry point to the U.S. Army, almost four years before. Out-processed and discharged with $300 in his pocket, Corporal Marvin A. Paske began the life he had put on hold at the age of 21. In 1951, he was hired by the Los Angeles Fire Department and left his job at BF Goodrich to continue to serve his fellow Americans. Retiring in 1977, he took a position as the Plant Manager of the Presbyterian church he attended, and with his wife working in the church’s daycare, he served another 20 years before finally retiring for good.

The advice Marvin Paske gave to both newlyweds and to the younger generation was the same. “Be pleasant to one another; find a solution” to any problems that may arise. Mr. Paske will be remembered as “a responsible, caring person” who during his nation’s greatest trials “did a wonderful job” courageously doing what his country asked.

Henry was the “baby” of the family, but he was too familiar with boys from the neighborhood going off to fight in World War II. Many of his friends had been drafted as had three of his older brothers. Therefore, it was no surprise when Henry received his draft letter on his 18th birthday. Henry proudly took his place in the famed 36th ‘Texas’ Infantry Division.

The 36th was shipped to the Italian front, first to Naples to fight in the battle of Foggia, then on to Rome. The Germans were fighting hard to defend the Winter Line, a series of fortifications which were focused around the town of Monte Cassino. On his first day in combat, Henry took the brunt of teasing from another soldier who described what the Germans would do when they caught him. Henry had enough and finally went to his sergeant.

“Tell that guy to keep his mouth shut, or I’ll blow his head off. He’s scaring the hell out of me. I don’t want to go to the front.”

In Monte Cassino, the Allies had the Germans running, then suddenly found themselves stuck in a counterattack. Henry endured living in a foxhole under the constant bombardment of German artillery. It was early 1944, and winter was another enemy testing the soldiers grit and strength. They burrowed down in their foxholes side by side and used whatever they had to stay warm.

One day in early February, Henry’s life drastically changed. The comrade beside him was peeking out of the foxhole. “Don’t advertise you’re in here!” Henry warned. “Nah, I’m fine,” his comrade replied.

Giving another warning, his comrade dismissed Henry again. “Ok, go ahead.” Henry stayed below and waited. All of a sudden, he glanced up. Blood was dripping down his comrade’s face. A bullet had gone through his head as he died beside Henry.

Shells and shrapnel were raining through the sky. When Henry heard the whistling of a shell, he knew he was safe. It was only when he couldn’t hear them that he was in trouble.

Moments later, a sharp, hot pain tore through Henry’s hip and he couldn’t move. A piece of shrapnel was lodged in his side. He was breathing hard as shadows fell over the foxhole. Two German soldiers looked down at him, rifles pointed. “Get out,” they ordered.

Henry struggled to his feet as they pulled him out of the hole, fear racking through his body. “They’re gonna kill me,” he thought to himself. “They’re gonna kill me.”

The Germans grabbed Henry’s gun, then stripped him down to make sure he wasn’t concealing any weapons. He was shoved into a line of other POWs. When the Germans found out he was wounded, he was taken to hospital in Florence for two weeks. From there he went through holding stations: Villa la Massa, Stalag 4F, and Stalag 2B. The POWs were sent in groups of thirty to various farms throughout Germany and occupied Poland. They were free labor for the Germans.

On a remote farm in Poland, Henry and his fellow POWs planted potatoes with which the Germans used to make moonshine. Flanked by two guards, they leaned over and packed the potatoes in the dirt. If the dirt wasn’t firm enough for their liking, the guards would pull the potato out, then beat the men with the butt of their rifles. Henry worked all day, his back in excruciating pain. Also working alongside the POWs were German women who were often beaten by a soldier whose nickname was “The Lone Ranger.” He carried a cane with a silver spike on the bottom with which he struck the women. He wouldn’t touch POWs. Only the guards would.

Henry wrote letters home and told his family everything was okay. “What could you say? You couldn’t say too much.” He wondered if he’d ever make it home.

They slept in a horse barn where water troughs were covered with boards and straw. Some were fortunate enough to have blankets while others only had straw to keep them warm. A pot of watery potato soup was cooked over a fire every day. The POWs couldn’t stand to look at another potato. Winter came, and their work went on. Near the farm was a lake where the POWs were sent to cut ice all day long. Their wet feet and hands quickly become frostbitten as they cut and carried ice back to the barns.

In the spring of 1945, as the Russians were advancing, the Germans began marching the POWs closer to Berlin. They marched for months in the snow, stopping at farms along the way. One morning they woke up, discovered the barn was unlocked and the guards were gone. Confused, the POWs looked outside. “Where the hell’s the guards?” Everyone was asking. They all had smiles on their faces. They knew something was up but didn’t know what. Someone spotted an American jeep and ran to meet their liberators. The American troops were just as surprised as the POWs. They had been on a scouting mission and had no idea the POWs were there. It was April 12, 1945, Henry’s mother’s birthday.

They were taken by truck to an Allied camp where they were given food and showers. After wearing the same uniform and not washing for months, their clothes were full of bugs and dirt.

Henry lost sixty pounds as a POW and was happy to finally see a variety of food, not just potatoes. He was sent back to the States and felt a deep sense of joy and gratitude when he saw American soil again. He took a cab to Chicago to surprise his family. He rang the doorbell and his mother answered, her face pale. She started crying. “I’m home for good,” he told her.

After being home for a month, he reported back to an Army base where he was promoted to PFC. Henry had extra points for being a POW for so long and was discharged from the Army in November 1945. He got his pre-war job back and fell in love. He married the love of his life, Lorraine, and had five children.

It was 1943, and seventeen-year-old Les Carlyle was eager to serve his country. He was out of high school and working for his uncle’s business when he enlisted in the United States Marine Corps. “One day I said, ‘I have to go.’ It was different in those days. Everybody wanted to go.”

Les had never been away from his New Jersey home before undergoing three months of boot camp on Parris Island, South Carolina. After boot camp, Les graduated from Radio Operators School in North Carolina where he learned to receive and send Morse code. He was then assigned to the 24th Marine Regiment, 4th Marine Division, which was shipped out of San Diego in January 1944. The division sailed directly to the Marshall Islands, landing on Roi-Namur during the Battle of Kwajalein.

An hour after Les and his unit landed, a Marine threw a TNT charge into a pillbox that turned out to be a torpedo dump. Les was two hundred yards away from the massive explosion. Pieces of concrete from the pillbox went flying through the air. “When it blew, it was unbelievable. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Lying on the ground as dust and dirt was filling the air, Les heard a man screaming, “Corpsman! Corpsman!” The wounded Marine’s arm had been severed from the falling concrete. It was the first Marine death Les had witnessed, a horrific moment that he would never forget. After the explosion, fear of what lay ahead flew through Les’ head. “My God, this is just an hour into combat. What’s next?”

That week brought rain and sunshine on Roi-Namur. The dead bodies lying across the battlefield swelled in the heat, emitting a strong odor. “It was a long time before I got that smell out of my system. It’s awful. One of the worst things you can imagine. At eighteen years old, you grow up pretty damn fast because you have to.”

After returning to the Marine base on the Island of Maui for further training and new replacements, the division landed on Saipan Island in June 1944. The Japanese had told gruesome stories about the Marines to the natives living on the island. When Marines reached the north end of Saipan, the Japanese were forcing people to jump off cliffs, including women and children. But the stories of Marine brutality to civilians were untrue. “It was terrible. The Marines wouldn’t have done those things. It wouldn’t have happened. It was very, very hard to take. Those suicides didn’t have to happen.”

After Saipan, the 4th Marine Division regrouped for a week before landing on Tinian, which was so successful that it was dubbed “the perfect amphibious operation.” However perfect it was tactically, Les couldn’t believe that anything could be considered “perfect” in war. “There’s no such thing as a perfect war.”

The Marines were on Tinian Island a week before regrouping once more on Maui. By this time, Les had emerged from three battles unscathed. He felt invincible. However, the next operation would shake everyone’s confidence.

“They didn’t tell us where we were going. We had no idea.” Only when they were out at sea were the Marines briefed on where they were headed. “They were telling us ‘Iwo Jima.’ I had never heard of it. We never could figure whether they knew how bad it was going to be and just didn’t tell us, or they didn’t know how bad it was. I don’t think they really realized what we were getting into.”

The 4th Marine Division prepared to land at dusk as a reserve regiment. As Les’ landing craft made their final run to the beach, the Japanese spotted them and dropped a round of artillery right in front of their landing craft. The Marine in charge of releasing the ramp was rattled from the explosion and immediately dropped the ramp while they were still in water. “The boat just turned into a submarine. It threw everything off. Now we had to swim ashore.”

Iwo Jima was unlike anything the Marines had encountered before. It was a volcanic island, and the black rocky sand was fierce. “When you step into it, you just sink. It would sink up to our ankles.”

The fighting on Iwo Jima was incessant, yet during a month of nonstop fighting the Marines hardly saw the enemy on the island. They were entrenched in 11 miles of tunnels with roughly 1,500-gun positions and outlets. Some of their tunnels went down three stories. It was said that the Marines were on the island of Iwo Jima while the Japanese were in it. It is believed that only about 200 of the 21,000 Japanese soldiers on Iwo Jima survived.

As a radioman, Les carried 35 pounds of radio equipment along with his gear. He had to run through the heavy sand with 145 pounds on his back. Les and his fellow radiomen were the direct eyes and ears for the regimental commander. After receiving orders to check an area, they would report back to the commander of the regimental operation post. Les was on patrol one day when a comrade was hit and evacuated. The corporal in charge of the patrol turned to Les, “Call the major and see what he wants us to do. Every time we move we get shot at.”

Les quickly called the major and explained the situation. “Hold on,” the major said. The phone was dead for a long moment. “Can you see Suribachi from where you are?” Les glanced up at Mt. Suribachi, a landmark that was hard to miss. “Yes sir, I see it.” “And you see what’s on it?”

“It looks like a flag,” Les said, squinting. “Yeah,” the major said. “It just went up while we were talking.” Les had witnessed an iconic moment, but he knew that the flag wasn’t a sign of victory yet. It was only day five on Iwo Jima. There was still a month of fighting to come.

Near the end of March, the island was taken, and the war was over for the 4th Marine Division. The 4th Marine Division suffered an estimated 17,000 casualties on Kwajalein, Saipan, Tinian, and Iwo Jima. Radioman Les Carlyle had once again defied the odds.

After the war, Les was accepted into the V-12 Navy College Training Program. He graduated from NYU and worked in research at UCLA before getting a job at the Douglas Aircraft Company. At Douglas, Les did research for aircraft used by the United States Air Force.

Throughout his life, Les returned to the black sands of Iwo Jima several times, recalling the courage and grit of the United States Marines during those fatal days of 1945. Admiral Chester Nimitz said it well when he stated, “Among the men who fought on Iwo Island, uncommon valor was a common virtue.”

Yoshio Nakamura’s family had a truck garden farm in Rosemead, selling produce to grocery stores in the San Gabriel valley. His mother passed away from breast cancer when he was five years old. After his mother’s death, Yoshio’s 14-year-old brother became like a second parent to him and his younger siblings.

Their family farm was cut in half when Rosemead Blvd cut through north to south. Because it became hazardous to cross a highway to tend to the farm, they then moved to El Monte, CA, where they continued to farm.

Yoshio recalled that all his life he’d been blessed with many people who helped him, even after he and his family were imprisoned in an internment camp after the attack on Pearl Harbor. He was in his junior year of high school when they were imprisoned.

While they were interned in the camp in Tulare, California, Yoshio’s former elementary school principal, Ruth Paul, took them goods they weren’t able to get in camp. Even after they were transferred to the Gila internment camp southeast of Phoenix, she and her sister would visit. She even stored some family keepsakes for them. “It was amazing that she had that much dedication and care for us,” Nakamura recalled.

His best friend, Kenneth Morgan, came to visit him in Tulare and was so upset by the conditions there he was unable to talk about it. Because of the support of his friends, Nakamura kept the faith that America would come to believe the internment was wrong. He never became bitter, but maintained a positive outlook, which helped him forgive his government. “Forgiveness is freeing,” he explained.

Yoshio was working on the family farm when they received news about Pearl Harbor. When they learned they would be interned, he described it as coming home one day to discover your family told you that you were no longer part of it. To him, the attack didn’t seem very smart. Nonetheless, “It turned life upside down for us,” he related.

After the attack, many Nisei—second generation Japanese Americans—wanted to volunteer for the military, but, because they’d been classified as enemy aliens, were unable to join. Nakamura recalled the intense propaganda which described the allegedly treacherous nature of the Japanese. “In war, you can’t paint your enemy kindly, but with the most awful things you can think of. Unfortunately, they painted us with the same awful brush,” he said.

Yoshio’s family was given about a two-week notice to take care of their farm before reporting to the internment camp. “It wasn’t long,” he remembered. “We had to sell some things, and it was a buyer’s market.

“One Mexican American man was so upset by our plight and how we were treated that he joined up with a Japanese family and deliberately interned with them,” he recalled, “If you showed up and said you had Japanese ancestry, you weren’t questioned. You were put in prison.”

They were shipped by train to Tulare when they disembarked, squads of soldiers with rifles awaited them. The people of the town of Tulare had assembled to watch the Japanese families as they walked from the train station to the race track. Nakamura remembered the voice of a small child asking, “Mommy, where are we going? And why do they have guns?”

Yoshio also recalled being forced to answer loyalty questions, one of which asked if he would forego allegiance to the Emperor of Japan. “That was one of the worst questions,” he said, “Because if you answered ‘yes,’ you were admitting allegiance, and if you answered ‘no,’ you were refusing to give up something you didn’t have. It was a question you couldn’t really answer.” But he figured he would just answer yes and hope that would vouch for his loyalty.

He also answered yes to the question asking if he would serve in the U.S. Armed Forces and be willing to go anywhere. A friend in Iowa offered to sponsor him. Nakamura accepted, went to Iowa and was inducted into the enlisted reserves. Shortly before going on active duty, he returned to visit his family in the Gila internment camp. He reported for active duty from the Gila Internment camp to Fort Douglas, Utah. After training, Nakamura was assigned to M Company, 3rd Battalion, 442nd Regimental Combat Team. M company was a heavy weapons company—mortars and machine guns.

The 442nd was an all Nisei unit with the exception of a few officers. Its motto was “Go for Broke,” and it would become the most decorated unit in U.S. military history with over 15,000 awards among the 18,000 men earned in two years of combat in World War II.

Nakamura said the 442nd originally deployed to Italy and then to France. General Mark Clark then requested the 442nd redeploy to northern Italy to try to break the German Gothic Line, which ran through the Apennine Mountains and protected the Po Valley. The Gothic Line was the last barrier to Germany.

After they arrived, they were ordered to climb Mount Folgorito and other mountains. Although the mountain was fortified, the Germans didn’t believe anyone would climb Mt. Folgorito because it was too steep and treacherous. But Nakamura’s unit was helped by Italian resistance fighters who led them in the dark through the narrow, zig-zagging pathways.

Nakamura carried the mortar shells. His friend Tak, carried the much heavier mortar plate; he’d drawn that assignment because jobs were assigned in alphabetical order. Yoshio chuckled as he recalled how grateful he was that his first name began with Y so he ended up with the shells rather than the heavy plate.

During the Folgorito climb, Tak fell. Like a turtle in his shell, he couldn’t get up because of the weight on his back. The path was so narrow that had he rolled too far to one side, he would have fallen to his death. Yoshio and another soldier had to go back and get him. No one in his squad fell; but others did to their death. Nakamura was thankful to make it safely to the top.

“We broke through so quickly we became a major force. We captured so many soldiers who were short on ammunition. Some of them told us, ‘We saw you, but we didn’t have anything to shoot at you with.’ Gee, that’s too bad,” Nakamura chuckled.

“We made it through to Genoa. There was a big celebration with parades. The anti-fascists were so happy they were free of the fascist rule. And the war was over by then.”

Two particular Caucasian officers stood out for Nakamura over the years. One was a Colonel Marty Higgins from Texas in the so-called lost battalion, the 1st battalion of the 36th infantry division—a National Guard unit—trapped by the Germans in the forest in France.

Desperate the 1st battalion was running out of food and ammunition, so the 442nd was sent to rescue them. Among those rescued was the Texas colonel who for years after the war would give talks about the bravery of the 442nd.

The second was Jerry Gustafson, an officer who was put in charge of another Nisei unit. At first skeptical of their effectiveness because of how short the Japanese American soldiers were, Gustafson learned through leading them in combat how effective they truly were. He, too, for decades after the war lauded the 442nd’s bravery.

Although Nakamura didn’t participate in the rescue of the lost battalion—he was one of the replacements for the men lost in the rescue—he remained grateful for the continued support of the two colonels. For his part in breaking through the Gothic Line, he was awarded the Bronze Star.

When decades later President Reagan signed the formal apology from Congress for the internment of Americans of Japanese ancestry on behalf of the United States, Nakamura was pleased. “We had become the scapegoat, but it takes a great country to apologize,” he stated.

He felt exceptionally fortunate for his life. “I’m very proud of the fact that Japanese Americans stayed loyal to the country,” he said.

“I have a very good relationship with my family and extended family. A great group at church, many friends, my fellow veterans, and all the people who want to help us,” he smiled. Nakamura has had countless honors given to him, from being the Grand Marshall of the Whittier Christmas parade to an LA Dodgers Hero of the Game.

“But I don’t look on these honors that have been bestowed on me as personal. They represent the real heroes,” he insisted. “They went through many battles. Many of them were injured or killed in action, so I’m glad that I’m around and glad that I can represent them. I’m not a hero. A lot many more people deserve the honor of being called a hero.” Most of us would kindly disagree.

Ray Chavez stood ready to serve should he be activated as a Naval reservist. “I doubt they’ll call me. . . but I’m ready to go if they do!” he declared. At 106, as the oldest living survivor of Pearl Harbor he frequently participated in commemoration ceremonies and parades. Mr. Chavez joined the Naval reserves during the Great Depression because his family needed his pay to survive.

He recalled the hardships of his fellow San Diegan farmers, many of whom were forced to abandon their land and leave their animals to starve. Ray had quit school in his junior year and took whatever odd jobs he could to bring in money. But as a Hispanic in an era of segregation, it was sometimes difficult to find work. The Navy meant a predictable paycheck.

He was trained as a minesweeper and stationed aboard the USS Condor, a converted fishing boat whose wooden construction was preferred because unlike her steel counterparts she would not trigger the magnetic naval mines.

Ray worked the midnight to 0600 shift when they were at sea. On December 7, 1941 they were on routine patrol in the waters outside of Pearl Harbor. All was quiet with no indication of what was to come.

At 0345, Ray was at the helm, sweeping for mines, when the Quartermaster called out to the Officer of the Day, “Mr. McCloy, we got company here.” The Quartermaster had spotted the periscope of a small submarine attempting to enter Pearl Harbor. McCloy immediately messaged the ship’s captain, who ordered them to signal the Commandant of the 14th Naval District aboard the destroyer USS Ward.

At first the Ward’s officer couldn’t find the sub and didn’t believe Chavez and his shipmates. But at dawn a PBY aircraft spotted the midget submarine and radioed its coordinates to the Ward, which sank it.

Today the USS Ward is credited with firing the first American shots of World War II. Then all Chavez and his shipmates knew was that a sub that clearly was one of the enemy’s was trying to make its way into Pearl Harbor. “We knew the sub wasn’t ours because ours weren’t supposed to be there. If one was there, it was considered an enemy. . . The submarine’s crew couldn’t answer the challenge questions put to it by the Ward,” remembered Mr. Chavez.

A second Japanese mini-submarine made it inside the harbor but was quickly sunk by the harbor patrol. Ray finished his patrol as usual at 0600. Dead tired, he headed to his nearby home in naval housing, extremely exhausted, he told his wife he didn’t want breakfast and went to sleep. “It seemed as if I had been asleep for about five minutes, and she came in yelling, ‘We are being attacked! Wake up! Get up!’”

At 0800, his wife had awoken Ray to tell him the harbor was being attacked. The dense black smoke, which they could see from their home, obscured the view across the harbor. He told his wife to get ready to evacuate. She and their young daughter were given 15 minutes notice and were allowed to take only what they wore and a purse. The Navy took them first to the YMCA in Honolulu but the next day were told the Japanese were bombing Honolulu, so they were relocated to Schofield Barracks in the mountains. Two weeks later, they were evacuated to the U.S.

On December 7, though, Ray was half-asleep when his wife came screaming and didn’t believe her. He just wanted to go back to bed. She convinced him to get up and look out the door. As they were both looking towards the harbor, a very low flying torpedo-bomber flew by. They looked at the pilot and he looked at them. Then Ray got dressed and a friend picked him up by car and drove to the Condor.

As he left his home, a Japanese plane carrying a torpedo below the fuselage flew directly over him, so close that he and the pilot made eye contact. Ray knew the pilot had readied the torpedo to target a ship in the harbor.

The Condor was small enough to be able to race out of Pearl Harbor to undertake an immediate mine-sweeping mission during the attack. Mr. Chavez remembered they were never really in danger because the Japanese Zeros were focused on U.S. ships inside the harbor.

While searching for mines, a destroyer cut across the Condor’s stern and tore up her mine-sweeping equipment. She was ordered back to Pearl Harbor for repairs once it was safe. As they entered the harbor later on December 7, “everything was still on fire,” Chavez recalled. “It was horrible. There were men jumping from listing ships trying to save themselves by jumping into the water. The water was covered in oil that caught fire. Men burned to death. . . We weren’t allowed to pick up survivors because the Condor was too small.”

Because his family had been evacuated to California, Mr. Chavez sought and received a transfer to the troop transport USS La Salle, which picked up troops all along the west coast and took them to various locations in the Pacific theater, such as Guadalcanal and New Caledonia in the South Pacific. Ray served out the rest of the war on the La Salle, participating in convoys of all sizes.

They often picked up combat casualties who were treated on board, sometimes overflowing the 15-bed hospital. “There were so many wounded we put them in passageways and on deck. . . It was hard to see the men all torn up. I tried to visit them, especially the Hispanic ones. I’d see them in the morning all healthy and clean. They’d come back later that day all torn up. That was hard.”

Ray and his shipmates first got word of the war’s end while they were at sea on their way back to the U.S. West coast to pick up troop reinforcements. They couldn’t believe it. “We looked at each other and didn’t say a word. We waited to celebrate until we got official word that it was over,” he remembered. They were ordered to San Pedro, California. No one was there to say, Welcome home!”

“I used to shake like a leaf after being through so many battles,” Chavez reflected. “I had to take a physical before I was discharged. The doctor wanted to send me to a naval mental hospital, what he said was the best hospital in the Navy for combat fatigue. I said, ‘I’m fine, I don’t want to go,’” Chavez recounted.

Ray knew he wouldn’t be able to get a job after the war if future employers looked at his records and saw that he had been in a mental hospital. He returned home and stayed with relatives for a couple of years until he “got over it.” “Took me about three years to get over it. During battle, you don’t sleep, you don’t eat. At night, you’re still awake, but here I am!”

Chavez paused, as he reflected on his service in the Navy. “I’d do it again. I like the Navy,” Mr. Chavez concluded.

Lester Lindow and two friends were heading out, the morning of December 7, 1941 to surf at Waikiki. Just as they stepped out of their quarters on the battleship USS Maryland, a plane with a big red ball on its side flew past. The bugler blew General Quarters and shouted “This is no shit!”

Although 19-year-old Lester’s primary job onboard was baker, his battle station was as a trainer in the enclosed “pit” of one of the Maryland’s 16” battery guns. For the duration of the first wave of Japanese attack, he and his crew manned the gun, firing as they’d trained for in peacetime. They felt the explosion when the USS Arizona blew up although it wasn’t until afterward they realized what had happened.

During a lull between the first and second wave, Lester was directed to move to his backup battle station as a trainer on the open seat of an on-deck 1.1” gun to replace a sailor who’d been killed. Being out in the open made him uneasy, but it was his job. “You just lay the body to the side and keep firing.”

Lindow spent the rest of the day helping people out of the USS Oklahoma, berthed right next to the Maryland, and pulling bodies out of the water. By the next day when he heard FDR’s declaration of war over the ship’s loudspeakers, he wanted revenge “but you also do what they tell you.”

The Maryland limped back to the shipyards at Bremerton, Washington for repairs with the hole in her bow stuffed with mattresses to stave off the seawater. Although they encountered a terrible storm along the way, they managed to safely make port. There they stayed while the ship was repaired.

For a few months, life returned to normal for Lester, who baked pies, cakes, and bread for her many crew members and occasionally staved off a bout of homesickness. He was especially close with his mother, who’d moved them from his birthplace of Wisconsin to Oregon when she and his father separated. Lindow had joined the Navy in 1940 on a whim two months before he would have graduated high school and after he told his stepfather “the heck with you!” during an argument. Why the Navy? According to him, “I don’t know; I just did!”

Upon the Maryland’s return to service in 1942, Lester was among the sailors who provided Pacific fleet support at the Battle of Midway before being ordered to the Fiji Islands to provide support for the Battle of Tarawa.

At Tarawa, Lester knew the Marines were encountering fierce resistance from the Japanese, who were so well dug in and fortified that for first time in the Pacific theater, U.S. troops encountered serious resistance to an amphibious landing. He remembers feeling very bad for them yet also proud that he and his crew were providing shore bombardment from the battery guns, doing what they could to soften the defenses.

Shortly after Tarawa, Lindow transferred to the escort carrier USS Kwajalein. One of his most memorable experiences was when the First American Volunteer Group of the Chinese Air Force, nicknamed The Flying Tigers, came aboard. While the Kwajalein took them to Guam and Saipan, Lester had the opportunity to talk with the pilots about their experiences as unofficial combatants prior to the United States’ official entry into the war.

Tarawa would be Lindow’s last combat encounter. Not long afterward, he was transferred to Fleet Air Wing 2 at Kaneohe Naval Air Station, Hawaii. Grateful for shore duty, he spent the last two years of his service baking and training new bakers and was promoted to Chief Baker shortly before he left the Navy.

Lester found out the war had ended as he was driving out the main gate of Pearl Harbor. A guard yelled out “It’s over!” He was within 3 miles of where he’d been when the war started at Pearl Harbor 4 years earlier. That night he and many others went to Honolulu to celebrate.

Although Lindow had started flying planes at a young age and passed a test to become a Naval aviator, he’d decided against becoming a combat pilot. After the war, he continued to fly, amassing 7,000 hours of flying time and eventually becoming a volunteer pilot with Doctors Without Borders. For 20 years, he flew doctors all over Mexico. At age 96, he still occasionally flew, had his commercial license, and was instrument rated.

Years later, Lindow reflected on his wartime experiences, noting that there were many more good times than terrible ones. He chuckled about how much he and his fellow bakers hated rendezvousing with destroyers whose crews would take all their bread because their own bakers weren’t allowed to bake while at sea. But Lester’s shipmates still had to be fed, so he and his baking crew would work 24/7 to catch up making all the bread they needed.

And he wished the draft had never been stopped “because we’d have a lot more fine men today if everyone had to serve.” Wise words from one of the Greatest Generation.

Cape Gloucester. Peleliu. The horrific events that took place on these Pacific islands will be indelibly marked in Chicago native Sam Reiner’s mind. When the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor in 1941, Sam was seventeen and eager to enlist in the Marine Corps. He would have packed his bags and gone overseas right then had his mother not given him a firm “no.” “You don’t know what war is all about,” she said.

Young men from every state and city were enlisting and serving their country. Sam intended to be among them. He impatiently waited until his nineteenth birthday to be sworn into the Marine Corps. Sam’s service began with his first train ride which took him to San Diego, California for basic training. It was 1943, and the war was raging in Europe and the south Pacific. The United States Marine Corps taught him how to kill his enemies. He was young, strong, and ready to fight for his country.

Sam boarded a ship for Melbourne, Australia with the 1st Marine Division. Their interlude lasted three months before the Marines were shipped out in December for the invasion of Cape Gloucester. These young men should have been home celebrating Christmas with their families but instead were fighting for their lives. For too many, it was their last Christmas.

On his thirteenth day in combat, Sam was in the last squad of the last platoon when he heard shooting in front of him. He peered up into the trees to locate snipers. Suddenly, he felt the heat of a bullet rip through his neck. It grazed his spine and came out his right shoulder, causing him to drop his rifle.

A sickening feeling fell over him. He didn’t know where he was hit or how severe the wound was. He hadn’t planned on getting killed or even wounded. The thought never entered his mind. “Johnny, I’m hit! Johnny, I’m hit!” He called out to a comrade.

Johnny came running over and saw the blood coming out Sam’s neck. Johnny took out a bandage, then paused. “Wait a minute,” he said. “You got another hole in your back.” Later on in the battle, Johnny became another casualty of Cape Gloucester. Out of forty-five men in Sam’s platoon, only thirteen walked away unharmed.

Sam was carried away on a stretcher to a tall grassy area. A priest kneeled beside him. “Son, may I bless you?” asked the priest. Sam shook his head. “No, I happen to be Jewish.”

“That’s okay. God bless you anyway.” The priest began to walk away. Sam tried to give him his weapon. He would never forget the priest’s response. “I have a far more superior weapon than you have.”

After thirty-one days in a New Guinea hospital, Sam returned to his company but was still experiencing pain in his right shoulder. When he was refused a pass to the sickbay, he went over his lieutenant's head and reported to an army doctor.

“What the hell are you doing here? Your fanny should be back in the states,” was the doctor’s response to Reiner’s wound. He was given paperwork to get off the island.

When his lieutenant saw Sam marching back into the company with a paper in his hands, he said, “What are you doing, Reiner?” “I’m going home,” Sam replied. “No, you’re not. Let me see the paperwork.” He took the paperwork and tore it in half. Sam was thrown into the next battle: Peleliu.

On the ship to Peleliu, an announcement was made that whoever was wounded twice would be sent back to the states. Ready to escape the madness and hell of warfare, Sam tucked that information in the back of his mind. In Peleliu, blood was spilled and chaos reigned, taking the lives of countless young Marines.

On their thirtieth day in battle, Sam and a comrade had to relieve a machine gunner in the middle of the night. Marines needed to tell time in the pitch dark without becoming a target. In the day, Sam and his fellow Marines would collect fireflies and keep them in matchboxes. At night, they simply held the firefly by its wings over their watch.

At two-thirty in the morning, Sam sat back to back with his comrade, each manning a machine gun. They opened fire when they heard leaves rustling and the sound of Japanese voices. All was quiet. A few hours later, his comrade said, “Sam, we better go check on them. You go first.”

Despite his fear, Sam did as he was told because otherwise he would be labeled as “yellow.” He cautiously approached the Japanese soldiers. One was lying with his face in the ground. The other was in prone position. To be sure he was dead and not holding a gun underneath him, Sam shot the first one. Suddenly the second soldier tried to get up. Sam emptied his whole gun into him and took his gun and sword.

As he started back for his machine gun, Sam noticed a Japanese hut down the hill. A Marine called out, bringing Sam’s attention to a Japanese soldier who was still alive. He took aim and fired three times. An explosion ripped through the air; the soldier had been holding a grenade. Sam caught three pieces of shrapnel in his neck. The night before Sam had prayed, “Please God. Give me a small wound so I can go home.” That was his ticket home.

After recovering from his wounds, Sam was transferred to a U.S. prison camp as a guard and drill instructor. He married his wartime girlfriend Lil, and, after the war, they moved to California where Sam was in the printing business for sixty-five years.

“Nobody wins in war.” Sam’s words hold truth. He was proud of his service but knew well that war leaves scars.

As a teenager, Joseph McCracken proved himself as a skilled worker at a local electrical shop in his hometown of Middlesboro, Kentucky. He didn’t know it at the time, but this skill would prove helpful in the war years to come. After high school, Joseph packed his bags and moved to Alcoa, Tennessee where he studied at Lincoln University. The United States was on the verge of getting into the war, and manufacturing was moving in that direction as well. Joseph got a job at Alcoa Manufacturing and landed a position in the electrical department.

By then, men were being pulled out of industry to go into service. Even though Joseph had been given a deferral, he decided to go ahead and “join the fray.” After he traveled to Knoxville and enlisted, he was placed in the Army Air Corps college training detachment which was a program created to train future officers for the Air Corps.

Joseph was working at Alcoa Manufacturing and studying in the college training detachment when he received a phone call from his parents in Middlesboro. “You need to get home. You’ve got a telegraph here from the military telling you to report to Fort Thomas,” his father said. Joseph had a week to move to Fort Thomas in Cincinnati and be sworn in before being sent to a military base in Biloxi, Mississippi.

One day, hundreds of men were out in a field for calisthenics and roll call. The man calling roll looked down at his clipboard and discovered that he had missed a whole page of names. Joseph McCracken was the first name on the page he had missed. The next day at roll call, the men were instructed to fall out if their names were called.

“McCracken.” Joseph looked up, startled that the first name they called was none other Joseph McCracken. The man calling roll had not put the pages back in order. Along with thirty men, Joseph was put on a train and sent to Ohio where he stayed for three months in the college training detachment at Mt. Union College. Joseph wanted to be a pilot, a position highly sought after. The next highest position was a navigator followed by a bombardier.

To secure one of these positions, a man had to receive high scores which Joseph did. His scores were so high that he qualified to become a pilot. He was shipped down to San Antonio, Texas where he went through pre-flight basic flight training, and advanced training before being sent to Fort Worth for B-24 training. Joseph was then sent to Lincoln, Nebraska where he was assigned his ten-man crew. The crew was stationed in Boise, Idaho for combat training where they learned to work together and fly with other planes.

“We were disappointed that we were all equipped to go into combat, but they didn’t have any planes here for us to take. So, as a result we didn’t get to fly into Europe. We went by ocean liner.”

Joseph was barely twenty when he stepped on European soil for the first time. After going through orientation flights in England, he went on to fly over thirty bombing missions across France and Germany. Their objective was to bomb German factories, railroads, and airfields. Joseph and his crew dreaded bombing missions over the Ruhr Valley. It was a German industry hotspot that was heavily defended.

Joseph’s plane was hit by flak on nearly every flight, and he lost an engine more than once. “We would have some damage—a hole here and there. It didn’t take much to punch through aluminum skin.” The entire success or failure of a mission depended on the nine-plane formation that every pilot was trying to keep up with despite flak or engine loss. A pilot’s quick thinking could either save or sink a crew. Their defense depended on all the planes, not just one.

On one particular mission, Joseph felt a mix of fear and apprehension build inside of him. Anti-aircraft bursts lit up the sky. The grinding of the four engines bomber was deafening, but through his helmet and earphones he could hear the muffled sound of explosions and feel the vibrations rack through his body. Suddenly a shell exploded, knocking out the Plexiglass windshield. A piece of shrapnel hit his co-pilot’s apparatus and oxygen tubing followed by dead silence. They were both peppered with shards of Plexiglass. After Joseph shook off the initial shock and realized they were still flying, he looked over at his co-pilot with a sickening feeling. Was he dead? Joseph reached over and tried to get his co-pilot’s attention. Thankfully, his co-pilot was all right and managed to get back on oxygen.

Joseph experienced another close call toward the end of the war when they flew to Berlin which was heavily defended. When Joseph and his crew got back to base, they discovered that they’d taken a shell through their vertical fin, but it miraculously didn’t explode. If the shell had exploded, it would have put an end to both the plane and crew.

Joseph returned from the war on June 22, 1945. Despite the many frightening moments, he had a positive experience serving in the Army Air Corps. “Keep the peace” was his advice for future generations.

Yvonne Carson came of age when she and her family fled on foot to the border of France immediately after the German invasion of Holland. Yvonne, her two sisters, her brother, and her parents were living in Ghent, Belgium. Her childhood wasn’t the best. One day she was in school, and the next day she escaped with her family because the Nazis had occupied Holland overnight.

“That was the end of my childhood. I had nothing anymore. Everything was gone. . .” It was May 10, 1940. She was just 12 years old. Thousands of people thronged the streets of Ghent, wondering what to do now that the war had abruptly interrupted their lives. Yvonne’s family knew they needed to leave right away even though they had no money because the banks were closed, and her parents were unable to withdraw their funds.

“I had to grow up right away,” Yvonne reflected. “I didn’t normally have much to say because I was the youngest one in the family. They didn’t always talk around me, but when the war broke out, they let me in on their discussions. Where shall we go? What shall we do? My father wanted to go back to Holland where he was born, but if he had we all would have ended up in a concentration camp. When they started talking about France, I spoke up and said, ‘We should go there!’” When they reached the border, they lurked for a while, feeling suspicious that some of the cars in the lengthy lineup contained German policemen. They were able to cross without incident.

The Red Cross wasn’t prepared for the sudden flood of refugees and had nowhere to accommodate them. Yvonne and her family sneaked into a barn after the farmer had tended to the cows early in the evening. They would sleep with the cows, which she and her family were thankful for their company, despite the inevitable swarm of flies.

Then they sneaked out early in the morning before the farmer returned to tend to the cows.

“People in France were very nice, and they probably would have let us sleep in their house. But if the Germans asked they would have to tell them they had a couple with children who were in hiding,” Yvonne explained.

They came to a small city, Pas de Calais. A large group of farmers, when the air-raid siren sounded, went under-cover on a big boulevard with large trees covering the place. The Germans bombed the whole area.

“When we came out of our hiding place we found the group of farmers, mothers with their small children holding in their arms, animals all trying to escape dead. The only ones that were still alive were some horses with a very wild look and confused eyes. I never forgot that moment in my life when I saw all these dead people and animals,” said Yvonne.

The Carson family’s destination was northern France. One day they jumped on a train, some men—probably spies—asked, “Where are you going?” her father pointed to the opposite direction where they actually were going. They arrived safely at the village in the North. After they had been there for about a year, a Dutch consul came to town and upon discovering Yvonne’s family was Dutch, relocated them to a designated refugee village in the South.

Shortly after settling there, Yvonne and her oldest sister became seriously ill with jaundice and typhoid fever. Both of them were hospitalized for several months in a room with about 20 to 25 beds. Yvonne was the youngest of the patients and quite frightened.

While the two of them were recovering in the hospital, the rest of the family went to Limoges to another refugee house. When she and her sister were well enough to be discharged, they were sent by train to rejoin the rest of their family. Once reunited, they discussed how they could escape from France. Their first plan was to get to England by going to Paris than taking a plane to England. But the French soldiers forbade them. “We had to follow the orders from the soldiers.”

Yvonne and her sister had talked while they were hospitalized about escaping to Spain once they recovered their strength, even though it would be an arduous trip through the Pyrenees. Her brother rejected the idea because the trip over the mountains would be impossible for his mother and sisters to make. He had twice escaped France already over the Jura mountains into Switzerland but had been caught and sent back.

Neither Yvonne nor her family knew yet about the concentration camps as there was no information on the radio about it.

After her brother refused to cross the mountains with them, he himself found a guide who claimed she was English and helped young people escape to England. She showed him her papers, but the guide was a fake. Her brother was captured and imprisoned in a concentration camp in France.

According to Yvonne, “After the war we learned that he never reached England, and that is why we couldn’t find him. The last time I saw him he was 19 years old, and I was 15 years old. I have official papers from the Germans that they caught him. I don’t know exactly how he died.”

Shortly thereafter, they were ordered to wear the yellow star. But Yvonne remembered that “instead my dad burned them.” That’s when they knew they had to leave France. Yvonne and her oldest sister gave an ultimatum to their parents, “We are going to look for a guide. Are you coming with us or not?” They agreed, so after three years in France 15-year-old Yvonne and her family walked through the Pyrenees to Spain with the help of a guide.

As Yvonne remembered, “There turned out to be six Frenchmen who fled with us; they didn’t want to fight in Hitler’s Army. My family and myself had false French passports, which were provided to us by the Red Cross through the French underground.”

They were nearly caught after someone must have spotted them through the street and alerted the Germans. The street they just traversed was closed off while the authorities hunted for them, but the girls and their parents evaded capture.

When they safely crossed into Spain, the police in a small village picked them up, and after talking to the Dutch Consulate, they put them into a nice Hotel. There were sheets on the beds, a bathroom, and a dining room with white table clothes, something they hadn’t seen for years. She acknowledged they were overjoyed to be safe.

Yvonne always wondered about the fate of the young Frenchmen. She learned they had been jailed, but nothing else thereafter. After arriving in Madrid, they felt safe, even though they were still refugees. After that, Yvonne and her family were sent to Jamaica by ship with nothing but Dutch refugees. They were some of the last Jews that escaped into Spain.

From Jamaica they were sent to Suriname, a Dutch Colony in South America. As Yvonne remembered, “We were free there, but my parents decided to go to Havana, Cuba. For the first time in years they were free and my father could work there in the diamond business, work that he had done before.”

Although Yvonne and her family had reached safety, she still wanted to do her part. She had fled the war in Europe but opted to participate in the war in the Pacific. She was barely 17 years old when she joined the Dutch-Indonesian Army after learning they needed women in Indonesia, which was still occupied by the Japanese.

The training was completed in the United States before they were sent to Australia where she learned her job for the Army, Intelligence Service NEFIS.

After her work in Brisbane, Australia, a group of Dutch girls were sent to Indonesia to continue working. Yvonne ended up at the head office of the intelligence code room to continue her job. As Yvonne recounted, “From there I was finally sent to Batavia, Indonesia where I continued the same job. I had to work long hours there, but enjoyed my job very much.”

Yvonne and her two sisters who had all enlisted ended their Army life as sergeants and they decided to return to Belgium. While on the ship, she had the opportunity to interview women who had returned from their concentration camps to Holland. As Yvonne sadly noted, “My biggest regret is that by returning to Europe I learned that all of my family were killed during the war.

Yvonne promised to write a book about her war experiences, which she finally did in November 2013, entitling it Silence and Secrets. As Yvonne reflected on her life, “I went through a lot of things in my life—a little of everything, the good and the bad. I’m going to stay around as long as possible. I’m happy here in my little house. Lots of friends are here; we picked the right place to live.”

Nicolas Huerta, one of many siblings, was born in Los Angeles, California in 1927. He was a son to parents born in Guadalajara, Mexico who were said to have walked across the border to eventually settle in the United States. “They were poor, poor people. They were workers” said Huerta of his parents.

Huerta grew up during the Great Depression where “you didn’t have a lot. Well, you didn’t have jobs,” said Huerta. His father worked as a paymaster for the railroad but was making very little money. Huerta started working at a young age and worked part-time jobs wherever he could in efforts to help support the family.

The details of his childhood were a bit foggy, but he easily remembered the day of the sneak attack on Pearl Harbor, the U.S. naval base near Honolulu, Hawaii. He was at a show when King Kong was in theaters and entry was only ten cents a ticket! “You didn’t know what was happening,” he said. He was only 14 years old at the time.

In his spare time, Huerta played “ball”—baseball and football—but baseball was his passion. He played as a catcher and as a third baseman all throughout high school.

At 18 years old and a recent graduate, Huerta decided to enlist in the Navy. It was 1945 and a few years into the war. “That’s what I wanted,” he said of his choice to pick the Navy over other branches of the military. It was said to have been a “cleaner” environment than that of the Army or the Marines. Two of his brothers also enlisted and served in World War II, both of which chose the Army.

Basic training took place in sunny San Diego, California. “You just did what they told you,” said Huerta of his experience training before being shipped out. It took 5 or 6 days to travel from the U.S. to the Pacific, and Huerta remembers traveling “all over.” He was assigned to the USS Hancock.

He trained and served as a gunner on the ship, which would carry approximately 100 planes, but “sometimes more,” according to Huerta. He became skilled with the use of 20mm and 40 mm autocannon guns, Huerta worked where they needed him.

Four carriers traveled together. Each ship housed approximately 5,000 soldiers. Huerta recalled close to 20 sections of bunks “all over.” They were tight quarters and not a lot of personal space, so they had to find ways to pass the time.

Soldiers on the different carriers would box each other for fun. They didn’t intend to injure one another, and it was all in good fun. While away at sea, Huerta fought 21 fights. “You usually went 3 rounds, 4 rounds,” he said.

Huerta recalled his time in battle while out to sea. They used two-person fighter planes during battle, the pilot positioned in the front and the gunner in the rear. Fifty of the 100 planes on the ship took off routinely in an attempt to gun down opposing aircraft.

They gunned down Japanese airplanes from their Navy ships. He witnessed planes go down, ships sink, and their ship get hit by three Japanese kamikazes, or suicide bombers who intentionally crashed planes into their ships. They “went up” at least 5 times throughout his time at sea, Huerta recalled.

He described firing at the Japanese as unbelievable. “You would just shoot all over the place. There was no certain guide or certain person. . . .” Huerta said of the intended target. There was so much crossfire that you didn’t know whose ammunition made the actual impact and how many people you lost in the attacks.

In all the time spent out to sea, Huerta never left the ship, except to take flight in battle. Occasionally he wrote home and kept in contact with everyone except his brothers who at the time were stationed in Normandy, France and Germany.

World War II ended in September 1945, and in 1946, Huerta returned home from the military. “The battlefront disappeared, and with it the illusion that there had never been a battlefront. . . .” TIME magazine wrote. This was what the transition was like for Nicolas after fighting in combat during the war.

Upon his return, Huerta pursued his passion for baseball and played in the minor leagues, mostly for fun because there was no money in sports. “They were the Angels at that time,” he said proudly of the name of the baseball team he played for.

Jack McEwan only had 2 hours and 14 minutes of flying experience in a B-17 when he was sent into combat as a co-pilot in the South Pacific. After joining the Army Air Corps, Jack received basic training in California followed by advanced flight training in Phoenix, Arizona where he trained on North American T-6s and earned his pilot wings.

“They told us as we graduated that they needed 100 pilots for foreign duty. We were a bunch of heroes, we thought. We’d go get the Japanese.”

Jack was sent to Hawaii and assumed he would be flying a single engine plane. He soon learned that he was to be a co-pilot on B-17s. One evening at a staff meeting, they announced that the following men would go into immediate combat duty in the South Pacific. Jack McEwan’s name was called. “I didn’t even know the procedure in the cockpit. I was scared to death.”

Jack worried about his upcoming deployment as he attended church service that evening and told the chaplain his fears. “He assured me that if I would try to do the best I could and be the best I could, God would take care of me. He did!”

During combat in the South Pacific, Jack and his 10-man crew made bombing raids on Kahili Airfield, a large Japanese air force base. The B-17s took off at night armed with 100-pound bombs. One night during their bombing raid, Jack climbed back into the bomb bay to watch the bombs release as searchlights streaked the sky. The bombardier released five bombs. Jack watched as they tumbled down and exploded right over the searchlight.

On another mission over the Kahili Airfield, Jack’s crew made it through the South Pacific thunderheads and arrived at the airfield with two 2,000-pound bombs in their bomb bay. Blasts of anti-aircraft lit up the sky and relentless explosions filled the air. Suddenly, the engineer started screaming, “Zeros, Zeros!” Japanese fighter planes were in view.

"Drop the damn bombs! Get rid of those bombs!” The crew was flustered. As Jack remembered, “This was our bombardier’s moment of glory. He had never dropped a 2,000-pound bomb in his life. He had two of them, and he had a big target.” The green light flicked on. “Bombs away!”

One bomb hit the runway; the other landed where the Japanese were bivouacked. The pilot, Captain Ivy, put the plane in a roll over, flying down 6,000 feet before pulling up and leveling the plane. Jack looked up at the controls and noticed that two RPM controls had slipped out of their locks and had fallen to zero, and the needles on the right-side engines were rapidly dropping. Jack pushed the controls back into their lock just in time.

While on Guadalcanal, the crew had time to regroup and watch a movie near the beach. All of a sudden, a Japanese bomber came diving toward them. Jack and his comrades dove for a pit that was topped with logs for protection. The bombs dropped beyond them as they all hit the entrance at the same time. As they looked up, the Japanese plane was still there, but now the Army Air Corps was on him. Everybody on the island began cheering when the enemy plane started to flame on one wing. As it turned to retreat, the plane burst into flames, and the island exploded in thunderous applause.

The crew had another close call in Guadalcanal when they lost an engine. As they landed at the base, the engineer hollered, “Hey, come look here.” There was a bullet hole underneath the wing, and another in the bomb bay door. That was the closest call Jack had while in combat. He flew 58 missions over the South Pacific, miraculously emerging unharmed.

Jack flew in combat until August 1943 when his crew was relieved and sent home. B-24s were now coming in and replacing B-17s. “It was quite a thrill to come into San Francisco at 2 o’clock in the morning and go under the Golden Gate Bridge.” All the airmen, soldiers, and sailors on deck began hooting and hollering, "They can’t get us now!" To no longer be in constant danger of enemy attacks brought relief and joy to all those aboard. From there Jack was assigned to an air base in Nebraska. He became a base operations officer, staging B-17s to England and B-29s to the Pacific.

Jack received the Distinguished Flying Cross, the Air Medal with an Oak Leaf Cluster, and the Presidential Unit Citation Ribbon and obtained the rank of Captain. When remembering the men that he fought with, Jack said they were the cream of the crop: “They were the best that the United States had. We were patriots. We were one.”

John Dupuis was fresh out of high school when he landed a job with the Douglas Aircraft Company in California, working on DB-7 bombers. He loved aviation and hoped to someday become a pilot. When Uncle Sam came knocking in 1942, John was newly married to his high school sweetheart and was an expectant father. He joined the Army Air Corps but didn’t request pilot training out of respect for his grieving family who just learned that his brother was killed in a mid-air collision at an Air Base in Colorado.

John went to basic training in Santa Ana, California where he was greeted by soldiers screaming “Go back! Go back!” as the new recruits entered the Air Base. That wasn’t exactly the welcome he was hoping for. John’s excitement for the Air Corps began to dissipate as he faced the realities of war ahead of him.

He was then sent to Kingman, Arizona for aerial gunnery school where he was met with terrible food and scorching August heat before being transferred to Albuquerque, New Mexico for bombardier school where John’s wife joined him during three months of training. His last stateside training was in South Carolina where he got acquainted with B-25s in which he would go on to fly 70 missions as a bombardier.

John’s crew flew their brand-new B-25 to Central America and down to Brazil where they refueled before heading to West Africa and Italy. Their main objective in Europe was bombing the Brenner Pass, the only supply line between Germany and Italy. John’s first bombing mission was a milk run—an Air Force term for “easy mission.”

But not all missions were milk runs. John, as the only medic aboard, had to give his co-pilot shots of morphine on the way back to base after their B-25 was hit by German guns. John could smell the gunpowder and see “black flowers” form in the sky from anti-aircraft fire. Shrapnel grazed the thin metal exterior of the B-25. Ping, ping, ping! It sounded like rocks hitting a tin can. John’s crew were forced to leave the co-pilot at a landing strip base hospital and didn’t see him again until after the war.

The Germans weren’t the only ones shooting at John’s crew. During one mission across Yugoslavia, they were supposed to coordinate with the Russians to help their troops. “When we got over there the damn Russians started shooting at us!”

During his missions, John was always thinking of his wife and baby back home. “I'd say a little prayer on every mission that if I didn't get home, God would take care of my wife and my baby.” John had a close call during his thirty-fifth mission when shrapnel pierced into his leg. As the only medic aboard, he tended to his own wounds. “I wasn’t hurt that bad. I just put a big bandage on my leg, and, when we got back, I went right to the flight surgeon, and he fixed me up.” The flight surgeon insisted that John stay in a hospital overnight, but he refused. He wanted to get right back to flying. “I wanted to stay with my crew. You get so attached to your friends.”

After flying 70 missions, John was sent back to the United States and reassigned to serve in the Pacific. He was stationed in Texas while preparing to be shipped overseas when the atomic bombs were dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, leading to the end of the war.

After the war, John served five years in the Air Force Reserves. He finally had enough of military life and started a farm with his wife and children in his home state of Iowa. They didn't have electricity or running water in their house, so they began remodeling. “I always liked that kind of work—fixing things. I didn’t know anything about farming, but I was so anxious to settle down and have a home. It was the happiest time of our lives.” After years of farming, John and his wife moved to California to retire. They both agree that life has been “quite a ride.”

Barney Lugo’s first combat experience after he was drafted was meant to be at Bastogne. But fate had other plans for him.

While training to become a radio operator, Mr. Lugo was pulled out of school, given orders to ship to Germany, and earmarked as a reinforcement for the Siege of Bastogne. But before he could get to Europe, the American troops had broken the siege and Lugo was no longer needed.

He was put on a ship for the Pacific with the heavy winter uniforms he’d been issued, then almost immediately he was sent to the Philippines as part of the 24th Infantry Division. When Lugo arrived, he was ordered to burn his winter gear before being issued uniforms suitable for the climate.

Mr. Lugo’s unit was allied with guerrillas of the Filipino Resistance, during the Battle of Mindanao in mid-1945 against the Japanese. Armed with a .45 revolver, a carbine rifle, and a radio, he bivouacked on high ground above a river so close to the Japanese that “every morning we’d wave at ‘em – then pew pew! Shoot at ‘em, and they’d shoot back at us.”

One of his buddies was killed. “I didn’t feel scared,” Lugo explained, “I went to have a smoke, looked over a tree and saw my buddy dead. ‘That’s life,’ I thought. He was a good buddy of mine.”

They settled into a routine: bivouac, call in for fire support from ground or naval forces, and engage Japanese forces.

While in Mindanao, as Lugo was preparing to ship to Japan as part of the occupation, his captain asked if he would volunteer one of his men to go back to the Philippines and fight alongside the guerrillas. But Lugo refused to send anyone else, insisting he would do another stint with the guerrillas.

“I was in my Army uniform because that’s all I had with me. They didn’t have uniforms. They were just a bunch of guys—no organization—killing [Japanese]. [There were] about 15 of them. Fighting for revenge.”

They had bivouacked at a location where farmland and jungle met. Lugo had been assigned a bodyguard, who was “a little Filipino guy who had knives, a gun, bullets, a bolo knife and bayonet. He was loaded up! I said, ‘Luis, if someone shoots you, you’re gonna blow up the whole camp!’ ”

Sometimes Luis would disappear on his own mission. “One day he came back and dumped something in my lap. It was a pair of Japanese ears. I said, ‘Don’t bring me no more stuff. I don’t want Japanese ears as souvenirs!’”.

Once Lugo had gone down to the river and discovered a cache of gold coins, jewelry, and other valuables the Japanese soldiers had put there. He was going to take some when he heard a noise and thought “I’d better get my ass outta here.” Lugo grabbed a hammock with mosquito netting as he scrambled away. “That’s all I took. The hammock was more valuable!” They were living in muddy foxholes among swarms of mosquitoes. Although both his lieutenant and captain offered to buy the hammock and netting from him, he refused.

Only one time did Lugo feel fear. He’d decided to go see a Filipino man named Pedro, who had been bringing them fresh fruit. On his way to Pedro’s, walking a narrow jungle path, he abruptly encountered a Filipino wild man, who had rocks dangling from his elongated earlobes and whose mouth and teeth were stained red, and carried a machete. Barney trained his .45 at the wild man’s heart and ordered him not to move. For a long minute, they stood at a standoff until they edged past each other and went their separate ways.

“What are you doing here!” Pedro exclaimed when Lugo arrived. “He could have killed you!” When Lugo replied that he’d had his gun pointed at the man’s heart, Pedro just laughed. “Your head would be rolling on the dirt before you could pull the trigger.”

Years later Lugo felt the same fear wash over him when he met up with his nephew Omar who had large black discs in his pierced earlobes. “I had a fear of dying. But God was always with me. I was fortunate.”

After three months, Barney said goodbye to his comrades and left for Japan. While there he was hospitalized with malaria, from which he recovered well enough to hunt beer and chase girls. “I could smell beer at a distance,” he laughed.

One adventure in particular stood out. His captain had them rob a bank “to pay for the occupation.” They entered the bank and ordered the staff to give them money. Lugo’s captain was so jumpy that he didn’t recognize him at first. “It’s Sergeant Lugo!” his squad mates reassured the captain, who had been close to shooting Lugo.

They calmed down the tellers, and then the captain shouted, “Don’t kill me or more soldiers will come kill you!” Despite his frayed nerves, they left with the money without incident. The captain had even promised to give them a receipt for what they’d taken.

Not long afterward, Lugo was sent to Sacramento and discharged from the Army. He headed home to Glendale but grew bored after returning home. Lugo wandered California for a time picking grapes and working as a longshoreman in Richmond, CA. Eventually, he ended up in southern California with a job with Hughes Aircraft where he raised his family.

What compelled him to volunteer with the Filipino resistance? Lugo wanted to fight with the guerrillas to help them and to see how people defended their rights and their families. There was no Filipino army then.

He remained adamant that his experiences made him who he was. And his advice was to be a survivor. Learn to protect yourself and to live off the land. Finally, Lugo always remembered these wise words from his grandmother: be aware of everything.

Jack Higgins remembers where he was during the attack on Pearl Harbor—545 North Palm Avenue, Burbank, California. He was listening to the radio with a friend when all of a sudden, the announcement crackled through the speakers. From that point on, Jack devoted himself to physics, chemistry, and math, hoping this knowledge would help in the war years to come. His hard work paid off. Jack graduated from high school, then enlisted in the Navy Submarine Service.

Jack’s time in boot camp was cut short—only four weeks long instead of the typical six to twelve weeks. Because the Navy was short on men in the electronics field, they were eager to get people out into the field as quickly as possible. After boot camp, Jack was sent to Wright Junior College in Chicago for review courses on math, physics, and chemistry before being moved to Del Monte Hotel, now a U.S. Navy postgraduate school in Monterey California, for three months.

Then, after receiving instruction on radio receivers and transmitters, he was transferred to the Treasure Island area for sonar, loran, and radar training. Jack was later sent to Fort Trumbull in Connecticut before finally being stationed on a submarine, the USS Dentuda SS-335.

Jack served as a Radio Tech 2nd Class. His job included maintenance and repair on all electronic equipment. “Every waking moment I was literally going station to station checking equipment to make sure it was functional.”

The crew of the USS Dentuda practiced depth charges and calibrated their equipment before going through the Panama Canal and onward to Pearl Harbor where they spent a few days at the Pink Palace. But the time finally came when they had to board the submarine and leave American soil possibly forever.

“I remember standing on the forward deck as we passed and looking back at land. I said, ‘You know, this might be the last time I get to see dry land.’”

They traveled through the lower area of the Philippines and down through the Formosa Strait which became their primary patrol area. One evening, guided only by starlight, they picked up a large target in Nam Kwan Harbor on their radar. Uncertain whether it was a large rock close to shore or a ship, they monitored the object until they saw a doorway open and close within two seconds with a man inside.

The crew fired three torpedoes, one going beyond the target and exploding against the shore. This was to their advantage as the explosion created a white cloud that outlined the target. The other torpedoes hit mid-ship and made a popping noise. “Gee, is that all?” thought Jack standing on the Bridge, slightly disappointed. Suddenly the whole mid-ship exploded and sank exactly at 12:00 AM, July 4th, 1945—Independence Day.

On another occasion while on surface patrol, Jack was doing repair work in the conning tower. His back began to ache from the cramped quarters, so he took a break and stood up. He took hold of the periscope and scanned the horizon for suspicious targets. As he passed the starboard beam, Jack saw what appeared to be the bridge and periscope of a diving submarine. He hurried to the upper conning tower and yelled up to the CO on the bridge, “I swear to God I saw a periscope about a thousand yards out on the starboard beam!"

The CO reacted quickly and ordered “left full rudder.” Then, with the aid of the torpedo data detector, they picked up two torpedoes on their sonar that passed by on the starboard side. “If I hadn’t been on the periscope, I don’t think I’d be able to talk to you today.”

After a close call, the USS Dentuda headed back toward the Guam rest camp. As they approached Guam, the crew relaxed and started talking. One comrade said, “You know, I wonder what submarines are gonna be like in the future.” Jack, with an interest in physics, quickly spoke up: “Submarines are going to be nuclear powered. They’ll be able to go back and forth across the ocean three or four times before refueling and be able to remain underwater for a long period of time.”

The crew exploded in laughter as if it were the most hilarious thing they’d ever heard. When they arrived on Guam and settled into the rest area at Camp Dealy, a newspaper began circulating with the news that Hiroshima has been hit with a nuclear bomb. “A lot of people started looking at me like ‘What does he know that we don’t know?’ I had my retribution without saying a word.”

Life at Camp Dealy also brought a challenging situation for Jack and his good friend, Linky. Neither one cared for the taste of beer. As they walked around Camp Dealy, they began to get thirsty. They found a drinking fountain only to discover that the water tasted like oil after the Seabees had sprayed the reservoirs to kill mosquitoes.

“We decided we couldn’t stand the water, so we just had to have beer.” Since they could only buy two cans at a time, they traded off purchasing the beer for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. They got through two weeks at rest camp on beer. Years later when visiting his comrade’s grave, Jack knelt down with tears in his eyes. “I opened up two bottles of beer. I sipped on one and poured the other bottle on the grave. We had our first beers together, and we had our last beers together.”

After the war, Jack earned a bachelor's degree in electrical engineering and was among a select group chosen to work for the Atomic Energy Commission. He helped conduct nuclear tests on the islands of the Enewetak Atoll in the spring of 1951.

Jack is proud of his time with the Navy Submarine Service and would do it all over again if he had to. While many people cringe at the thought of being in a submarine day in and day out, Jack embraced the challenge with a Navy man’s wit: “You know what’s better than a Marine? A submarine.”

Growing up, Timothy Stewart experienced first-hand the effects of being black in the South. Yet his experiences of being racially profiled didn’t diminish his enthusiasm to serve his country even in the face of the Army’s official segregation policy.

In 1940, before the U.S. was even at war, he attended Prairie View College as an Army cadet. Originally trained as an artillery mechanic who had to repair all the weapons blindfolded by feel only, Stewart was assigned to the 121st Quartermaster Battalion and became a supply NCO after he deployed to North Africa. He drove a supply truck, offloading goods from ship, and delivering them to the armies of Generals Patton, Clark, and Bradley.

When his outstanding typing skills were noticed, Stewart was transferred to battalion headquarters as a clerk typist. There he typed up everything: supply requisitions, equipment loss reports—anything written that went in and out from headquarters, including requests from General Patton for supplies.

Although he knew segregation was official Army policy, the reality of living in the environment frustrated Stewart. He recalled a time when he went to see Lena Horne who was performing for the USO and refused to perform for segregated audiences. Tensions ran high; white soldiers tried to create a riot. Stewart remembered that many of the black soldiers had been trained in artillery and laughed that they had more ammunition than the white soldiers. Ms. Horne ultimately quit the tour after a group of black soldiers were excluded from her show.

Like many black soldiers, Stewart had heard that any black soldiers captured by the Germans were executed, especially after the Battle of the Bulge. “We heard the Germans massacred black soldiers but would take white ones as prisoners of war,” he explained. He was convinced if he’d been captured he would have been shot. Not wanting to face such a fate, he and his comrades were prepared to die fighting rather than be captured. Nonetheless, Stewart recalled, “We experienced a lot less stress than we did in America.”

While near Leghorn (Livorno), Italy in 1945, Stewart was wounded in a bombing by the Germans. He received shrapnel wounds in his chest and back. All he remembered of the incident was waking up in a field hospital near Piedmont, Italy. Stewart is grateful to whomever found him and took him for treatment before he bled to death. He recovered and returned to duty before the war ended and was later discharged.

Twice, Mr. Stewart requested a field commission to officer, both of which were refused by his chain of command of all white officers. And once he refused an order which he believed would get him killed. His refusal reverberated up his chain of command, and he was aware he risked being imprisoned. But in the end, he was exonerated.

Inexplicably, his official military record made no mention of his wounds, which Stewart attributed to the prejudice of the time. Although he had asked for his record to be corrected, he had yet to be successful over seventy years later. But Stewart remained undaunted.

After he returned home, Stewart realized that education held the key to success as a black person in the U.S. He returned to school, which he attended even into his senior years, and ultimately encouraged his children and grandchildren to do the same.

He had the opportunity to educate veterans of more recent wars about his experiences as a soldier, including developing a diagnosis for what’s now called Post Traumatic Stress, formerly called shell shock. And well into his 90’s he remained committed to fighting injustice.

The enthusiastic and ever ambitious Olive Britt sat at a desk in Washington D.C., earphones on and typing fast. She was a small-town girl from Mississippi who had worked hard at secretary school before being employed by the Federal Communications Commission during World War II. Olive was considered a fast typist and was assigned to type Hitler’s speeches late at night after they had been translated and recorded in English on cylinder disks. “I would type the speech, and interpreters from all nationalities would be there waiting.” Men in dark suits gathered around Olive, smoke from their cigars filling the air as they watched her type. They impatiently turned the cylinder of the typewriter to see what the next sentence was.

Olive got off work at seven in the morning and walked three blocks to her room at the YWCA. Along the way, stores showed reels of how the war was progressing. Because she didn’t own a radio, Olive regularly stopped in and paid 20 cents to see war news that she had just typed the night before. “At that time, I took it for granted. You just did. You were doing what you could toward the war effort.”

Olive wanted to enlist in the military when the Women’s Army Corps was formed, but because typists and secretaries were so scarce that the Federal Communication Commissions would not release her right away. After they finally agreed to release her, Olive enlisted and was sworn into service at the Pentagon before being sent to Georgia for basic training in December 1943.

She was then stationed at an anti-aircraft base in Georgia where 95 mm and 105 mm guns practiced every night. The ground would shake from endless explosions. Olive had a desk right outside the general’s office where she typed and took dictation, but some men were not happy to see women taking their safe office jobs. “On my first job, I replaced two men one week apart. Clapper and Kehoe both left very upset that I had replaced them.”

Olive worked on service records, each word painstakingly printed in record books the size of a passport. Each detail of the soldier had to be carefully printed. A camaraderie formed among the men and women in service. Olive received gifts of silk hankies, cushions, and souvenirs from soldiers stationed overseas. She corresponded regularly with them until one day, they would stop writing. Sadness and pain washed over Olive as she had to realize the deaths of her penpals.

In Olive’s experience, many officers and enlisted men resented the WAAC at first, but finally realized that women could fulfill a job and help the war effort. However, women were only given the safe jobs of secretarial work. Women were not allowed to participate in the obstacle course, shoot guns, or operate vehicles. While at Fort Knox, Kentucky, Olive spent weekends at her favorite place—the motor pool. The soldiers at the motor pool would allow her to drive a 4-ton truck forward and backward, but only to the edge of the motor pool.

A few of the soldiers Olive knew drove tanks and offered to teach her. She learned to drive on weekends and eventually was given a license undercover. “Until today the Army didn’t know that I learned on their dime how to drive one of those tanks!”

While serving in the WAAC, Olive met her husband George Britt when they were both stationed at Fort Bragg, North Carolina. One Friday night, Olive was walking from the women’s barracks to the airport to see if she could get a quick flight to Fort Knox. It was a long way to walk, so she hitchhiked to save time when a soldier driving a jeep suddenly pulled up beside her. He asked what the trouble was, and Olive replied that she wanted a ride to the airport. “Well, if you’ll come and have breakfast with me in the mess hall, I’ll take you over,” he said.

Olive agreed. After sharing breakfast together, the soldier took her to the airport where she got a flight to Fort Knox for the day. Olive got back to Fort Bragg at 9 o’clock that night and saw the same soldier lingering around the airport. “This same soldier—Air Corps guy—was there. He greeted me, and I was so surprised, but I still thought, ‘Well, it’s coincidence.’”

“I’ll give you a ride home if you’ll stop at the club,” the soldier said. Olive agreed once again. The next morning at breakfast, the soldier was in the mess hall. “He started appearing everywhere I went.”

Two weeks later, George Britt asked Olive to marry him. They waited six months and on October 5, Olive and George were married at Chapel 13—a marriage that lasted 44 years.

Olive served two more years before leaving the military behind and raised two children. Years later, ambitious and energetic as ever, Olive bought a 1942 Willy’s Jeep that she is now working on restoring. “I fell in love with my little Willy. It took me 64 years to get that thing.”

When thinking back on her service with the WAAC, Olive said, “You do what you gotta do when you gotta do it. When you’re in the middle of it, you don’t think about it as being exciting. You just want to get through and do the best you can.”

Joseph Sachen was just a teenager when he served as recon scout for the 1st Armored Division. The Old Ironsides—as the division was nicknamed—landed in North Africa on November 8, 1942 and was the first American Armored Division to see combat. As a scout for a reconnaissance squadron, Joseph located enemy tanks and radioed their positions back to his unit. He witnessed the horrors of war as men from the Old Ironsides were killed on the battlefields of North Africa and Italy.

Over seventy years later, Joseph still remembered the vivid images of war. His comrades were burned alive before his very eyes. “I could see them trying to get out of their tanks. They couldn’t make it.” He saw his first sergeant buried alive under the wreckage of a heavy bombing, his hand still moving. Joseph dug him out and miraculously saved the sergeant’s life.

In February 1943, devastation struck in Kasserine Pass, the first major battle that the Allied forces lost. The German army captured Old Ironsides’ B Company in its entirety, including Joseph who was in the 3rd platoon. “There were three of them against three of us, and that’s when we overtook them.” Joseph escaped with his life, but Kasserine Pass would forever be etched in his mind. “Kasserine Pass was one of the most vicious battles we ever had.”

The Old Ironsides reorganized in French Morocco before landing on the Anzio beachhead in Italy. Joseph and his comrades lived in foxholes and fought long and hard for over four months. The Old Ironsides were up against a German gun called “Anzio Annie” that could shoot shells up to twenty-six miles. They were shelling the American relentlessly in an effort to push them back into the Mediterranean. On one of Joseph’s missions behind enemy lines in Anzio, he was driving down the road when the sound of a machine gun fire suddenly split through the air. Bullets were spraying close to his head. If they had gone an inch further, Joseph would have been one of the 82,000 casualties of Anzio.

After they broke through Anzio, the Old Ironsides’ tanks rolled down the streets of Rome. They could still hear distant machine gun fire and see German tanks retreating as they pushed into the city and advanced into Italy. Joseph had another close call in Modena, Italy when he went to find a Ferrari and Lamborghini factory. Joseph hopped in a jeep and started driving when suddenly he heard bullets whipping past his ear. He quickly pulled off the road and into an empty garage, wondering what to do. “I don’t know how I got out of there. I hightailed it back to the lines. I told the Captain where I was and he said, ‘You can’t go there! We haven’t taken it yet!’”

During a patrol in Italy, Joseph and his comrades were in an open field when they heard two Stukas scream overhead. Two of the planes dove down, shooting their .50 caliber guns at the Americans. Joseph got nicked in the shin, but once again he survived a close call.

The Old Ironsides progressed north to Milan just as Mussolini and his cohorts were being hanged. Joseph took out his camera and captured the scene as they were strung up by their feet.

He then went on a detach service with the 10th Mountain Division who were fighting in the Italian Alps before returning to his unit when they liberated Dachau concentration camp in Germany.

While in Germany, Joseph had the opportunity to reunite with his brother who was serving in the 1st Infantry Division. It was the first time the Sachen brothers had seen each other in over four years. They enjoyed a few drinks together as they celebrated the end of the war. Joseph returned home decorated with two Purple Hearts and a Silver Star for his heroic service.

After the war, Joseph had a career as a musician, playing piano with the big bands who performed for Elizabeth Taylor and her friends at the Beverly Hills hotel. Joseph then went on to play the accordion for the USO on seven tours in Korea during the war.

Joseph suffered from nightmares about World War II throughout the rest of his life. The emotional wounds of warfare are lasting. “I wouldn’t do it again for a billion dollars,” Joseph said of the war. “But I had to go through it.”

Army Private First Class Art Frankel was born the year before the stock market crash of 1929. His father, born at the turn of the century, was from Lithuania and emigrated to the U.S. where religious freedoms were guaranteed. His mother came from a town on the Polish and Russian border. His traditional Jewish parents met in New York City but later moved the family to their eighty-acre farm in Moodus, Connecticut when Art was three. They lived in a drafty old farmhouse which they heated with firewood they chopped each fall. When Art was old enough, he helped with the firewood and with dirty jobs around the farm like weeding the fields and shoveling manure.

Art recollected a point where he was in high school where the U.S. supplied Britain with ships and armaments and then Japan bombed Pearl Harbor on December 7, 1941. He recalls that Americans rallied together after Pearl Harbor and those that were not joining the service were participating in metal, paper, and blood drives. Americans were required to recycle and conserve every household necessity.

From 1939 to 1945, the U.S. and its allies produced three times the number of military aircraft and 50 times the number of ships as the Axis powers of Japan, Germany and Italy. The Allies boasted a GDP nearly five times that of Nazi Germany and Imperial Japan. Essentially, the U.S. and her Allies were able to out produce the enemy in her factories thanks to the great American workers. American women replaced the men who had been sent to war in factories and plants building planes, tanks and ammunition.

The attack on Pearl Harbor was a turning point in American history that brought the U.S. into a bloody war with more than a million American soldiers, airmen, sailors, Marines and Coast Guard members killed or wounded. World War II began when Art was in high school, and men were being drafted in the Army. Art joined the Army toward the end of the war after graduating high school in 1945.

Art enlisted in the Army after the U.S. had dropped the two atomic bombs on Japan and after the war had officially ended. Art was sent to Fort Devens in Massachusetts and was assigned to the Army Air Corps. He was sent to Keesler Field in Biloxi, Mississippi. He remembers that at that time many GIs considered Keesler a “hell hole” due to its poor living conditions. Walter Winchell, a famous American newspaperman, also a vocal anti-Nazi and anti-communist, commented, “if your son's overseas, write to him; if he’s at Keesler Field, pray for him.”

Art was able to survive the rain and humidity of Keesler, bivouacking in the field, eating C-rations, and living in pup tents. He was sent from Keesler to Geiger Field in the state of Washington and then to Brooks Field near San Antonio, Texas. Always arriving ahead of his military records, Art was able to hop on military flights around the country, travelling back home to Connecticut, back across the country to Louisiana and back to his base in Texas.

On one occasion, he hopped aboard a B-26 bomber and rode in the co-pilot seat as the pilot buzzed low altitude over the deserts between San Antonio and El Paso. Upon return, he was amazed that his command in San Antonio didn’t even know that he had flown to Moodus and back.

He was then assigned to Langley Field in Virginia. Art had been trained as a Topographic Draftsman, essentially a scout for ground commanders. The draftsman would advance ahead of the infantry and observe the terrain and enemy positions then return and report their finding via pictures, sketches, and maps.

Art was also responsible for taking aerial photos and got a chance to fly many different military planes from the B-25 made famous from the Doolittle raid on Tokyo to Douglas A-26 Invaders, twin-engine, light attach bombers.

He recalls one flight where the pilot had to land his plane on one engine, as the other engine had caught fire, and the 18-year-old airman was instructed to prepare the other soldiers on board for a bailout. After spending 2 months convalescing in Augusta, Georgia and enjoying playing gold tees on the famous Master’s Course, Art was discharged two months early but still got full credit for 18 months of service and was eligible for the WWII GI Bill.

Art’s post-war life found him teaching and working as a guide at the Hoover Dam. After using the GI bill to pay for college, he attended Drake University in Iowa and got a bachelor’s degree in business administration.

After college, he worked in the ship design department for the Electric Boat Company where he helped build the first American nuclear-powered submarine, the Nautilus. After working on the famous submarine, Art began teaching junior and senior high school. He loved adventures and found himself climbing Mount Whitney at 14,495 ft and eventually sailing to Hawaii in a sailboat he built in 1976. Art went on to become a successful film and TV actor with over 65 appearances on big and small screens, most notably with Albert Brooks in the movie Lost in America.

Although Art was not able to serve overseas, he became a symbol of the commitment of young American men and women who answered the challenge of World War II.

Three of Art’s cousins fought overseas. Morris Frankel was a Marine. His cousin Marty was blown out of the landing craft that he was piloting during the D-day invasion on his 21st birthday. Teddy Frankel was awarded the Distinguished Service Cross in New Guinea and lost a lung in the battle but lived into his seventies. Teddy helped save three of his men under enemy fire and burnt his hands picking up a flame thrower, but his CO said that as long as he was in charge, no Jew would receive the Medal of Honor from him.

Unfortunately, anti-Semitism was rampant in the Army. The very thing that we were fighting against was also present in our own military. Art was one of 162 men that were Jewish in his unit. The men would check his dog tags and see he was Jewish then say, “Oh, you must be one of the good ones.” Thanks to the Frankel family, Americans today enjoy a much more peaceful world.

Cresencio Cruz liked his Browning Automatic Rifle. “Once you pulled the trigger, there were 20 shots just like that. A little heavy but I liked that gun.” And no wonder. It saved his life numerous times.

Cruz described his childhood as “not too exciting.” When he was 13, he and his family moved to California to find more work.

When Pearl Harbor was attacked, he was in Santa Barbara. He and one brother walked to a nearby service station everybody was really quiet. Someone said to them, “The Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor,” but they didn’t even know where that was.

Cresencio was 16 when the war started and never imagined he’d go to war. “All the movies I saw the soldiers were big guys. I said, ‘What do they want me for—a short, fat little Mexican?’ But I got fooled,” he laughed.

Drafted at 18, he went to basic training at Camp Roberts in California. When he finished basic training, he decided not to volunteer for the newly formed paratrooper. “I had never been on a plane, do you think I want to jump out of one, you’re crazy!” he laughed as he recalled his response.

Cruz’s first time on a ship, they sailed for twenty-three days to New Caledonia to the replacement center. Cruz was constantly seasick.

From New Caledonia, they were sent to Fiji where they were trained in jungle fighting by veterans of Guadalcanal and assigned to the 164th Infantry Regiment. Cruz and his friend Leonard Cortez were both there; they’d been together since their first day in the Army and had become close friends. They remained close friends into their 90s.

“He was crazy!” Cruz chuckled. For example, on Leyte, their lieutenant and Cortez would wait until dark then go out into the jungle to scout the enemy. Sometimes they’d stay all night. Cortez made sergeant quickly because of his exploits.

Once on patrol a machine gun opened up on the two of them when they were huddled together. They dove for the ground. Their squad mates yelled, “Are you all right?”

“Yeah, we’re all right,” yelled Leonard. “Ok, we’re going to call in artillery” was the reply.

Shortly thereafter, Leonard asked Cruz to carry his pack. “Leonard, I’m tired too, carry your own pack,” Cruz replied. Then Cortez turned around, and Cruz saw blood running down his back. “Leonard, you’re hit!” Cruz exclaimed. “Yeah, I know, that’s why I wanted you to carry my pack,” Cortez replied.

“Oh, I felt like, oh . . .” remembered Cruz. “That burst of machine gun fire—he got hit— but he didn’t say anything. He was probably so scared; he didn’t say nothing till I saw the blood running down his back.” Cortez was sent to the hospital, patched up, and eventually returned to combat.

Bougainville was the first combat experience for Cruz. He was so scared he was shaking. “The enemy broke through the line. We had to hurry up and go push them back to their own territory. At that time, I was a BAR assistant. I used to carry ammunition for the guy that had the BAR.”

A Canadian soldier who wanted badly to be in combat suggested to Cruz that he could go. “Hell no!” said Cruz. “It’s my job to go. The sergeant came in and heard him [the Canadian]. The sergeant said, ‘Let him go.’” Cruz obeyed.

When the Canadian soldier came back, “He didn’t want to be in the infantry anymore. He volunteered to be a typist. One time was enough for him.”

After ten months on Bougainville, they were sent to Leyte to help clean up some areas. Then they were sent to Cebu where they took part in the initial invasion. During the invasion, Cruz rescued two wounded soldiers.

“We were chasing the Japanese out of that area, and it started getting dark, so we dug in. They told us first platoon was on this [right] side of us, and they dug in as many men as they had. They told us we’d be close to them. And then as it started getting dark and the Japanese started throwing mortars at us.

“And that’s when this kid, he was the first in line in my platoon. At one time, I felt something lifted me up and dropped me. I felt a bang, and after a little while, I heard ‘Help me, help me. I’m hurt.’ And I thought, ‘Oh geez, what do I do now?’”

“So, I waited a little bit, and he kept yelling, so I thought I’d better go help him. I put my rifle on my shoulder and crawled to him. He was lying face down, and then I got him and I flipped him over. There was blood running down his face. I said, ‘I’m gonna take you to the first aid station.’ I put him on my shoulder and took him down the mountain through the jungle to the first aid station through mortar fire. And there was a guy at the entrance there. He said, ‘Gimme the password,’ so I gave him the password and he said to come on in.”

Cruz was sent back to his foxhole. A short while later another soldier was calling for help. “I did it automatically. I crawled over to his foxhole, and he was laying there with his jacket open, but I could see it was all blood in his chest. So, picked him up too, and I took him to the first aid station,” Cruz recalled. He paused and sighed. “And I left him there. I don’t know what happened to him because I never heard from him again.

“But the young one—the first one—he wrote to me and he sent me a picture of him, and he had a bunch of stuff on his face. Like bumps, you know? It was plastic surgery that they did on him.”

Cruz had several close calls. Once, two of his squad mates next to him were shot by a Japanese sniper. One was shot through the shoulder and one in the belly. “It would have been me; another few seconds it would have been me,” Cruz recalled. Just moments before he’d been kneeling where one of the men was.

“Another time we were on a patrol—me and William Brooklander—we were bringing up the rear. We got up there, and they said, ‘This hill’s where we’re gonna spend the night.’ We were tired. There was a tree laying across the trail. William cleaned up a spot on the tree with his bayonet. He sat down, and I sat down right next to him, his leg right against mine. I had my BAR in my arm. He reached over and put his rifle on the side, got up and started smoking a cigarette. And all of a sudden, bam! Bam!

“There was an enemy soldier behind him, hit him twice in the butt. And I was about that far from him—that could have been me too. We both jumped up. Brooklander pulled his pants down—there was a bunch of blood laying down there.” Cruz shot the Japanese soldier with his BAR and killed him, just as he thought the soldier was getting ready to fire at him.

One of Cruz’s close friends Tali was grievously wounded in battle and died in his arms. Cruz was asked by their captain to answer a letter in Spanish from Tali’s mother, asking how her son died. Mr. Cruz gave her details that he thought would be easier for her to hear; he didn’t describe his friend’s suffering.

After the war, he met Tali’s brother. Decades later, when he described the meeting, Cruz was still visibly distraught by the loss. He and the brother had taken a bus to San Francisco to meet Tali’s mother at her request because she wanted to talk with him about her son’s death. Cruz told her what he could, something that was very difficult for him.

While Cruz’s unit was preparing for the invasion of Japan, they learned the atomic bombs had been dropped and the war ended. “They told us we weren’t going to go anywhere,” Cruz remembered. “But they put us on a ship, and we went to Tokyo for the occupation.” He felt no animosity toward the Japanese civilians. “It’s not the poor people who start the wars.”

When they learned the war had ended, Cruz and his comrades celebrated all night. After several months in Japan, Cruz was sent back to the west coast of the U.S. He was discharged and easily adjusted back to civilian life. He helped his father with his store and was happy to be home. Eventually he took a job with Douglas Aircraft as a mechanic where he stayed for 35 years.

Although he developed nightmares and flashbacks from PTSD, they’ve subsided as the years have gone on. “I don’t have dreams about combat anymore,” he said. He received a Bronze Star for his service.

“I’m not a hero,” Cresencio insisted. “I just did what I had to do like millions of others.”

The day began as normal, Corporal Guisado was riding in the gun turret of his LVT-2 Water Buffalo, and the field of view afforded as a gunner on his vehicle allowed him to see his high school buddy Marty. Waving to him, he did not think much of the encounter as they had remained in touch, even though assigned to different battalions of the 2nd Marine Division. This was his second major battle of the war, and Guisado knew to simply call “Corpsman Up!” and continue the advance when a friend was wounded. The loss of a fellow Marine was sickening, and one from his own unit felt as if a family member had been struck. Marty was different. He was a fellow Marine who had shared boot camp and training with Guisado, but also a friend from before the war, a link to his past. The view from the gun turret as Marty went down was gut-wrenching. The hardest day of World War II for Guisado had nothing to do with physical hardship or danger, but everything to do with seeing his friend mortally wounded.

Born in the border town of Calexico, California on December 27, 1922, Donaciano Fernando Guisado was raised in Los Angeles. The son of a Spanish father and Mexican mother, Don remembered the day his father told his mother, “We have lost everything.” The elder Guisado was a white-collar worker before the Great Depression but was forced to work with the Works Project Administration as a ditch digger. Even though Don remembered “everyone was poor,” his father made sure that his family always had food. As he got older, Don worked a succession of jobs delivering newspapers, working for a movie set catering company, and finally working at a grocery store. It was while bagging groceries that he heard the radio announce the attack on Pearl Harbor on December 7, 1941. Continuing to work at the store and still too young to be drafted, he enlisted in the Marines on December 10, 1942.

Attending boot camp at the San Diego Recruit Depot, he was “scared stiff” by his Drill Instructor, Sergeant Jack, a “big man” and a veteran of Guadalcanal who told his recruits, “You are facing tough times; we’ll make you tough.” By April 1943, Guisado toughened and boarded a troopship headed to Australia for additional training and eventual combat. The opportunity for combat finally arrived on November 20, 1943 when the 2nd Marine Division stormed ashore on Tarawa Atoll.

Guisado watched troops climb aboard his tractor and watched the air and naval bombardment crashing ashore. The first wave landed. Then it was Guisado’s turn as his tractor pointed to shore and began the run to Red Beach 2. Behind the .50 caliber machine gun atop the tractor, Guisado had an excellent view of the island. The scene was chaotic as his vehicle moved ashore. Marines were covering behind a low coconut log sea wall, coming out of the amphibious tractors or wading ashore from landing craft unable to climb over the surrounding reef. The certainty that the Japanese defenses had been defeated was quickly proven to be overly optimistic. Return fire damaged Guisado’s #13 Amphibian Tractor, and he quickly joined the infantry since his vehicle was unable to continue its assault and logistics missions. Tossed over the sea wall by a larger Marine, Guisado continued the fight until the second day when he was wounded. With shrapnel in the eye, face, and chest, he was evacuated to a hospital ship, and then further evacuated to Hawaii. The battle continued to rage as Marines destroyed one pillbox and subterranean defensive position after another. Guisado was one of the 3,200 casualties suffered in 72 hours of sustained combat that destroyed the Japanese garrison and captured the atoll.

Guisado recovered and rejoined his battalion. Remaining on Hawaii, the Marines trained and received liberty to go to Hilo and then trained some more. This routine continued until June 1944 when Guisado again joined the second wave in the attack on the island of Saipan. Once the battle was joined, Guisado functioned and fought as he was trained. The worst part of any battle was already behind him since “waiting to land [was] tough.” It took three weeks of combat, and thousands of U.S. casualties, including the death of Guisado’s high school classmate Marty, but finally, the island was secured.

During the brief interlude before the invasion of neighboring Tinian, Guisado discovered the native Chamorro people of Saipan often spoke Spanish, having been a Spanish colony far longer than a Japanese possession. The two week “lull” between Saipan and Tinian was not truly peaceful as hundreds of Japanese holdouts continued to raid and snipe the Marines. Crossing the channel between the two islands, Guisado and his fellow Marines secured Tinian in what the Marine Corps considers a textbook amphibious assault, but Guisado dismissed as “a quickie.”

Afterwards, the 2nd Marine Division participated in the Okinawa Campaign as a reserve force, causing the Japanese to defend against an assault that never occurred. Returning to their base in Saipan, the division prepared for the invasion of Japan, which—after the atomic bomb—proved to be unnecessary. After the joyous celebrations on hearing of the surrender of Japan, the Marines created lists of those to be demobilized first. Guisado was at the top of the list having been overseas for 30 months.

Guisado later reenlisted, this time in the Navy. Serving throughout the Korean War, he left the Navy and enlisted in the Air Force, retiring in 1966. Following his retirement, he worked for the Post Office for 18 years.

The advice he gave future generations was simple, yet profound in its universality, “It’s hard, but if you stick with it, you’ll make it.” With a chuckle, he added, “Stay cool and vote in a good president.”

April 1, 1945 was Easter Sunday, but Donald Ambrose was assaulting Okinawa with the 1st Marine Division instead of hunting Easter eggs or going to church.

“It was kinda rough. We had to dig in. We experienced somewhat heavy resistance, but the Japanese felt like they were getting their asses kicked so they left,” Mr. Ambrose remembered. “We used flame throwers to clear Japanese out of the caves, and that didn’t take too long.”

Ambrose felt fortunate to have never been wounded. But one reason why he escaped a close call remained eerie. On Okinawa, he was sleeping in a foxhole with several of his fellow Marines when one of them got up and looked around. Donald asked him what was wrong.

"I don’t know, but I have to move,” his buddy said as he gathered his belongings and left.

Ambrose impulsively picked up his own belongings, and together with his buddy dropped into a different foxhole. Shortly afterward a Japanese shell landed in the hole where they’d been, killing all the men who remained there. Donald felt his fellow Marine’s intuition saved his life.

Ambrose fought with the 1st Marine Division for the duration of the 82-day battle before re-deploying to train for the invasion of Japan. After the A-bombs were dropped and Japan surrendered, Mr. Ambrose was transferred to the U.S. and subsequently took part in the post-war occupation of Japan.

At first, he felt animosity toward the Japanese but that soon faded as he realized there was no reason to feel angry.

Prior to the Battle of Okinawa, Ambrose and his division had spent time in the Marshall Islands preparing for an amphibious assault and awaiting orders. Although his regular job was as an aviation technician for Corsairs, “as a Marine, you’re set up to do almost anything,” he explained. And so, at Okinawa he went ashore fighting with the ground troops as they swarmed out of the LST the Navy had transported them in.

Conditions on Okinawa “weren’t great,” Donald recalled. “We had a rough time there.” They dug into their positions as quickly as they could as they encountered the initial Japanese resistance. It was his first combat experience, and he was just two years out of high school.

Growing up in Luzerne, Pennsylvania, Mr. Ambrose was one of six children in a tight-knit family. His father and uncles were carpenters who hunted deer and rabbits to provide for their families. Donald and his boyhood friends played basketball and softball growing up, walking to grade school and then taking the bus to high school.

In his senior year, a pretty freshman girl caught his eye from the second story window. “I used to watch her get off the bus, and she used to look up at me,” he smiled. They stayed together through school and the war and married in 1947. The sweethearts wrote each other frequently while he was deployed, and he remembered it was gut-wrenching for them to say goodbye. When they reunited after the war, “It was pretty nice. It was just terrific.” He beamed, recalling his love for his wife.

After Pearl Harbor was attacked and the U.S. entered the war, Donald wanted to fight for his country as soon as he was eligible. He enlisted in the Marines at age 17 and was sent to boot camp at Parris Island, SC. “Boot camp was a son-of-a-bitch,” he chuckled. “But I couldn’t have been prouder to graduate as a Marine. I’m still proud of it. There’s no better emblem than that.”

Indeed, Mr. Ambrose made the Corps his career from 1944 until 1967. He was in combat in the Korean War as well, a time he has tried to block from his memory. “It was tough,” he explained.

Yet he always knew the Marines would be his career. His wife wasn’t happy to see him deploy but she was supportive of his career. Life as a Marine Corps wife wasn’t easy, especially when they lost one of their baby daughters.

Near the end of his career, Donald deployed for what he described as a “nasty” 14-month combat tour in Vietnam. Not long after he returned he received orders for another tour of duty but by then he felt he’d given enough and chose to retire. He grew sober as he recalled the many men who were killed in Vietnam, especially because he felt the U.S. shouldn’t have been there. Mr. Ambrose felt grateful he had come home unscathed.

Ambrose and his family had settled in Santa Ana, California, and he found the adjustment to civilian life somewhat daunting at first. But his Marine Corps training—“The best training in the world”—had shaped him to be a man who could adapt to any challenge.

Earl grew up in Martins Ferry, a small town in the Ohio Valley that was hit hard by the Depression. Soon after he was born, his parents were forced out of the independent dairy business by an influx of large dairy companies that moved into the valley. They set up a small convenience store, in which young Earl grew up working with his older brother. Between school and work, Earl found time to participate in the Boy Scouts and obtained the rank of Eagle Scout. Shortly after graduating High School in 1937, Earl realized there was little opportunity for him in a small town still recovering from the Great Depression, and in 1939 he enlisted in the Army Air Corps.

His imagination had been captured by flight from a young age as his uncle had been a Master Sergeant in the Army Air Corps, and Earl had often paid the two-dollar fee to fly on the early Ford Trimotor planes at the local air field.

After enlisting, Earl completed aircraft mechanic school and was sent to March Air Field, in California where he was assigned to the 38th Reconnaissance Squadron in April 1940. At March, the 38th was given B-17As, which were barely held together with safety wire. Just about the time Earl and the rest of the mechanics got them fixed up, they were given newer B-17Bs and moved to a new air base in Albuquerque. Here Earl was promoted, first to Sergeant, and then to First Class Air Mechanic.

After a short time at Albuquerque, the 38th was given orders to reinforce the garrison in the Philippines. Most of the squadron was sent by boat but Earl and the rest of the aircrews were sent to fly their B-17s by way of Hickam Air Base in Hawaii. They took off late on December 6th, 1941 with nothing but a 2-gallon thermos of coffee for the 14-hour flight.

They approached the islands at dawn, and the sight was breathtaking. Over the headset, the flight surgeon’s voice crackled, “I wouldn’t take a million dollars to miss this trip.” The sun was rising over Diamond Head, and the pilot pointed out the smoke from near the harbor, explaining that it was the islanders burning sugar cane.

Just then, Earl noticed three fighters pass under their right wing flying the opposite direction. The radio operator, who had made the trip to Hickam before, nodded at them. “The navy always sends up a few fighters to bring us into the field.”

Just then the plastic canopy over the radio compartment exploded. Earl, the assistant crew chief, stood up to see what was going on.

Behind them, he saw a fighter so close that he could make out the pilot’s face. He ducked back down into the radio compartment. The fighter’s guns shredded the B-17, ripping through the cotton sound proofing of the radio compartment and filling the air like snowflakes.

The radio compartment caught fire, a situation made worse by the store of pyrotechnic flares that were stacked together. The radio operator and his assistant dashed through the back door of the compartment toward the tail of the airplane, while Earl tried to make his way to the pilot. He grabbed for his parachute, but the fire had already caught it, so Earl abandoned it and climbed forward into the bomb bay, shutting the door behind him. The flames singed his hair as he secured the door and made for the cockpit.

Black smoke was filling the plane, and the pilot was setting it down as fast as he could. He had opened a window to letting out some of the smoke that obscured his and the copilot’s view of the instrument panel.

They touched down in the nick of time. A moment after landing, the fire from the pyrotechnics broke the plane apart at the radio compartment, sending the two halves skidding across the runway.

The flight surgeon turned to Earl with blood spattered on his uniform and asked, “How do you get out of this airplane?”

“Well,” Earl told him. “There’s two ways: out the top escape hatch or down through the entrance door.”

Overhead, another fighter flew by, strafing the already burning plane.

“I’ll go down to the door.” The surgeon decided. Earl followed him, but outside more and more fighters swooped down low, strafing the airfield at ground level, and he decided that next to the landing gear would be a safer spot.

From under the gear, he watched as fighters swept low over the airfield strafing the planes that were on the runway. One of them dropped lower and lower until its auxiliary fuel tank hit the dirt and was ripped from its bindings, bouncing off the ground and into the air. The fighter’s propeller bit into the ground, spraying dirt and gravel until the pilot lifted it into the air and plunged it down on the other side of the airfield.

When the fighters were gone, Earl crawled out from under the landing gear and found the men who had been in the back of the plane when it landed. The bombardier was hit badly, the navigator was bleeding from an ear wound, and Earl was bleeding from a scalp wound. Also among the crew, the assistant radio operator was shot through the hip and groin, while the crew chief had been shot through the shoulder. Of the eight crew members, only the pilot, co-pilot, and radio operator came out of the plane unscathed. The co-pilot helped them find their way to the base hospital, where they were given special treatment because they were aircrew members.

What stuck with Earl was the chaos. Everything was chaos as everyone ran about the Island trying to do what they could to prepare for what might come next. Earl and the rest of the crew spent the next several weeks on Hawaii, repairing what they could and eventually flying 12-hour recon flights.

A few weeks later, Earl and the rest of his crew flew out to Australia, where they piggybacked off Australian installations. From their Australian base, they rotated in and out of Port Mosby, New Guinea to fly bombing and reconnaissance missions in their B-17s.

In November of 1942, now a Tech Sergeant, Earl was sent back to the States, where he served as cadre for establishing organization for the newly built airfields. While there, he received a direct commission as a 2nd Lieutenant and sent to a newly established airfield in Dyersburg, Tennessee, as a Squadron Aircraft Maintenance Officer. It was also there that Earl was awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross for his more than 50 combat and reconnaissance missions flown in the Pacific Theater.

After the war and now a Captain, Earl was put in charge of disposing of the 5,536 aircraft in the Pacific theater. Working with the Foreign Liquidation Commission in the State Department, Earl located the planes that were scattered around the Pacific. Some they used to refill squadrons that were under strength, but most were sold to the Chinese government or civilian contractors.

In one instance, Earl was told to outfit a P-47 group in Guam with seventy-five P-47 fighters. Close to Christmas Eve in 1945, Earl went up to Far East Air Force Headquarters building and told them the planes were ready. HQ told them that President Truman said they didn’t need them anymore and to pass word that as soon as the airplanes were disposed of, the pilots and ground crews could rotate to the states. The crews, on receiving the word, promptly dumped 75 combat ready P-47s off a cliff and into the Pacific Ocean.

Earl Watson retired as a Colonel, finishing his time in the service as the Vice Commander of the 390th Strategic Missile Wing.

Eugene Rutherford never thought the war would last long enough for him to be drafted. Then as it went on and his older brothers were drafted, Eugene realized he was next. He was pulled out of high school a few months shy of graduation.

Rutherford was initially trained in typing and bookkeeping. “They tried to teach us shorthand but that was crazy—we were never going to use shorthand.” Subsequently, he was sent to heavy weapons training, which turned out to be brief. They’d get one clip of ammo on a heavy rifle and a few bursts on a machine gun and that was it.

Three days after his 19th birthday he boarded a ship for Southampton, England as a soldier in the 69th Infantry Division. After arriving in Southampton, Rutherford was reassigned to the 78th Infantry Division as one of the replacements for troops who’d been killed or wounded.

He was part of a team that included machine gunners and mortar squads. They were trucked to Aachen, Germany. Although they arrived at night, it was still clear Aachen had been leveled by Allied bombing. “I don’t think there was a single building standing,” Rutherford recalled. But many of the cellars were intact, and they would bunk there, covering over the bunkers with canvas to block any light from the crews of the German observation planes who flew overhead.

On Eugene’s first day on the line on the outskirts of Aachen, they moved out about a mile to some farm buildings. His Platoon Sergeant ordered him to stay by himself in one of the buildings and look after equipment. “Someone will pick you up later,” the sergeant said.

Eugene waited as hours went by, and he was still alone. Near dark, a medic came by and parked. Rutherford went over to talk with him. “You look frozen,” said the medic. “Get in the van.”

While the two men chatted, Eugene saw something moving in front of them. He got out and looked around, but could see nothing more. He headed back to the van and then could hear men marching down the road. They were close. Eugene jumped into a roadside ditch, unsure if the men were Americans or Germans.

When they drew even with him, Eugene leapt up and shouted “Halt!” Five German soldiers threw their hands up and surrendered. He ordered the Germans lay down on their belly while they searched them one by one for pistols or other small weapons. “They were ready to surrender. They didn’t even have weapons.”

The next day Eugene learned his Master Sergeant, 2nd Lieutenant, and another soldier he’d been with had been killed. They had spent only a few days in Aachen before moving out before daylight behind a hedgerow. “That 2nd Lieutenant was something else. He should have never been an officer. He was what they called a 90-day wonder,” Rutherford remembered.

“We were supposed to dig in but it was freezing, the 2nd Lieutenant was so cold his teeth were chattering. One shell came in not more than 15 feet from us, killed a Sergeant and PFC. One shell—that’s all I heard. When the shell went off, this lieutenant jumped on top of me. Maybe to protect me. But he had no business being an officer. He got killed; he’s the one who got killed after they left me behind in the farmhouse near Aachen.”

As they continued on patrol, Rutherford and his new platoon leader—a 1st Lieutenant— entered a home looking for soldiers who were hiding. On the table was a steaming pot of soup and bowls. They knew there had to be people hiding in the cellar. His 1st Lieutenant shouted for them to come out. Up came a middle-aged woman in tears who swore there were no soldiers. Indeed, there were only three other women and two children. The women gave them soup to eat. Eugene and his lieutenant were grateful because they hadn’t had a hot meal in a long time, and his lieutenant gave a present of appreciation to one of the women.

They walked all night to and then across the Ludendorff bridge at Remagen on the Rhine River: “Our unit set up to the left, to the north, set up on the banks, and that’s where we slept. We were supposed to dig in but couldn’t—it was so icy. The next morning, we went to move out, this lieutenant, him and I were right together there, and there was a bush on the trail. He went around the bush, jumped back, says ‘Go tell the squads. There’s tanks up ahead—75 yards.’

“So I start and didn’t get ten feet before whoom whoom. I could hear the mortar shell coming in. I ducked, that damn shell hit him just like it was aimed at him. I was right next to him just seconds before that. I had a miracle. He was such good people. I don’t know if anyone came and picked him up or what. It would have been a mess; it was a direct hit.”

First, the American troops tried to knock out the bridge to deny the Germans its use. When they didn’t, they wanted to use it, and the Germans then tried to destroy it. They rigged it with explosives that failed and left the bridge intact. Rutherford heard the soldiers who’d rigged the failed explosives had been shot for not doing their job.

After they crossed, Eugene’s unit moved out through the woods, evading a tank firing at them until it was taken out. As they continued through sniper fire, Rutherford bringing up the rear, it reminded him of being at the carnival. “You know when you see these ducks going across and people shooting at ‘em? That’s what it felt to me! You could hear those damn bullets going by and hitting and spatting the dirt on the other side of you,” he chuckled. “I stumbled and fell into a crater made by one of our artillery shells. I fell in that dang thing. When I got up and started going again they must have thought they got me or maybe one of our guys got him, I never heard anymore ‘til we got in the woods.”

“But then it was kind of a cakewalk from then on. Their tanks were out of fuel; I could see tanks here and there—no gas—and there was just steady movement. We didn’t have to stop except maybe at night to rest or something. We ended up on a hill overlooking Wuppertal, an industrial area containing the city of Solingen, and we got word the war was over. That was it. The Germans nicknamed our division ‘Blitz Division’ [lightning division]. They thought we were like their SS troops. They were scared of us. I don’t know why. I’d never shoot anyone I didn’t have to,” he said gently.

PFC Ockenfels had been in the France for almost a month, but now at the end of February 1945, he was approaching his first days in combat. Trained as a sniper and assigned to the Heavy Weapons Platoon of the 1st Bn, 273rd Regiment, 69th Infantry Division, he realized how useless his 1903 Springfield bolt-action rifle had become. He could see nothing in the pitch-black night as he and his squad approached the pillboxes of the Siegfried Line on the border of Belgium and Germany. Finding a fallen soldier, Ockenfels quickly exchanged his sniper rifle for a Browning Automatic Rifle and all the ammunition the other soldier carried. Ockenfels could see the muzzle flashes of German rifles and machine guns firing from the apertures of the pill box to his direct front. Taking a deep breath and waiting for the signal, Ockenfels laid down a withering cover fire as the soldiers fired at every flash coming from the pill box. As the enemy gunners were pushed back, assault men with the Bangalore torpedoes quickly attached each piece of explosive pipe to the next and pushed it forward. A lone man had crawled underneath the firing aperture, and as the ever-lengthening Bangalore torpedo reached him, gathered his courage, and thrust it through the window. With a blinding flash, shards of shrapnel and concussive blast shattered whatever order there may have been inside the enemy position. Fire slackened and died, and the assault men burst into the pillbox. There was another line of pillboxes, but that would have to wait. Ockenfels’s first time in combat was over. It was time to return to his foxhole, makeshift c-ration, and gasoline stove providing the only warmth.

Born on October 27, 1925, Frank William Ockenfels, Jr. grew up on Staten Island, New York. Frank’s companions outside of school were the workmen who built and maintained the equipment managed by Frank’s Coast Guard father in the Third Lighthouse District. Frank’s parents divorced around the time his father retired as a Lieutenant Commander, and he lived with his mother while attending the same public schools his mother and older sister had attended.

On December 7, 1941, Frank was watching a minor league hockey game when it was interrupted by the news of Pearl Harbor, and all military personnel were advised to report immediately to their duty stations. Too young to enlist, Frank began making plans and dropped out of high school at the end of his junior year to attend an aeronautical high school. Disenchanted with joining the Air Force, the 17-year-old earned a Chauffer’s License and began driving taxicabs. His father had returned to active service as a Commander in the U.S. Navy, but Frank insisted on joining the army, and on his 18th birthday, asked for immediate induction into the U.S. Army.

November 1943 found Private Ockenfels spending his first Thanksgiving in the Army in-processing at Camp Upton, New York. Soon after, he began basic training at Camp McClellan, Alabama where he served as a “student leader” in calisthenics and close order drill and excelled at his marksmanship training. Ockenfels then reported to Camp Shelby, Mississippi where the 69th Infantry Division was forming for overseas service. Too busy training to pay attention to the progress of the war, Ockenfels and his fellow soldiers knew they would be sent to Europe. Ockenfels spent his next Thanksgiving seasick aboard a troopship headed for England, landing in December 1944.

At first, life was extraordinarily good: unit training occupied Ockenfels during the week, and Ockenfels occupied the London pubs on weekends. In January, Frank boarded yet another ship and headed for the port of Le Havre, France and his unit headed to the Hurtgen Forrest to relieve units battered during the Battle of the Bulge. Quickly, his unit was shifted to the Siegfried Line, and it was here that Ockenfels’s and his comrades repeatedly took out pill boxes until the Siegfried Line had been completely breached.

After having crossed the German Border, the 69th Division pursued the retreating German forces. When they reached the Rhein River, Frank and his comrades had borrowed pontoons from the Corps of Engineers to use as boats. They had to improvise and use the butts of their rifles as paddles to make the river crossing before assaulting the Fortress Ehrenbreitstein. From then on, their main objective was to capture the next town, and then the next, and the next as Ockenfels’s war became a matter of extermination, self-preservation, and accomplishing the daily missions.

Advancing through Germany, the 69th Division came under General George Patton’s command, and riding in trucks, on tanks and walking 100 miles in less than a week, cut off an entire German Army still resisting the onslaught of Allied forces. Finally, on the Fulda River, the 273rd Regiment had reached its final objective until linking up with Soviet soldiers from the east. Unaware of the end of the war until reading a copy of Stars and Stripes, Ockenfels and his fellow soldiers simply continued to soldier.

Most of the men from the 1st Bn, 273rd Infantry were transferred to the 52nd Ordinance Group where they remained on occupation duty disposing of American equipment and supplies. Assigned as the commanding officer’s driver, Ockenfels was promoted to Corporal and spent his last Thanksgiving in the U.S. Army. Later assigned as Director of Operations for the 52nd Ordinance Group, he continued to be promoted until reaching the rank of Master Sergeant and discharged in June 1946.

Once home, Frank returned to school, receiving his high school diploma and ultimately graduating from Utica College of Syracuse University. After several years working, Frank found his career with the DuPont Chemical Company, and in 1956 began the first of 29 years working full time for DuPont before retiring to Prescott, Arizona.

Frank was immensely proud of the fact that none of his squad mates were killed during the war. Serving on the front lines, serving as a combat infantryman, and receiving the Combat Infantry Badge, Frank insisted that he was just a participant, not a “hero.”

George Edward Key was born in the Ancon Canal Zone along the Panama Canal where his father worked for the U.S. government. The Canal Zone was U.S. soil, but only a street separated them from Panama where young George spent his early childhood. Equipped with machetes, he and the other children of canal workers roamed the jungles making up games for themselves.

George’s father retired from canal work and they moved to Glendale, California when George was entering the 4th grade. While the ravages of the Great Depression still gnawed at most Americans, George’s family barely noticed its effects, buttressed as they were by government employment and steady pay for work outside the country.

When World War II broke out, George was still a student in high school, and, at his parent’s urging, completed one year at Glendale Community College before enlisting in the Army in 1943. He then headed to boot camp in Oregon. There the new recruits were trained in the deep, cold waters of the many creeks and rivers. Wading through deep water taught George how to keep his footing in a current, how to manage a heavy load, and, above all, how to stay calm with water up to his nose.

When they had completed boot camp, George was sent to Alaska for a few more months of training before being shipped to Scotland as a combat engineer. From there, he and his comrades collected their gear and moved south through England. It was a busy time for George and every other Allied soldier. They had little time for training as they prepped for the coming invasion.

Now attached to the 332nd Combat Engineer Regiment, George raced through France with the 1st and 3rd Armies, keeping the pressure on the retreating Germans. It was a frantic pace, one that left little time for showers or hot meals. They slept in ditches and changed their socks as often as they could. Whenever a chance presented itself, they washed their uniforms, and, more than once, George slid back into damp clothes to begin another advance. On occasion, they would be sent to the rear to refit their gear and get a hot meal, but this was not a frequent occurrence. George kept his toothbrush in his left breast pocket. He didn’t shower much, but the toothbrush kept his teeth and his rifle clean. It may have been unpleasant, but his rifle didn’t malfunction, and he still had all his teeth.

The German resistance they met was scattered and unpredictable. They never knew where a machine gun nest might be set up or if the sniper who shot at them was alone or the forward observer for a dug-in German position. As the commander of his platoon, George was responsible for his mission and his men, something that weighed heavily on him even decades after the war. “It’s a hard thing to do,” he said, “to send a guy on a patrol when you don’t know if he’s going to come back or not. But you have to send somebody. It weighs on your conscience. ‘Why didn’t you do so and so? Why didn’t you do so and so’? “Nobody says that, but you think it.”

Many of the Germans just surrendered once they realized they were surrounded, and George’s unit was more than happy to capture them. “We weren’t out to kill people,” George remembers. “We were out to take prisoners to end the war. We figured that was the best way to do it.”

George and his comrades pushed through northern France, then into Belgium and Denmark, clearing out the German occupying forces and pushing them back toward the German border. Although they were usually treated like infantrymen, the engineering skills that they had were swiftly put to use whenever they reached a river. Speed was important, and the Germans tore down every bridge they could in an effort to slow the Allies down. Using premade sections, George and the rest of his engineers threw up countless small bridges, most of them to just get small trucks and vehicles across water-ways and keep the army advancing.

Then came December 16, 1944. In a last-ditch effort to protect the motherland, the German army launched an all-out assault to punch a hole in the Allied lines. Now it was George’s turn to retreat with the Germans hot on his heels. He and his men pulled back like mad, and with the help of Scottish mercenaries who brought their own cannons from Scotland, they were able to avoid being enveloped by the German advance. Near Liege, Belgium, George and his men finally found a place to hold: a bridge crossing the river. For several days they held it, linking up with other American units to contain the German army in the giant bulge that would give the battle its name.

When they finally returned on the offensive, they pushed back across the bridge. Not far in, they found several American soldiers who had surrendered. The Germans had lined them up and shot them. It was left to George and his men to bury the bodies.

Only a few months later, Germany surrendered. George and his company had just taken Frankfurt and they were soon sent back to England to have their equipment as well as the men they lost in battle replaced. The Allies were still at war with Japan, and the mood in George’s platoon was not improved when their weapons were coated in grease. It was protection for a long trip by sea, and, when they were issued tropical uniforms, a trip to the Pacific seemed certain. But before they sailed, word came that Japan had surrendered. “We felt wonderful. We thought it was about time. It seemed like a lifetime,” he remembered.

They were sent back into southern France where they served as part of the occupying forces for a short time before they received orders home. When the orders came, they didn’t believe them the first time; it seemed like a joke. But soon, George, along with his company, were back in the States where they were discharged.

For many reasons, the flag was very important to George Key. As a direct descendant of Francis Scott Key, author of the Star-Spangled Banner, the flag carried special significance for him. It was also a reminder of all that has been sacrificed for the nation he loved and the opportunities he had been given, and he hoped that future generations will do their part in preserving the American dream.

Murray Shapiro was born at the Bonny Brae Maternity Hospital off Virgil Avenue in Los Angeles, California. Long before serving in the U.S. Army, he was raised to appreciate living in the U.S.A. and developed a sense of patriotism that he learned while spending the summers with his father. His parents had divorced when he was young, and he lived with his mother and step-father and grew up with two half-brothers and two half-sisters. Like many young people during the Great Depression, Murray toiled at tedious and low paying jobs. He worked at a local fertilizer factory at the age of 13. It was very tough work, and it paid only 50 cents a day. In high school, he recalls the ROTC drill team crating up Enfield and Springfield rifles that were shipped overseas to the beleaguered British Expeditionary Force after their withdrawal at Dunkirk from the advancing German Wehrmacht. Murray graduated high school in the summer of 1941 and joined the ROTC program at UCLA. He recalls standing on his mother’s terrace on Sunday, December 7 and hearing the radio announcer interrupt Leopold Stokowski’s NBC Symphony Orchestra to announce that Oahu had been bombed by the Japanese. His first thought was, “I gotta get into this.” Murray wanted to get overseas and fight. He enlisted in the Army and departed to Camp Roberts then to Officer Candidate School at Fort Benning.

Early in 1944, Murray sailed across the Atlantic to England on board the RMS Mauritania, a luxury liner that had been converted to a troop transport ship by the British. The living quarters varied significantly for the enlisted, non-comms and officers. Enlisted soldiers had to find creative ways to take a warm shower and sleep comfortably on the cramped ship. At that time, he was an infantry rifleman at the rank of private. On June 9, he and the men of the 3rd Battalion, Company M, 112th Infantry Regiment, 28th Division, on their assault on Normandy at the Easy Red sector of Omaha beach. His unit arrived on an LST due to the lack of operational LCPV landing craft. They had arrived on the third day of the invasion and most of the intense fighting was going on farther inland. On the bloody beach, Murray remembers seeing the bodies of dead Americans floating in the surf. Because of his advanced training as a rifleman, he was promoted to Buck Sergeant in charge of a heavy machine gun crew. His unit fought their way through Luxemburg and Belgium on the way to Germany and victory. He was subject to a constant bombardment by artillery, mortar fire and German soldiers tossing Stielhandgranate grenades, known as “potato mashers” to Allied troops.

In Belgium, he fought in the heavily forested Ardennes mountain range. At one point, the German army lit the forest on fire to drive out the advancing American army. The weather hit both armies hard, and Sergeant Shapiro remembered that it was the coldest winter of his life and the coldest on record in 50 years by locals. During the fighting, he survived several close calls with German soldiers that left several of his buddies as “walking wounded” or outright dead. He recalled surviving a shot from a sniper who missed and hit his rifle stock instead. On another mission, several jeeps were damaged, and soldiers wounded when Army engineers inadvertently tripped a German “Bouncing Betty” S-Mine, armed with hundreds of ball bearings. Murray caught a ball bearing that passed through his steel helmet and cut a groove in his wool knit cap. Fortunate and unharmed by the mine, he continued to march on, creeping and crawling in the forest around German soldiers while behind enemy lines.

On December 16,1944, in the last major offensive of the War in Europe, 410,000 Wehrmacht troops and the 6th Panzer Army rolled towards Bastogne. Murray was caught off guard along with the rest of the Allied Army, and he again found himself lost behind enemy lines. He wandered alone for eight days after getting separated from a scouting mission. He survived on a can of corn beef hash he found on a dead American soldier. He also found relief at a farmhouse where he was fed and offered shelter. Eventually, he was able to find his way back to the American lines with help from an English-speaking local who had an interesting German-Brooklynese accent. During the Battle of the Bulge, American soldiers were on guard because English-speaking German soldiers wearing American uniforms were infiltrating the American units. When Murray approached American sentries guarding a road, they challenged him with, “Who won the 1943 World Series?” Murray, not being a sports fan, did not know the answer. The suspicious guards escorted him to headquarters to meet the regimental commander. It turned out that the colonel did not recognize him but figured out somehow that the young GI must have been a telling the truth.

At the end of hostilities, Murray returned to the states via Boston Harbor where the fireboats on the waterfront festively shot red, white, and blue water though their nozzles. He called his mom to say he was coming home, jumped on a Greyhound bus and headed to Mississippi to be discharged. After World War II, he followed his pre-war dreams and became a teacher. Murray returned to Europe for the 50th anniversary of the war. On the famous Ludendorff bridge at Remagen, he met with his former enemies, one of which was a German Major, who Murray had shot in the knee during the Battle of the Bulge.

Sergeant Shapiro received his first of two Bronze Stars awarded “for heroic achievement on 16 December 1944, in connection with military operations against the enemy in Belgium. Sergeant Shapiro, after becoming encircled by enemy forces during the powerful Ardennes offensive, calmly organized his six men into an efficient combat unit and safely led them to the Battalion Command post. While he and his men fought a delaying action permitting the command posts to move to better positions, Sergeant Shapiro advanced under intense enemy artillery and small arms fire and completely neutralized a German tank by killing or seriously wounding the 10 occupants. After repelling a vicious enemy attack, he infiltrated the enemy lines again and successfully led his men safely to rejoin units of his organization. The courageous and heroic actions displayed by Sergeant Shapiro reflects great credit on him and the Armed Forces of the United States.”

When asked for advice, he paraphrased President George Washington, “Be prepared for war. It’s the best way to have peace.” He followed that with a simple bit of wisdom, “Enjoy life.”

Flying low along the Danube River, Lieutenant Colonel Robert Friend had an oil laden river barge in his gunsights. Depressing the trigger, he fired a stream of .50 caliber bullets streaking from his aircraft’s guns into his target. Another aircraft was slightly ahead and above when the barge suddenly erupted into a massive fireball of flames and smoke. Friend could see shrapnel blasting into the lead aircraft as he maneuvered to avoid the violently expanding fire. Unable to completely avoid the blast, Friend flew through it. Recounting the event years later, thinking of the comrades he lost and the war itself, he paused seriously before intoning “like flying through hell.”

Robert Jones Friend was born in Columbia, South Carolina where his father was stationed at Fort Jackson, but when he left the Army, his Spanish immigrant father settled in the Bronx, where young Robert lived from the age of four until joining the Army Air Corps. Robert knew from an early age he wanted a career in aviation and while in high school, he pursued an aeromechanics curriculum where he learned maintenance and repair of Liberty engines and fabric body repair. While his father pursued an unsteady career in commercial art, Robert’s family occasionally required “relief,” and young Robert worked as a deliveryman for clothiers in New York City until college when he first attended Howard University in Washington, D.C. and then Lincoln College in Pennsylvania. Somewhere along the way, Robert found the time to earn a private pilot’s license from an air school in New Jersey, and when Pearl Harbor was attacked, Robert immediately went to sign up for aviation. Being a minority there was only one opportunity for Friend to fly, and that was in the segregated unit that became known as “The Tuskegee Airmen.”

Cadet Friend with two years of college and a pilot’s license was sent to the famed Tuskegee Institute where he received ground school training in air craft systems, navigation, radio procedures, and all the other bits of knowledge a pilot was expected to know. Following ground school, Friend was moved to the newly constructed Moton Air Field and into the officers’ barracks and began Primary Flight Training in the PT-17 bi-plane, then to Basic Flight Training in the BT-13 Vultee “Vibrator,” before eventually receiving advanced, tactical training in the P-40.

Training at Moton Field was rigorous, and many cadets failed to graduate. Friend was a graduate of one of the early flight classes and watched as the organization grew from the initial five pilot graduates to its final size by the end of World War II, with virtually every member starting from the bottom. The commander was a West Point class of 1936 graduate who had been a career infantry officer. Initially, the command consisted of him and four officers who had graduated flight training in the first class. These original officers ascended in rank as the training establishment was taken over, then first squadron and then another were added until there was both a bomber group and a fighter group of mostly African-American airmen with all command, flight, maintenance, and support positions filled by minorities.

After training was completed at Moton Field, Friend and his fellow pilots continued tactical training awaiting their overseas orders, which found Robert assigned to the 332nd Fighter Group known as the “Red Tails” due to the color code of their aircraft.

Arriving in Italy, Friend immediately began double duty as the Assistant Operations Officer and as one of the fighter pilots of the 301st Fighter Squadron as they conducted ground attack missions, sea patrols, and fighter sweeps throughout Southern Italy and the surrounding seas. Later, as the American foothold on Italy expanded, the Red Tails switched to escorting bombers as they flew missions to bomb the Romanian oil fields and any productive areas of occupied Europe within reach, including Berlin in the weeks before the German surrender. Friend flew 142 missions in World War II since he volunteered to “fly until there was no more war.”

Friend readily recounted incidents that occurred during the war, often accompanied by laughter as he finds the feats and bravado of the young pilots hilariously entertaining. One incident he laughingly recalled involved his aircraft being forced down along the front lines of Italy. Isolated, surrounded, and unsure which direction to travel for safety, the newly ground-pounding Friend was discovered by a group of Italian partisans. With a full belly laugh, Friend believed he owed his life to the color of his skin since one partisan—an Italian woman with a huge knife eyed him with evil intent—but luckily, they soon realized he was not a German pilot and returned him to allied lines.

On a more serious note, Friend recalled that on one occasion an American bomber was forced to land at the isolated base the 332nd occupied. The bomber crews wandered around asking for the officers until realizing that they were speaking to the officers and pilots. After several days, the weather cleared, and Friend recounts that one pilot in particular who “moved in” with Friend, and whom he had long conversations, mentioned that during his stay with the 332nd he had learned one thing that would leave an everlasting impression: “you have better cooks.” Friend was unsure how to take this, but on reflection, he believed it was because this pilot saw the 332nd as American airmen as accomplished and professional as any others, and not noting the difference in color indicated that this pilot saw them as completely equal – with the exception of their mess services!

After the war, Friend remained within the Air Force and ultimately retired having served in World War II and during the Korean and Vietnam eras. Friend’s comments on the war and on personal awards reflected his own perception of himself as neither a hero or a trailblazer. Accomplishments and individual awards require “a lot of people to do right,” and if he was a hero, then “so were all the others.”

Hector Thermos bivouacked with his platoon for weeks through the woods from France to Germany near the end of the war, sleeping out in the open as their commanding officer led them to any spot that seemed safe.

Although some of his memories have faded over time, others are indelibly etched in his mind: “Once we were eating breakfast at the Rhine River. Out of nowhere, a German plane flew very low overhead. We threw our plates up in the air and scrambled for cover,” Mr. Thermos reflected. “He was so low I saw him in his uniform. He didn’t shoot at us, but circled back and flew overhead again. Our machine gunners had set themselves up on the truck by then and were ready for him, but they didn’t fire. The pilot flew off. He could have killed half of us.”

By then, the Luftwaffe had been decimated, so perhaps it simply wasn’t worth the pilot’s effort.

Thermos had been drafted two weeks after his high school graduation. Although he’d volunteered to work in the kitchen because of his experience in his father’s restaurant, Hector quickly realized he didn’t like the work. He became a scout for the rest of the war.

Hector’s first exposure to combat was aboard a ship off the coast of Normandy while he and his fellow soldiers waited for several days to replace men who’d been killed in the initial D-Day invasion. While waiting, they came under intense German fire. Thermos, unscathed, landed and fought his way up and over the cliff behind a small advance squad. He was 19.

Hector’s childhood hadn’t prepared him for combat. As a Dana Junior High School student body president and then a cheerleader at San Pedro High School, the girls would line up to get a chance to swing dance with him. “Not a warrior,” his son explained. “Then he suddenly was thrust into battle.”

One of his favorite moments was during a mission in Germany when he and his squad were going house to house, searching for weapons and soldiers. One of his squad mates was about to toss a grenade into a basement, but Hector convinced him to wait. Several German soldiers exited with their hands over their head. “I saved several lives,” Thermos said proudly.

There were some very dicey moments on patrol. While in a German village, Hector’s squad needed to cross one of the main streets. One man volunteered to go first. As he stood up and crossed, he was killed by German snipers in the church tower looming above the street. Thermos recommended to his lieutenant that the rest of the platoon crawl across the street on their bellies to avoid the snipers.

Quickly assessing the situation, their squad leader agreed and ordered the rest of them to get down and crawl. They did, and all of them made it unscathed.

“We realized the enemy in the tower had to be taken out. A team from my squad was sent to capture the Germans. Then they took them to a quiet place and killed them,” Thermos reflected. He paused. “That’s the way it was.”

The snipers had all been tall—over six feet—and Hector thought they possibly were with the SS.

During one firefight with the Germans, a grenade exploded near Hector, blowing shrapnel into his knee. He was out of commission for a week then sent back to combat. He shrugs off his wound as not too serious, yet it was enough for him to receive a Purple Heart.

Mr. Thermos’ platoon was in fire fights for 90 days straight as they walked through the forests of northern France, Belgium, and Luxembourg, clearing all the German soldiers from every single village they found. They never walked on the roads, they would walk deep in the forests to avoid being noticed by the enemy.

As they patrolled, they collected all weapons in each village and then had their tanks roll over and destroy them. Hector captured a German officer and relieved him of his Luger pistol, small sword, and his Nazi belt buckle. He still has these World War II artifacts today, along with his tin canteen on which he etched every country he was in during the war. It shows Scotland, England, France, Luxembourg, Belgium, Holland, and Germany.

As they moved through Germany and the war’s end drew closer, the fierce fighting they expected didn’t materialize. “The Germans surprised me. They were supposed to be heavy fighters but they weren’t. . . . They kept moving away from us,” remembered Hector. Many of the towns were still intact, mostly inhabited by women and children. There were almost no men left.

When the war ended, Thermos was shipped to New York for discharge from the Army. He caught a military cargo flight back to the west coast. “Nothing fancy,” he laughed. “When I asked where to sit, the captain said, ‘Over there by those boxes.’”

Soon after Hector returned to southern California, he met and married a young woman named Nora. Although they’d both attended San Pedro High School, they’d never met. They started their family while Mr. Thermos worked in the telecommunications industry, settling in Torrance, CA, after Mr. Thermos read a newspaper article stating Torrance was the best place to live in 1954.

He told his son, “The U.S.A. is the best country in the world, California is the best state in the country, and Torrance was just voted to be the best city in California. Might as well live in the best place in the world.” He and Nora bought a home for $12,500 in a new residential tract development of 500 houses that only World War II veterans were eligible to buy.

Thermos proudly reflects on his own father’s service in World War I. “My dad immigrated from Greece when he was 15 1⁄2 years old. He came through Ellis Island, like they all did back then. And he joined the Army in the war.”

Mr. Thermos has a picture of his original platoon taken shortly before they embarked for England. Of all the men, only Hector and one other survived.

Jack Stitzinger’s train rumbled through the iciness of a French winter en route to Metz, France shortly after U.S. forces had captured the city from the Germans. He and his platoon mates were crammed into dark boxcars, their doors shut to ward off the cold, existing on K-rations, uncertain what awaited them on their first combat encounter.

Metz was their jumping off point to a nearby ridge line just over the German border. Jack was first gunner of his mortar squad, and, as he looked out from the ridge, he saw burning tanks and dead American soldiers strewn along a path, most of them shot through the head by German snipers. Shells were dropping all around him and his men.

“We lost our squad leader first thing. I got bumped up to squad leader on the first day. He got picked off by a sniper. He was up ahead of us as we were marching through the mud. I was so mad at the Germans I could have shot every one of them,” Jack remembered.

His squad leader had been a friend of his from school in Long Beach. They’d trained together for months and had grown quite close.

“I only had a .45 pistol, so I picked up a rifle off a dead soldier and carried it along. The next day we didn’t have enough men left to man the mortars, so they gave me a bazooka to carry.” But the squad reformed, and Jack remained its leader.

Mortar squad leader was an incredibly dangerous job. The squad followed behind the infantry, and, when they got pinned down by German machine gun fire, the riflemen would call in mortar support. Jack would crawl on his belly to the highest point he could find to see where the machine gun nests were. He’d jam a stick in the ground for his gunner to use to sight in the mortar. “It would take about three rounds to zero in, and then we would blow the machine gun nest apart and kill everybody that was in it,” Stitzinger calmly recounted.

They had just passed the Siegfried Line when they were rerouted to Belgium to relieve the 101st Airborne Division, pinned down in Bastogne by Germans in the Battle of the Bulge.

After enjoying a turkey dinner with all the fixings on Christmas Day in Reims, France, Jack and his men continued to through the Ardennes. “We were walking up this little road in the Ardennes forest when all of a sudden it started snowing—didn’t seem like it would ever quit. We were with the 3rd Army under General Patton. It took us several days to get there because we ran out of gas,” Stitzinger described.

Until they were resupplied, the 87th division was stalled. General Patton often said the war would have ended several months earlier had the 87th gotten to Bastogne sooner.

Every day Jack and his men encountered fierce fighting: “The Germans were shooting these eighty-eights, and they would whistle, fffffffew! And we’d hear the whistling coming over, and we’d think, ‘Oh my god, where are they going to land?’ And if you was lucky, they wouldn’t land on you. . . . You could hear them come over, and they’d hit the ground and sometimes they wouldn’t go off,” Stitzinger remembered. “The Germans had Jewish people working in the ammunition plants and every once in a while, they wouldn’t put the firing pin in the shell. That’s why there were so many duds.”

The hardest experience for him was the day the Germans shelled them unceasingly for hours. “They were constantly coming over—all day long and into the night. We’d fire back mortars as quick as we could. One time the barrel got so hot we had to quit firing! Even as cold as it was!” he marveled. “When the Germans were shelling them eighty-eights, they had the range on us.” Jack didn’t think the day would ever end.

After ten straight days of winter combat, clothed only in his uniform, a coat, gloves, and rubber overboots fitted over his combat boots, “I got up one morning my feet had froze. I could hardly walk on my feet. So, I went to the first aid station and they sent me back to England. That was the end of my tour in Europe,” Stitzinger described. He and another soldier had pitched their half-tents that night and slept on the ground in the unforgiving cold.

Jack was sent by ambulance to Paris and from there to Oxford. He was then sent back to the U.S. on the Queen Elizabeth, the same ship that had carried him and the entire 87th from New Jersey to Scotland months before.

While recuperating, he visited with his oldest brother who was a glider pilot. But, curiously, after the war they almost never spoke of their experiences after they were back home in Long Beach.

After the war ended, Jack went right back to work for Mobile Oil Company. He recalled that for years no one spoke of the war, and he didn’t really think about it. To him, everybody simply came home and went back to their regular lives.

Over the years since his wartime experiences, Mr. Stitzinger has grown to appreciate the momentousness of the events he was a part of. He recalled a time when he met General Patton. “One time he came by. We was marching down this road and had stopped to take a rest and up come General Patton. He said, ‘What are you guys doing here?’ And we said, ‘We’re just resting a few minutes.’ He said, ‘Well, get off your butts and get moving. We’ve got a war to win!’ So we jumped up right away,” Jack chuckled. “He wanted things done his way. He was a pretty intimidating guy. He was always out there with the troops. They respected him.”

Mr. Stitzinger is adamant that schools should teach the importance of World War II. “Most people take it for granted. It’s important to know why we’re still living in the U.S. Not speaking German but speaking English. Why we have this freedom that other countries don’t have.”

For his service, Jack was awarded two Bronze Stars. But what he regarded as most valuable was, “Home life. Enjoying family. Not taking advantage of anyone and living one day at a time.”

His feet still numb from frostbite, Jack’s advice to us was to appreciate that we’re living here in the U.S. because we could have been born somewhere else. Wise words for us now and for future generations.

First Lieutenant Watson stood at rigid attention holding a salute. His operations officer sat behind a desk at 0230 hours, slowly bouncing a pencil. Watson had just returned from Orly, France and listened as his aircraft radio was described to him and Harry remained silent as he was asked if he knew how to use it. An “abort” had come over the radio while flying above the English Channel. Watson had continued alone in “zero visibility, zero ceiling” conditions, forced to fly his ungainly C-47 Skytrain under instrument flight rules 25 feet above the ground. On return he was summoned into the headquarters building not fully grasping the severity of his actions. As Watson was dismissed, his senior officer remarked, “I would give you a medal, but then I’d have to tell the story.” Watson realized then that his entire career, his wings and commission, everything hinged on whether he would be punished. This was the first time that 1st Lieutenant Watson disobeyed an order in combat. It was the last time as well.

Harry E. Watson was born October 20, 1922 and raised in the coal mining town of Courtney, Pennsylvania on the banks of the Monongahela River. The second of eight children growing up during the Depression, his parents provided all the essentials, but few luxuries. Earning money trapping small game, Harry swam in the river and roamed the woods. As he got older, he began to work, loading coal barges, swearing to himself that he was “never going to go into the mines.” Graduating high school in May 1940, he was too young for the service. He found a job breaking apart coal barges, until turning 18 and joining the service.

Watson was sorely disappointed when he learned he was ineligible for pilot training. Having enlisted in the Army Air Corps in January 1941, he was scrubbing pots on KP duty when he heard Pearl Harbor was attacked. Harry reapplied for pilot training and was accepted. Watson was assigned to the B-24 Liberator pipeline, but with an eye towards a post-war career in the airlines, Watson paid another student the extraordinary sum of $80 to exchange places in the C-47 Skytrain training program. On May 20, 1943, Second Lieutenant Watson graduated from flight school. Having flown well and showing extraordinary airmanship, Watson was held over as an Instructor Pilot and remained in Texas gaining experience with each hour spent instructing future pilots. Helping to push 1,200 pilots through training, Watson felt he was “ready to kick ass!” and volunteered for combat in May 1944.

Given a new aircraft and crew, Watson flew the northern route through Iceland and arrived in the United Kingdom. Assigned to the 438th Troop Carrier Group, he was too late for the D-Day invasion, but quickly joined in to support the landing as it moved inland with his first combat mission, a single aircraft flight to an improvised airfield at Sainte-Mère-Église delivering fuel. As his aircraft was being unloaded and readied for the return, Watson found a German Mauser rifle and helmet in an abandoned bunker. Taking care to ensure there were no booby traps, Watson obtained two souvenirs of his first combat mission. There would be twenty-six more combat missions before the end.

Many of the missions involved resupply of the ever-advancing columns of General Patton as he first captured Paris and later drove through Germany. One of his most memorable missions occurred in late August when horrible flying weather caused the 126-plane supply flight of which he was a member to turn back. Feeling that with his ability to fly instruments and due to the priority of his cargo, he believed he should continue the mission. Flying into the outskirts of Paris, he delivered the 4,000 pounds of frozen blood products and two nurses. Expecting to be grounded by air traffic controllers at Orly, France due to the weather, he was instead loaded with 28 litter patients and told to return to England. It was this mission that almost cost him his career and his commission. If not for the grievously injured soldiers he evacuated, and the desperate need for blood, it is very possible he would have been permanently grounded.

Watson flew the assault troops into Operation Market Garden as part of 1,000 plane maximum effort missions. On five consecutive days, he flew the paratroopers, single glider and double glider tows, supplies dropped by parachute and more paratroopers. He also flew medical evacuation flights of grievously wounded troops.

He flew two days in support of the Bastogne Salient during the Battle of the Bulge, but the war was rapidly winding down afterwards. His last combat mission was “jumping the Rhine,” the easiest mission of all as there were “absolutely no fighters” and no flak reaching up to his slow moving, low flying aircraft. Watson flew additional support missions and repatriation flights for slave laborers of the German Reich. Flying to Belgium, France, the Netherlands, Poland and Russia, Watson estimated he personally flew 1,500 passengers although these did not count as combat. His final flight in the warzone was his own repatriation flight. Flying the southern route to Brazil and then the United States with a group of fighter pilots in the back, he returned in August 1945. In Savannah, Georgia, he was given his discharge, effective when his accrued leave was used.

Moving to California, he took the FAA exam as a civilian pilot and flew commercial aircraft for 32 years. For four years, he flew U.S. soldiers to and from Vietnam, frequently flying into and out of Ton Son Nhut or Danang where small arms bullet holes were regularly found in his aircraft.

A contemplative man, Watson refused to accept that many consider him a hero. Rather, he believes that a person should “step out into the moonlight on a dark, starry night and ponder the difference between eternity and infinity.” Sage advice from a man who has spent his adult life between the ground and the stars.

Growing up on his family’s produce and cotton farm after moving to Schafter, California, when he was a year old, Jim Gloeckler helped out doing whatever had to be done. After his junior year of high school, he was drafted into the Army at age 17. He never did finish high school. He and his three brothers were all in the service at the same time, leaving his dad on the farm without their help.

Jim attended basic training at Camp Fannin, Texas, after which he shipped out for England from New York. He and his fellow soldiers arrived in England in early 1944 and deployed across the Channel to France on a crowded troop carrier.

As a scout with the 5th Infantry Division, part of General Patton’s Third Army, Gloeckler landed in Normandy on the second day of the invasion on Utah beach. He recalled they landed in several feet of water with wreckage and carnage in front of them. Bullets rattled off the side of the landing craft.

He was often by himself on his scout detail, just him and his M1 semi-automatic rifle. Being a scout was a highly dangerous job which Jim nonetheless enjoyed. They were constantly on the move. When he returned, he’d report his findings to his lieutenant by messenger. “You do what you have to do, no questions asked,” he recalled.

Jim often found himself behind enemy lines. “Then you sit and be quiet,” he said. Although he was often close to the enemy, he didn’t recall being scared. “In those bushes, I might be close. I’m hidin,g and they’re hiding,” he said. He was so stealthy that he was never detected, even though at Normandy he could hear the Germans talking on the other side of the hedgerows.

Mr. Gloeckler suffered his first wounds from an artillery airburst early on while he was scouting ahead of the main force at Normandy. Although men on either side of him lost their legs, Jim was fortunate to get only shrapnel in his knee. He and the other wounded soldiers stayed quietly laying on the ground, so the Germans wouldn’t detect them. Then, when it was safe, he was medically evacuated to England. Several months later, after he recovered, he returned to his company, which had been decimated by injuries and combat deaths.

Mr. Gloeckler’s leadership skills landed him an assignment as a squad leader. His German skills meant he was sometimes used as an interpreter for prisoners. “Almost every day was rather lucky for me,” he reflected after he recalled a time a German pilot had narrowly missed him with machine gun fire as he zoomed in at treetop level.

As they fought through the winter in France, they slept in deep snow without blankets, wherever they could dig a hole for two of them to share—one sleeping while the other kept watch. It was so cold that Jim used to put socks in his helmet for warmth. As a squad leader, he had the privilege of being close to the warmth of the tank’s exhaust pipe. He laughed as he recalled that clean clothes, showers, and hot meals were unheard of. “If they could, they’d give us C-rations,” he said. “That was as good as we could get.”

Yet, there were times they were able to stay the night in a castle. Because Jim spoke German, he was able to reassure the occupants they had nothing to fear from him and his comrades. At Bastogne, where the Germans had the 101st Airborne Division surrounded, Mr. Gloeckler’s unit was part of the 5th Infantry Division sent to rescue the 101st.

They fought their way across France to the end of the German Siegfried Line. Along the way, Jim took out numerous machine gun bunkers. Jim’s squad would lay down a base of fire and then drop a grenade down the bunker’s vent pipe. He was wounded by shrapnel for a second time and again sent to England to recover, resulting in his second Purple Heart.

Jim was in Czechoslovakia when he received word the war had ended. He and his fellow soldiers gathered together with the German troops and shook hands. “That’s how it went,” he smiled. “Fighting one day, shaking hands the next.” Several days later, he was on his way home. For his service besides the two Purple Hearts, Mr. Gloeckler was awarded a Bronze Star, a Silver Star, and the French Legion of Honor.

Joseph Govea was born in North Hollywood, California, to Mexican immigrants and was one of twelve children growing up in a blended family in the San Fernando Valley.

“We were as poor as the proverbial church mouse,” Joe recalled. “Mom would stand in front of us and say there was no more food.” However, he also said, “While we were poor, we were a loving family, yet I always felt there had to be a better way of life.”

The neighborhood was primarily composed of poor Mexican families, so he didn’t learn to speak English until he was 9 years old. His family earned their living as migrant workers, moving up and down the California coast harvesting fruit and cotton. Working during the school year caused him to be continuality behind in his studies, affecting his education. He knew he wanted a life better than that of a migrant but had no idea how to achieve it.

He recalled hearing about the bombing of Pearl Harbor, but not knowing where Hawaii was didn’t comprehend the magnitude of the attack. Then, he learned the United States was at war, but figured it wouldn’t last long enough to affect him. He quickly learned he was wrong!

Joe dropped out of high school and was hired on as a ranch hand working in Manteca in northern California. When Joe received his draft notice, the rancher submitted a six-month deferment request, allowing Joe to continue working during the peak harvesting season.

When the second draft notice arrived with the “Notice to Appear,” his father let him know arrangements were made for him to live with his grandfather in Mexico for the duration of the war.

“But,” Joe replied to his dad, “This country has done a lot for us, and I feel that I have to go. This is my country.” Even years later, he felt that his dad never understood his feelings toward this country. Besides, most of Joe’s friends were in the service, and he was not about to shirk his duty to his country.

Camp Roberts in northern California was home for his basic training. He recalls one of his most challenging training experiences was hiking up “Poop-Out Hill.” The hill was almost vertical, and new recruits would have to climb it before beginning their daily training. “We were pooped out at the top and the day had just begun!” Joe laughed.

Still being a teenager, Joe’s wild behavior and immaturity sometimes got him in trouble with his training officers. Once, this behavior brought him close to be being thrown into the stockade. But his First Sergeant came to his defense and said, “This country needs tough guys like you on the front lines.”

Joe found himself traveling by train for seven days and seven nights until he arrived at Fort Mead, Maryland. He boarded the luxury liner Ille De France, converted for military transport, bound for Glasgow, Scotland. For safety reasons the windows were blacked out and the liner was escorted by war ships as protection from enemy submarines.

While in Glasgow, Joe was assigned as a replacement to the 1st Infantry Division, nicknamed the Big Red One. During one quick moving advance, he shared a horrific experience. Joe recalled how his unit came under friendly fire from American fighter planes. American pilots mistook them for the retreating enemy soldiers and began repeatedly firing on them from low flying aircraft with blazing machine guns.

In combat, Joe explained, there was no ongoing sense of night or day. They were always on the move and lookout. Meals were a can of hash/spam and candy bars, and the ever-available cigarettes caused Joe to become a heavy smoker at the time. When not in movement, “we would dig foxholes for cover and set up guard.” Since there was no protection, “If it rained, your foxhole filled up with water, and you stayed in it.”

While advancing near Belgium, a “potato masher” landed behind him, causing his back to be covered with shrapnel. Compared to other casualties, Joe’s wound was considered minor, nevertheless it earned him his first Purple Heart.

He also participated in the liberation of American soldiers from a German POW camp. When the unit arrived, they discovered the Germans had retreated and abandoned the camp. “Some of the prisoners looked like walking skeletons,” Joe recalled. “I couldn’t believe it”.

Joe recounted being under fire from the Germans. He remembered the thunderous V2 long-range guided ballistic missiles headed towards London with their fiery tails sounding like a helicopter passing overhead. When a V2 flew overhead and there wasn’t any sound, that meant the rocket was about to explode, and everyone in the unit would dash for cover. In addition, there were sporadic blasts coming from 88mm artillery shells, the yellow flash and thunder of bombs exploding all around, and bullets whizzing by looking for any random target.

Because of the high number of casualties in his unit, Joe was assigned as an acting squad leader, a position normally held by a Staff Sergeant. While serving as squad leader, he was gravely injured, earning him his second Purple Heart

Joe also remembered the standing order that he and his fellow soldiers were instructed to stand a minimum of five feet apart preventing the enemy from wounding more than one soldier at the same time.

On the snowy day of December 20, 1944 during the early days of the Battle of the Bulge, Joe was running from foxhole to foxhole, passing out the day’s security password, when he was shot by a sniper in his left hip. He later discovered he was hit by a “dum-dum” bullet altered to explode on contact, inflicting more damage.

“I was in motion when I was hit. I later learned the bullet threw me up into the air, and I landed in a foxhole. The other squad leader thought I’d been killed.”

After being shot, Joe was heavily sedated and sent to a hospital in Paris for treatment. When he came to, he caught sight of his blackened frostbitten toes caused by walking through the snow and laying in the bitter cold until he was rescued. Fortunately, his toes were treated and saved.

It took five months and five separate hip surgeries to recover from being shot. During his long hospital recovery, Joe would think back to his dad’s offer to send him to Mexico to sit out the war, but no matter how bad things were, Joe never thought he should have gone to his grandfather’s instead of going to war.

Returning back to the United States in October 1945, he learned how his parents were initially notified he had been wounded. Two soldiers arrived at their front door with minimal information. No details were given how serious his injury was; all they were told was he had been wounded during battle. Throughout his rehabilitation he also learned the military sent postcards updating them with progress reports but not providing details on is injury.

Joe had no difficulty adjusting to civilian life. He decided combat was in the past, and it was time to move forward. After his discharge, he briefly collected money from the government using the Military 52/20 program. This allowed him to collect $20 per week for 52 weeks. However, this was short lived as he preferred getting back to work as quickly as possible and making his own way. Using the GI bill, he enrolled in a carpenter’s apprenticeship program, earning his carpenter’s journeyman’s classification.

The Army showed Joe a different way to live. His military experiences opened his eyes to a world he thought existed but had never imagined or seen. He met soldiers from other states and walks of life. He also saw humanity at its worst and at its finest.

Joe also vowed to provide for his wife and daughters in a way that his own parents had not been able to do for him. He never wanted to experience the pain of telling his children there was no more food and for them not being able to get a proper education because they had to work.

His advice for today and future generations was to learn as much as you could about our country’s history and to appreciate what you had. “When I got out of the service, I had to claw my way up. I was a high school dropout, but that didn’t stop me. I pursued my education by attending night school while working and made a life I’m proud of. Don’t take things for granted. You have to work to get ahead. Seek family life, educate yourself, learn more about your country, and thank God we live in America.”

Oliver “Bud” Guillot grew up on a 65-acre cotton and corn farm in the rural Texas town of Shiloh. During the Great Depression, many Americans suffered from a lack of essentials, but Bud and his family grew and raised most of what they needed to survive right there on the farm. The only things they bought from town were sugar, salt, and coffee. When not helping his father and mother in the fields planting and harvesting, the young Texan took to learning in a two-room schoolhouse, dark and chilled by the lack of electricity and heated in the winter by wood burning stoves. Oliver had one brother, six years younger, who went on to serve in the Korean War and returned safely. The rural setting of his youth meant that his nearest friends lived two to three miles away, but they would make the trip to visit and hunt small game to put meat on the table. The family worked in the fields all week but, in their community, Sunday was for church. He graduated high school at eighteen and hitched a ride to California on $20 and the hopes of finding a job. In California, he worked as a riveter on the Douglas DC-3 for a year and a half before hearing about the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor. After the attack, the patriotic American decided to join the Navy but was convinced that he could best serve his country working at the Douglas Aircraft plant. A month later he got a draft notice from the U.S. Army Air Corps.

Bud attended basic training in St. Petersburg, Florida where he was lodged in a local hotel that hastily had been converted to a barracks for new recruits. His next stop was armament school at Buckley Field in Denver, Colorado where he learned about bomb fuses, turrets, and machine gun maintenance. Training culminated at gunnery school in the deserts outside of Las Vegas, Nevada. The young gunner honed his shooting skills in the back of a single engine, two-seater, AT-6 trainer, taking shots at towed targets. He joined his fellow airmen in Boise, Idaho where the crew of his bomber formed. Bud was assigned the position of left waist gunner. They ran mock bombing missions across several western states before making one last stop in Colorado Springs.

As World War II raged on in Europe, the 8th Air Force, located in High Wycombe, England, required its crews to complete 35 missions prior to rotation back to the States. The U.S. daylight strategic bombing raids over Germany were successful but came at a cost. The disturbing fact for American airmen was that law of averages dictated that a crew of an American bomber, making runs over Germany, would only survive 10 missions. Ready to face those odds, Bud and his crew, now part of the 392nd Bomb Group, joined the 8th Air Force after a flight that took them around the globe from Topeka, Kansas through Brazil and Africa to England. The crews of the 392nd were flying the Consolidated B-24 Liberator, a four-engine heavy bomber that proved to be a mainstay in the U.S. bombing campaign in Western Europe. For his first mission, Bud was assigned to a B-24, serial number 772, piloted by 2nd Lieutenant W.T. Kamenitsa.

On April 8, 1944, Bud’s crew joined the 36 other aircrews that were assigned to bomb aircraft plants and airfields in Brunswick, Germany. Near and over the target, the bombers experienced heavy attacks by an estimated 75 enemy fighters. The mission was not as successful as planned and many Liberators returned to England shot full of holes, leaking fuel and carrying wounded crewmembers. On his second mission, Bud was wounded in the arm by flak and would be awarded the first of his two Purple Hearts. The bombing run at the German airfield was successful and a blow to the Luftwaffe. On his 11th and final mission on April 29, his B-24 collided with another airship in the formation during a German fighter attack. Part of the left wing was torn off but Lieutenant Kamenitsa was able to make an emergency landing in a field on the outskirts of Berlin. Sergeant Guillot suffered a fractured ankle, scrapes, and bruises. Three of the crew lost their lives. Local civilians and German soldiers arrived on the scene quickly and whisked the surviving crew off for interrogation.

Under interrogation by German officers, Bud only provided what was required by the Geneva Convention—name, rank, and serial number. He was put on a train to Stalag 17, near Krems, Austria, along with other downed American Airmen. Internment at Stalag 17 involved playing dominoes and cards while other more daring POWs dug tunnels in an attempt to escape their captors. He recalls that he was treated within the boundaries of the Geneva Convention despite losing a significant amount of weight. After a year and 5 days, Bud and his fellow crewmembers were marched out the camp as the Soviets marched on Austria. After the guards had surrendered to Patton’s 3rd Army, Bud was flown to Camp Lucky Strike in France to recover from his ordeal. The young sergeant will never forget the image of General Patton riding in on his jeep, adorned by his two ivory-handled pistols.

His grueling ordeal was over, and he debarked in New York and took a train to San Antonio, Texas where he took a two week pass to return to his family in Paris, Texas. He was sent back to Florida for one month to prepare to transfer to the war in the Pacific, but the war ended soon after and he was spared any more combat missions.

For his heroic actions and injuries sustained in the air above Germany and the year he spent in the German POW camp, Staff Sergeant Oliver Gulliot was awarded 2 Purple Hearts and the Air Medal for meritorious actions while participating in aerial flight. He offered the following advice for future generations: “Everybody should have to serve 2 years in the military. It makes you realize you are tougher than you think you are.”

Bud is pictured holding the last meal that he was given as a POW, a now hardened piece of bread which he was later told was made of about 80% wood sawdust.

Reuben was the fourth oldest in a family of nine children growing up during the Great Depression in Santa Monica, California. The family faced the challenges of high unemployment and low family income. At 8 years old, Reuben began working at a Japanese market on the weekend. By the time he was 10, he was able to hold simple conversations in Japanese. All the money he made went to help support the family. Reuben was a month short of 11 when his father passed due to heart complications, but his mother, Lorraine, continued to do a great job raising all nine kids by herself and never remarried. He learned about the attack on Pearl Harbor while he was at home. His first concern was for the safety of his brothers who were serving in the South Pacific at the time. Early news about his kin was good, and he was relieved to find out that his brothers Art, a Marine, and Joe, a Sailor, had been spared from the Japanese attack. Like many other young men at the onset of World War II, he dropped out of high school in the twelfth grade to enlist in the service. He remembered standing in line behind hundreds of enlistees waiting their turn at the recruitment center. Initially, Reuben was denied enlistment because he already had two brothers in the service, but he was persistent and within a year, enlisted in the Navy. It was a perfect fit for him, having grown up diving for abalones off a local pier in Santa Monica. He loved the sea and claimed that the famous actor Johnny Weissmuller taught him how to swim.

After attending basic training at Navy Training Center San Diego, Seaman Garcia was assigned to the YMS-115, a minesweeper docked at Long Beach, California. He was trained, along with officers, in mine warfare for six months before being transferred to a fleet sweeper in San Francisco. Less than an hour onboard his new ship, he heard his name and service number announced and was ordered to report to the quarterdeck for reassignment. He never knew where that ship sailed. Back at Long Beach, he was assigned to the submarine chaser, USS SC-1003. His ship of the SC-497 class was one of 443 built during the war. These wooden-hulled ships were small—only 110 feet long—and carried a crew of 25 enlisted and 3 officers. As a Motor Machinist Mate, the young sailor was always responsible to keep her two General Motors diesel engines running so she could perform her off-shore-patrols and anti-submarine warfare duties. The SC-1003’s first mission was to join other patrol ships and escort a convoy of American vessels bound for Pearl Harbor. After sailing 28 days and only encountering one enemy sub without incident, the convoy arrived safely at Pearl Harbor. Throughout his service in the South Pacific, Reuben and his crew were never attacked by Japanese submarines that were always on the prowl for more prime targets like battleships and carriers. He did recall one incident where the “Old Man” called for the sub chaser to “rig for collision.” Avoiding a head on collision, the sub clipped and damaged one of her engine shafts leaving the SC-1003 to limp along on one engine. After the war, Reuben made his way to Seattle. He remembered being so happy the war had ended and that everybody was hugging and kissing.

Between 1943 and 1945, the U.S. Navy lost 17 of its sub chasers from sinking by aerial dive-bombing, kamikaze attacks, offshore shelling, collision, and foundering. The tough wooden ships proved to be very versatile and supported just about any maritime mission during the war.

As for Reuben and his brothers, they survived the war and returned home. Reuben worked as a plumber for sixty years and attended UCLA, completing a certificate to teach adult education. His brother Art returned from fighting with the 4th Marine Division on the islands of Saipan, Tinian, and Iwo Jima. His brother Joe, also a Machinist Mate, fought and survived the sea battles of the Coral Sea and Leyte Gulf. Aboard the USS Boise (CL-47), Joe survived below deck after the light cruiser had been heavily damaged at the battle of Cape Esperance in 1942. He lived on to the age of 96 and was buried at sea with full military honors aboard the aircraft carrier USS Carl Vinson.

Reuben Garcia served his country in a dire time of need with skill and bravery. During the war, it was not unusual for families to have multiple members serving overseas. As for the three Garcia brothers, they served valiantly in the Pacific doing their part to defeat Imperial Japan. Reuben left future generations of Americans the following advice, “Always be prepared to protect your country.”

Five days after newly-commissioned Robert May arrived in Africa, he was sent as the chief navigator on the lead LST for the invasion of Salerno, Italy in September 1943. May had had a total of four days of LST navigator training during the 30-day voyage from the U.S. to Africa before being designated chief navigator.

“I had a 3.99 grade in navigation in midshipman’s school, so bing! I was immediately sent overseas to Africa. I get aboard a ship, and five days later we leave for the Salerno invasion, in which there were about 2,000 ships. We were the lead ship, so my navigating led them to this. Let me tell ya. That’s a horrible feeling! Didn’t really know what I was doing in terms of navigating, but I was good at it.”

“When you go for a landing, you drop anchor about four in the morning and let the troops go ashore. We carried 500 troops and let 250 go ashore at first, and then at daybreak we’d hit the beach. That was the first time we knew whether we were in the right place or not. All 300 of the LSTs in our battle group did this—let 250 men each go ashore. That’s a lot of men going ashore! And I don’t think I fully appreciated the responsibility. I don’t think I realized they were all taking our bearing on us. If I missed—a lot of people missed, you put 100,000 men ashore!”

“When daybreak came, our charts were very good. There was a church and a school, and I could pick up on the map we were in the right place. But from 4:00 to daybreak about 6:30, I didn’t really know if we were in the right place or not.”

May explained that navigation is hard to learn as an adult when you’ve never done it before, but if you have as a youth—like he had as an Eagle Scout—it was easy. He knew to correct for wind, current, and compass error. “LST is all freeboard, three feet under the water and 20 feet above the water. It’s like a sailboat. The wind has a tremendous effect on your sailing.”

“We made 17 trips to Salerno from Africa into Italy, and we always got to the right place. And when we went into Anzio, we had a similar experience, we made 12 trips in. We carried 500 Army troops and about 90 vehicles: 55 tanks, the rest ambulances, jeeps, ammo vehicles. When you have 300 LSTs all unloading 55 tanks in a short time, that’s a lot of tanks, a traffic jam, really.”

“I was just a young kid; I was only 22 years old! There was a lot of luck to it,” he marveled. “The executive officer on our ship was supposed to be the navigator. He was ex-Navy; had been a civilian for 14 years. He’d forgotten everything he knew. He was very complimentary to me.”

They usually slid up to shore in the LST to discharge troops and vehicles, but one time heading into Salerno, they were caught on a sandbar offshore, which necessitated building pontoon bridges for the vehicles. It took about four hours during which “Germans were popping 88s at us— probably a hundred of ‘em, but none of ‘em hit us. They couldn’t seem to get us in range!” he laughed.

In addition, one time while at Anzio, “We had 135 air raids in which six bombs were dropped each time, and not one of ‘em hit us. They hit a few smaller ships around us. That was quite a feeling to look up and see the bombs coming and close your eyes waiting for the explosion. We also had two torpedoes that were launched against us by torpedo bombers. We watched them drop. But we only had a draft of three feet—torpedoes go to six feet—so went right under us. But we were holding our breath waiting.”

“You see a torpedo bomber come at ya—we never shot a plane down coming at us—but when a plane comes in at 600 mph then it slows up to about 100 mph, then you can pop ‘em. We shot down 20 planes that had dropped bombs on us.”

During one period of heavy fighting, Mr. May and his shipmates rescued injured pilots—both American and German—after their planes had been shot down. He was curious about the German pilots, and had the chance to talk with half a dozen of them.

May’s burning question was always “Why did you join the military?” They’d respond, “Just like you, we were drafted.” He learned that if they’d been in high school or college, they’d be sent into the Air Force; if not, they’d be put into the infantry. “For two weeks we were picking up 50 wounded pilots a day. That’s how many dogfights were going on,” May recounted.

May had originally enlisted in the Navy the day before Pearl Harbor, as it turned out, while in his sophomore year in college, in order to complete his education. Enlisting in the Navy reserve permitted him to stay in school and finish his degree.

After graduation, May attended midshipman’s school, received his commission, and shipped out to Africa. Because he had been an Eagle Scout, “I knew things most other officers didn’t know like how to shoot the stars [for navigation],” he explained. “It’s why I did so well.”

There was no chaplain on his ship. When the captain found out Mr. May had been a Scoutmaster of a troop in his church, he asked if May would be the chaplain while they were at sea. “So, we had a service, Sunday morning at 11:00. We had five attendees. By the third week, we had 50. The biggest question was ‘How do we pray? And if I pray, how do I know somebody’s listening?’ You know, some very serious questions.” May estimated over time about half the men on the ship came to him to ask him how to pray.

February 10, 1944 they were on their 13th trip to Anzio carrying, “the worst load you could possibly carry. We were carrying a thousand drums of gasoline and five hundred drums of smoke oil.” With her cargo, the LST was too high risk to be part of a convoy, although a screen of ships was set up to protect her.

“We’d been briefed that ships had been attacked at one same location we were passing through. We figured there was a German sub there but we couldn’t find it. So, when we got to that point we went to General Quarters. All of a sudden, the bow lookout says ‘We’re following a wake of something, but it disappeared.’”

“The sub pulled off to the side and waited until we got there. The first torpedo hit the bow, took sixty feet off it.”

The bow was completely detached and floating away after the first torpedo hit. May, as the repair officer, sprang into action checking for hull breaches. He was on his way to the conning tower when the second torpedo hit midship among the gasoline and smoke oil, killing 7 of the ship’s 12 officers and 46 of the 88 enlisted men in the enormous explosion.

“They said the flames were 700 feet in the air. All of us were burned. I had an oilskin coat on. It burned the collar, and part of my trousers were burned. My face was badly burned. My hair and eyebrows were all gone. Those were pretty traumatic times. Hard to forget,” he reflected.

“I was very fortunate. I had a piece of deck plate land on me; that’s what bashed my hand in and did some damage to my feet. The impact of the explosion—the deck came up, you know, and broke all the bones in my feet. I couldn’t walk for about six months.”

When the ship’s doctor examined May’s smashed hand, he predicted he would lose it. “But let me bind it so you don’t bleed to death. And you must have it operated on in no more than five hours,” insisted the doctor. But at 2:30am while the doctor was making his pronouncement, the skipper gave the order to abandon ship. The LST had taken a 15-degree list.

May went over the side and down the ladder, but he’d forgotten about his injured hand and fell over backwards. Miraculously, he fell between the LST and one of the boats tied to it just as the two vessels rocked together to form a geyser of water that lifted him up into a rescuer’s hands. “It was as if God lifted you up and handed you to us,” one of his shipmates later said. “A miracle is all I can say.”

Another miracle awaited. Several hours later as the badly injured May lay with other wounded men in the small lifeboat, they spotted a British hospital ship shortly after daybreak. The Brits had seen the explosion from 50 miles away, received an SOS, and came to the rescue. May, as the most in need of critical care, was taken into the operating room for surgery on his wounded hand. When he looked at the clock, it was 7:30am. He’d made it into surgery in the five hours his doctor had said was necessary to save his hand.

While the men were adrift in the lifeboat, they asked May to lead a prayer for their rescue. An hour later, the hospital ship appeared. The men said to May, “Thank God for us,” words that still echoed in his ears, decades later.

Despite the loss of half his shipmates and in addition to his own severe injuries, May reflected that he was able to make the best of the situation. “I don’t think it had any effect on me. I was sad. But I was saved, and they were saved. I did my best with what I could do, and I felt very satisfied with that. Acting as sort of a counselor, you help yourself.”

Three weeks after the ship was sunk by the torpedoes, 440 letters arrived for men who had been killed, sometimes six or eight letters for one man. Mr. May answered all 440, dictating to Red Cross workers who’d volunteered to help.

Ten total months in hospital and five complex plastic surgeries were required to restore full functionality to his smashed hand. While convalescing, Robert taught at the midshipman’s school at Notre Dame.

“I’m a lucky guy; that’s all I can say.” To those who were lost that day, Mr. May gave his thanks. “You did your best.” He felt grateful for being able to help “a little bit,” he said.

And when he learned the war had ended, May gave thanks to God.

Asked if he had advice for current and future generations, May unhesitatingly responded, “Go in the service for a couple of years! You learn yourself, how to take care of yourself, and how to get along with people. When you get in the service, you’re with people of all kinds, all make ups, all backgrounds. I have amazing appreciation for the human race, and you realize how lucky you are.”

Walter was raised in Newark, New Jersey by his grandparents. He was your average teenager that was active in his church and was part of the local Boy Scouts of America Troop. Walter was eager to serve, missing some of his senior year in high school to enlist and was shipped off for training near his home at Fort Dix, New Jersey. After a short period at Fort Dix, he continued training at Fort Bragg where he specialized in field observation and served as a radio operator. He did some additional artillery training at Fort Sill, Oklahoma, before going back to the East Coast and boarding a ship for England. He enjoyed the training and felt comfortable with his knowledge prior to going to the field.

“You didn’t just carry a rifle. You learned how to use it. And they taught you how to clean it, take it apart and clean it. . . . They took you to a firing range; they taught you how to shoot.”

Upon landing in England, Walter and his company felt they were in the middle of the war zone. “Every night you can hear the sirens going off. The German Luftwaffe was in there bombing the daylights out of England. Doing everything they can. English people—they knew us—they would protect us if we were out by ourselves.”

Serving as an artillery spotter, Walter was directly involved with supporting the ground forces and those firing the 105mm Howitzers at German troops, tanks, and supply trucks. They would use white phosphorous shells, known as Willy Petes, to fire and mark their shots. Once the artillery batteries accuracy was confirmed, the call “fire for effect” was made and all 4 guns would explode toward the enemy.

Walter remembers being about 1,000 feet away from the enemy at times, with their 105mm artillery battery supporting the infantry. “The infantry was the first one in. We were like the quarterback; we were right behind them. Protecting their landing by firing over their heads taking out a tank battalion. That was our job.” And additional measures had to be taken for security, such as using sign/counter-sign and duress words to ensure no enemy got inside the American encampments.

“If you were on guard duty, you had a code. You said two words, ‘Dark brown.’ And the sentry would turn around, ‘Who’s there? Dark—and the other person would say ‘brown’—and you would pass.”

The codes were changed every 24 hours, and if the information wasn’t passed correctly, they would shoot on the spot. If you didn’t answer correctly, Walter said, “You’d fire. In those days, you fired to kill. You had to—that was the enemy—and that’s what you were sent there for.”

Walter performed his duty as spotter with grit and determination until one tragic night when he was injured. One of their ammo trucks was blown up, and the men slaughtered. A skirmish broke out, and Walter threw grenades and fired his M1 Carbine rifle at the enemy. He ended up being struck by enemy grenades with heavy shrapnel going into his body. He laid there for about 30 minutes before the medic arrived. Walter didn’t fear dying, but the fear and shock of the unknown was what preoccupied him. He was stable and transported to a Mobile Army Surgical Hospital (MASH). From there, he was sent to a South Hampton hospital and ultimately back to the United States. He gave nothing but praise to the men and women that supported him at the MASH, the hospital in England, and ultimately back at Walter Reed Army Hospital.

Upon returning home, he was treated as a war hero, a title he most certainly earned during his several years in combat. Walter suffered serious injuries to his right side, preventing him from using his right hand as well as right leg. He could only hobble and spent time in a wheelchair. He was patched up at Walter Reed and went through physical therapy outside of Atlantic City, including hydro-therapy and time spent on their own private beach for soldiers. With nearly two years of recovery time, he got what he needed for his mobility and regained full use of his right arm. He was awarded a Purple Heart as well as a Soldier’s Medal for his service and sacrifice. The citation for his Soldier’s Medal reads:

“Private Harrison while on duty at an advanced observation post lead a trapped comrade from a burning dugout and then returned to the dugout to save valuable military equipment. Although wounded in the neck and both legs by exploding ammunition Private Harrison continued at his task until all military equipment was safely outside, when he then had to be assisted out by his comrades. The courageous act of Private Harrison is exemplary of the highest traditions of the military forces of the United States.”

After his recovery, Walter found employment at Western Electric for a short period of time, but his career wasn’t going anywhere. His love to serve was rekindled as he was hired on as a firefighter and diligently served his community for 28 years. Walter vividly recalled the war with strong words, “Nobody likes to kill people, but some things have to be done.”

Raised in a small railroad community, Mr. Christison played sports well enough to earn a scholarship and attend Coe College in Cedar Rapids, Iowa. However, it was during the holiday break at the end of his first semester that his life changed forever. “I was sitting in my parents’ living room, reading, and it came on the radio that Pearl Harbor was bombed.” A few weeks later, he was drafted into service.

Great Lakes, Illinois was his basic training, a time Mr. Christison didn’t remember too fondly. “I was Captain of the Head. That meant that I had to watch and get some guys to clean the toilets and the latrines. So, no, I don’t have any positive memories of that at all,” he laughed.

After that came the aviation ordnance school in Memphis for a few months and then a small break at Treasure Island in San Francisco, Mr. Christison’s last stop before being shipped overseas. “I was sent on an ice cream ship, if you can believe it. I guess maybe the officers ate ice cream, because I was out there for years and I never saw ice cream!”

When asked if he had any reservation about going to war, Mr. Christison said, “Not really, it sounded sort of exciting. [At eighteen,] you don’t know enough to be scared until it actually happens!”

The destination was the Solomon Islands where Mr. Christison and his buddies would “island hop” every eight months, rotating between Guadalcanal, New Georgia, and Bougainville islands.

Long hours and minimal entertainment are what Mr. Christison remembered the most. “We’d work eight hours on and four hours off over most of my experience. Day and night, we loaded bombs on the aircrafts and loaded the machine guns with ammunition when the planes would come back in. And that’s all we did! We got really bored at times because there wasn’t anything to do.” Eventually, sports equipment turned up and dedicated spaces were set up for the troops, but boredom remained a problem.

Nature could also be troublesome, dangerous even with temperatures above one hundred degrees, malaria-carrying mosquitoes, and treacherous corals. “We weren’t supposed to swim because we got what we called ‘jungle rot.’ We learned later it was coral poisoning, if you got scratched and got coral in. . . . I got holes in my legs about [the size of a silver dollar] and it went all the way to the bone.”

But that didn’t stop young men looking to stave off boredom, even at the risk of some awkward situations. “In Guadalcanal, we’d get a guy [upriver], and he’d throw a grenade in the water and it would blow the fish out. The rest of the guys would stand downstream holding a volleyball net and catch the fish, take them in and the cooks would cook ‘em for us.”

One incident in particular stood out. “Eleanor Roosevelt came in to survey [the base], and I don’t know how, but she saw us in the river naked—everybody was naked because we didn’t have swimming suits—and she wanted to put us on report. The skipper of the island was a nice guy, and he agreed with her, but as soon as she left, they expunged our records.” Mr. Christison laughed as he recalls the whole situation and the fact that at the end of his service, he got a medal for Good Conduct.

Mr. Christison remembered some fun times and silly pranks, and spoke fondly of his buddies, but even with them, isolation could creep up. The ordnance men had very little contact with the rest of the troops. “We worked at different times. And they were a little scared to be [working on the airstrip] when we were [loading planes with 100-pound bombs!]” Mr. Christison didn’t recall any interaction with the pilots “except when they yelled at us! When they came back in and their machine guns wouldn’t work, that was the interaction.” Divides were deep. “Every [island] had what they called ‘officers’ country’ and enlisted men weren’t allowed there. I think that’s ‘cause they got ice cream!”

But work and boredom aren’t all Mr. Christison remembered. “Bougainville was on a mountain. We were on one side, and the Japanese that hadn’t left were on the other side. So, they started on a push back. They did most of their bombings at night, but on Bougainville, it was a whole different deal. [When the Japanese attacked,] we just headed down to the foxholes except when we were down on the airstrip. And that was a little scary. They had actually strapped guys in trees with automatic rifles! They would be in the jungle near the airstrip, and they were supposed to shoot the aircrafts when they came back in to blow ‘em up! We had to set up machine gun positions all the way around the airstrip, and that was the most scared we got.”

Soon, however, it was back to normal, and the boys had to invent new pranks to keep busy between shifts while waiting to cumulate enough points to be rotated home. “Six months stretched into twelve. When I signed up in the Navy, I signed up for one year. I think I was in for 42 months.”

But, as all things come to an end, Mr. Christison was eventually sent home. “You were excited about going home, but then too you wondered what you were gonna do when you got there. The government had a deal—if you couldn’t find a job that related to the skills that you had before you went in the service, you got $20 a week.” But Mr. Christison’s father wouldn’t have it for long, and it was back to the school benches for his son. College proved a socially wonderful time for him.

“I had a Japanese roommate. He’d been in the army over in Italy. People asked me how I could fight against the Japanese and then have a Japanese roommate, but it just happened, you know. And he was the nicest guy.” Aside from a nice roommate, Mr. Christison also met in college the woman who’d become his wife in 1949 and the mother of his five children.

When asked what he would like his children and grandchildren to remember most about him, he simply smiled: “That I always had a lot of fun.”

William P. Galbraith grew up hiking to the falls and swimming in the pools of Eaton Canyon behind Mount Wilson, north of Los Angeles. He was the only child of Cecil “Shorty” Galbraith, a truck driver and his mother, Bernice, who was an RN and a chemist. His parents split up when he was 9, so he went to live with his mother in Long Beach. Though the Depression was hard on many Americans, his family did well. His father was never out of work, and his mother provided at-home medical care for others. He attended Hamilton Junior High School and sketched pastel drawings of ships of the War of 1812 and sold them to his teachers for 5 dollars apiece. His first job was at Ralph’s grocery store, delivering groceries to people’s cars. His fondest memories of growing up, center around working for the U.S. Forest Service, blowing up rocks with dynamite and widening trails in the San Gabriel forest. Right after December 7, 1941 he remembers sitting at his home in Belmont Shores on the roof with his 25-35 Winchester Rifle, waiting for the Japanese to invade. After the U.S. entered World War II, he dropped out of high school and joined the service in September of 1942.

American Paratroopers were the answer to the German airborne units that parachuted into Norway and Belgium early in the war. The U.S. military needed volunteers for the risky endeavor, which paid an extra 50 dollars a month of hazardous duty pay. The extra pay drew volunteers like William to Camp Toccoa for initial paratrooper training. He had enlisted in the Army as an Infantryman with the understanding that after basic training he would become a paratrooper. He left Long Beach and reported to Fort MacArthur where he was issued his uniforms, given a haircut and shots, and then put on a train bound for Georgia. He arrived at Camp Toccoa, the United States Army Paratrooper training camp. William recalled that it was “damn tough training.” Soldiers were disciplined with 100-plus mile long marches with full gear and daily runs up and down Mount Currahee. Along with his fellow trainees, he spent several weeks learning parachuting procedures on the ground, then moved up to controlled jumps from 35-foot towers, and finished with “jump week” that featured actual drops from 1000 plus feet. Only a third of the recruits were able to pass all three phases. The men with enough grit to complete all phases of training were issued the basic Silver Parachutist badge. William felt like a million dollars when they pinned his “jump wings” upon his chest.

The young paratrooper mustered with his fellow soldiers at Camp Shanks, New York. Located on the Hudson River, it was the largest troop embarkation site during World War II. They departed Shanks, known as “Last Stop U.S.” aboard the RMS Samaria, a luxury liner that had been refitted to be a troop transport by the British Royal Navy. They went through several submarine scares on the trip, but they arrived safely in England in September of 1943 and proceeded to RAF Ramsbury to join the 101st Airborne.

Part of the Mission Albany night drop, the 506th Parachute Infantry Regiment flew out of Exeter bound for Normandy on the morning of June 6th, 1944. After passing the Isle of Wight, they flew blind through the fog that broke up the formation of planes and gliders. Three of the planes in his formation were shot down, and they lost nearly the whole 1st Battalion. Above Normandy, William jumped and landed very close to his intended destination, just south of Carentan. The 506th’s objective was to capture and hold the bridges on the Douve River. He was in combat for one month in Normandy and recalls a fierce firefight against the Wehrmacht just west of Carentan. With only 7 riflemen and 2 machine gunners left in his squad, they were ordered to attack the advancing Germans in an area known as “Bloody Gulley,” which referred to the wagon trails between the fields where the Americans fought. On June 28, his regiment was relieved from the front lines and returned to England with only 31 officers and enlisted men out of the original company of 126 men.

William made the daylight jump on September 17, 1944 into Holland as part of the 101st and 82nd Airborne operation named Market Garden. They had the following mission objectives: land near Son, secure bridges at Veghel, at Sint-Oedenrode, and at Son, and capture Eindhoven. As the 506th moved towards Son, the young trooper watched as his company commander was shot through the neck by a sniper. William fired his M-1 at a bell tower where he thought the sniper was positioned. Thinking he killed the sniper, he attempted to enter the church but came under machine-gun and artillery fire. He moved doorway to doorway for cover, but an 88 mm shell found its mark, and William took shrapnel to his leg and shoulder. Fortunately, a medic pulled him into a house and treated his wounds. He was taken to Brussels in a British ambulance and put on a C-47 bound for England. In England, they operated on his shoulder and removed all the shrapnel they could.

He returned to the States on board a hospital ship. After arriving in Charleston, South Carolina, he was transported back to Modesto before Christmas 1944 where he was visited by his mom and dad. He had met his wife in England while at a dance in Edinburgh. Back home, William waited patiently for her to arrive in Southern California. She arrived on Christmas Day, 1948, and they were married 3 days later at a local Catholic church. The loving couple of 68 years had 10 kids: 3 girls and 7 boys.

William experienced firsthand the horrors of war both at Normandy and in Holland. It’s understandable that he gave the following advice to future generations, “Anybody who wishes they were in war doesn’t know what they are wishing for.” For being wounded in combat and his heroic service at Normandy and Holland, William P. Galbraith was awarded the Purple Heart, the European Campaign Medal, and the WWII Victory Medal. His most cherished award is the Parachutist Badge with two stars for combat drops.

“Tally-ho!” The order was repeated, and Captain Raaen got his men of the 5th Ranger Battalion up and moving toward the coastal bluffs facing “Dog Red Beach.” In the few minutes since stepping off the landing craft at precisely 7:50 a.m. Raaen had already seen and heard sights and sounds that would never leave him. The noise, rising in intensity, the cracks of anti-tank cannon fire, streams of machine gun rounds, and steady crunching of artillery became deafening. Raaen rushed the short distance to cover and ignored the stench of blasted, burned bodies with burst bowels. Bodies lay everywhere, vehicles burned and the clothing of the dead and wounded burned; thousands of machine gun bullets cracked overhead and slammed into the sand and stone surrounding Raaen and his small group as they organized at the seawall, marking the limits of the high tide as it slowly rose behind him. Glancing back to the water, he saw the craft that landed immediately before his was struck by an artillery shell; he watched the craft landing immediately behind his own, flash with flame as a man carrying a flamethrower was struck and exploded throwing jellied gasoline everywhere. He watched as Father Joseph Lacey, making no effort to depart the maelstrom of hostile fire and flame pulled the wounded out of the water, ministering to the living and giving last rites to the dead. Memories that would last a lifetime were seared into Raaen’s brain in his first two minutes of war.

John Carpenter Raaen, Jr, was born at Fort Benning, GA on April 22, 1922. The son of a career Army officer, John grew up in the Panama Canal Zone, West Point, Fort Leavenworth and other military posts as his father assumed posts of ever greater responsibility. John grew to manhood knowing that one day he would march in the line of the cadets at West Point, absorbing lessons in military life, leadership and patriotism from the soldiers that were the only constant in his young life. Spending only his senior year at Frankfort High School in Philadelphia, he graduated and soon reported to the Military Academy at West Point to pursue his own career as a professional, military officer. With no bitterness at having no hometown, John believes the “pre-War Army was a wonderful place to live and grow up.”

Raaen and all his fellow cadets knew that the United States would eventually join the war raging in Europe. On December 7, 1941, however, Raaen was shocked to hear of the Japanese attack at Pearl Harbor. War had come a little sooner than expected. The curriculum at West Point had always been challenging but became even more so as classes were compressed, and practical officer skills replaced theoretical military training. Raaen and his classmates were graduated early and sent into the active army as prepared lieutenants armed not only with tactical skills, but also the administrative skills needed to immediately assume commands as new officers. Receiving the “West Point Refresher Course” in Military Engineering, 2nd Lt. Raaen was assigned as a platoon leader at the Engineer Replacement Center at Fort Belvoir which provided invaluable experience in leading and managing men, and then whisked off to the 55th Armored Engineer Bn of the 10th Armored Division where he was assigned to the division Bridge Company before taking over the Engineer Reconnaissance Platoon. Learning that elite Ranger Battalions were forming, Raaen applied for transfer, and after selection, was assigned as the Engineer Officer of the 5th Ranger Battalion, but quickly shifted into a platoon leader’s assignment where he began the intensive training that created the fearsome reputation of the Rangers. Before long Raaen became the S3 Training and Operations billet on the Battalion Staff.

January 19, 1944, found 1st Lt Raaen landing in Liverpool England as the Headquarters Company Commander of the 5th Ranger Bn, and the beginning of another whirlwind of training with the Royal Commandos before boarding ship again on June 1, to aboard a troop ship, staged for the invasion of Europe. After a weather delay, on June 5, movement began at 4:30 a.m. the next morning, towards the open Channel. There would be no turning back, the next stop would be France, and the 5th Ranger’s mission to assist in the capture of the Pointe du Hoc artillery positions overlooking the invasion beaches and blocking the coastal road to prevent German reinforcement.

Coming off his landing craft, Raaen’s company suffered a single casualty, almost immediately, as one man ran into a stream of machine gun fire. Raaen quickly organized his men, and when the codeword “Tally-ho” was received, moved his men from the cover of the stone seawall and up the steep hill immediately to his front. Foliage aflame from the naval bombardment, Raaen struggled up the hill through thick, choking smoke before breaking out on the other side and through the German defensive positions. The Rangers quickly passed through to the coastal road, set up blocking positions and began aggressive patrols to locate any German positions or reinforcements. Over the next several days Raaen set up ammunition resupply points under fire, established communications with higher headquarters, adjacent and subordinate units, and ensured that all staff sections had the men and material needed to continuing taking the fight to the enemy until the Normandy Campaign was over and the Allies firmly in place.

Raaen continued to serve with the 5th Bn through all its campaigns in northern Europe until injured during the early days of the Battle of the Bulge. Evacuated to the United States, Raaen would continue to serve through Korean War, and again, during the Vietnam War, finally retiring as a Major General in 1979.

John Raaen, throughout his career has held to two beliefs, and urges all Americans to do the same. He believes the Constitution of the United States is the greatest governing document ever devised by man, and that it must be defended always. Raaen’s other belief is that a sense of patriotism must be inculcated in the nation’s youth so that they can understand the greatness of the Constitution and come to its defense not out of self-interest or as an onerous duty, but as free, earnest Americans serving their country.

Growing up as a farm boy just outside of Monroe, MI, Johnny Riegel enjoyed the farm work but decided he wasn’t going to be a farmer for life.

During the Depression he got a job at age 14 as a stock boy at 25 cents per hour. “It was good money for that time,” he recalled. Although they weren’t rich, they were much better off than many of their neighbors.

He was an Eagle Scout and junior assistant scoutmaster, but Riegel laughed about being somewhat of a troublemaker growing up. “I was not a perfect boy!” he said. He described shooting the paperboy in the back with his BB gun; soaping windows at Halloween; ringing someone’s doorbell then running away.

In 9th grade, Johnny met the 8th-grade girl, Joan, who would become his wife. “Of course, I didn’t know it at the time,” he chuckled. “I remember thinking she was cute. Nothing developed at that time, but I guess it was meant to be.” They dated, though not seriously, through high school.

On his first Christmas home from the military, Johnny and Joan met up again but again, nothing serious developed. Later, home on leave after he got his pilot wings in Corpus Christi, TX, they spent a lot of time together. “But we still weren’t serious,” Riegel recounted. Then, in December 1944, home on leave again, Johnny proposed to Joan. She accepted.

They had a whirlwind wedding in North Carolina shortly before Johnny received orders to go to Miramar Naval Air Station in California to prepare to go to war.

When Pearl Harbor was attacked, 17-year-old Riegel was a senior in high school, too young to be called up. Shortly after graduation he was at a war bond rally when he was asked by a naval officer recruiter if he wanted to take a spin in a mockup of a plane cockpit. “Sure,” Johnny said. He climbed aboard and was spun around. When finished, he wasn’t dizzy or disoriented.

Impressed, the officer gave Johnny his card and told him to consider joining the naval aviation cadet program. Though his father objected, he was talked into it. When Johnny turned 18 in late 1942, he was sworn into the program. In the spring of 1943, while in college, he received orders first for Montana before pre-flight training in California.

After three months of pre-flight, Riegel was sent to Washington for flight training in Stinson bi-planes, “The most fun I ever had flying,” he recalled. They performed aerial acrobatics in the open cockpit planes, wearing flight goggles.

In June of 1944, Riegel chose to leave the Navy and be commissioned as a pilot in the Marine Corps because he’d have the chance to fly an A-20 single pilot plane used for strafing and bombing. That changed, as things do in the military, to a PBJ (B-25). He trained in North Carolina

In May of 1945, Johnny was on a victory ship bound for the Pacific island of Emirau. Once based on the island, for several months he flew air raids over the major Japanese air base at Rabaul in Papua, New Guinea and which had been an important Japanese supply base for Guadalcanal.

Riegel’s mission was to keep Rabaul subdued. “It was late in the fight,” he remembered, “I think they found 150,000 troops tunneled in there after the war. We had four PBJ air squadrons on Rabaul.”

The squadrons flew missions every day; usually in the morning, dropping their 500 and 1,000-pound bombs from 10,000 feet.

In July of 1945 they redeployed to the island of Mindanao in the Philippines, to prepare for the invasion of Japan.

One, while flying co-pilot on one mission, Riegel had just turned around from checking the gas gauge when a large bird smashed through the plane’s window, hitting Johnny and knocking him out. “I was covered with blood, plexiglass everywhere,” he described. “I have to give credit to the pilot who got us back even with a 180mph wind coming through the window next to me.

“I was checked over by a doctor who told me, ‘That blood is the bird’s, not yours’,” Riegel laughed. “That was the worst thing that happened to me.”

While on Mindanao, they received word of the atomic bombs being dropped, effectively ending the war.

“We were relieved that the invasion had been called off,” he said, “the estimates for loss of life were so high, about a million people of our allies, and how many Japanese? I think Truman did the right thing.

“We had been bombing Japan. Tokyo was half gone from our bombings, and 150,000 people there were lost. I think it was a blessing, but unfortunately (the nuclear weapons) have become a fact of war.”

After celebration V-J Day, they packed up and went to Hawaii before heading to the mainland. “I guess I got home for Christmas, again!” Riegel laughed. “That was a miracle.”

He and his wife Joan regularly wrote letters to each other any time he was away, from the very beginning of going away to college through his military time in service; letters that they kept for decades afterward. As he read one that he wrote, about going to see the movie “Casablanca”, Mr. Riegel smiled. “That was a good movie,” he said, before he reached the letter’s end. “Goodnight, sweetheart,” he concluded.

Johnny spent just shy of three years on active duty before being put on reserve status. He graduated from the University of Michigan in 1949 and was happy to be back together with Joan; happy to be free and making plans.

They moved to California the first time in the early 1950’s but returned to Michigan a few years later. They moved again to California in the 1970’s. Johnny had a variety of jobs. “I was floating around,” he said. He went to school on the GI Bill, like so many of his peers, graduating with a degree in business.

Johnny then began a career with General Electric in Ohio. He and Joan had two sons and two daughters. “My wife was a wonderful mother,” he said. His career was in what would come to be called Human Resources. “I liked it. I was well suited to it,” he said.

They relocated to southern California with GE; Johnny had moved into Labor Relations, where he remained until 1986 when he retired. “Labor Relations is no fun,” he recalled. “You deal with grievances and such. I’d had enough. So, I retired,” he said cheerfully.

His advice to current and future generations: “Love your family and Jesus. Follow Jesus’ teachings. Love them and try to serve them.”

We’re grateful to Mr. Riegel for his service.

Harry “Pat” Hofferbert knew he didn’t want to be a grunt in the war, so he enlisted in the Army Air Corps in December 1942. Pat and other neighborhood boys would play with model planes, but he never knew what he wanted to do as a career.

“I did have a growing interest in aviation at that time; however, I didn’t think that I would end up flying for the Air Transport Command in the Pacific during World War II.”

Like most others that grew up in the Great Depression, Pat and his family experienced financial hardships and some tough times. His parents were separated, and his father worked various odd jobs to survive. During this time, Pat also did odd jobs at his mother’s work to help out, including cleaning, working about 10 hours per weekend to help the family. Pat grew up in various small towns in Indiana, graduating high school from Greenfield High School in Greenfield, Indiana in 1942. After high school, his mother and two brothers relocated to California.

While in college, Pat knew his number was going to get called via the draft and chose to enlist in the Army Air Corps in December 1942 with a delayed enlistment, completing one semester at Pasadena junior college. Before his 19th birthday, Pat was recalled in February 1943 and sent to boot camp in Fresno, California. After boot camp, he was assigned as an Air Cadet at Santa Ana Army Air Base in California.

Pat was then sent to Eastern Oregon for pre-flight and flight training. He was there for about 5 months with other cadets and took another semester of air preparation classes at the college. He returned to the Santa Ana Army Air Base before tracking to his primary flying school in Santa Maria, California at Hancock College of Aeronautics and then on to Lemoore Air Force Base, California flying the BT-13. During training, he suffered an injury to his eardrum during a practice dive that disqualified him from pilot training.

Based on his previous experience, Pat remained as air transport crewmember and moved to Hickam Field, Hawaii in early 1944 where he flew around the Pacific with the Air Transport Command. Once settled in, he routinely flew with the same aircrew and remembered a few close calls.

“I remember one time going into Guam, he [Captain Tate] was a hot pilot; man, he flew the aircraft anywhere and everywhere. We were going into Guam, and he came in real low with probably three quarters power and just real, real hot. I thought for sure after he let down the landing gear that our landing gear was going to catch on to the trees . . . but we made it in all right.”

Military life suited Pat very well. His greatest asset he learned from military training was, “If somebody told you to do something, you better do it, because you might be risking your life if you didn’t … particularly if you were flying.” He learned this level of commitment as a young boy where he had perfect attendance during his 12 years of school. And he maintained that perfect record post-military as he never missed a meeting at his local Kiwanis Club as a 55-year member in Santa Ana.

Pat spent the majority of his service years flying around the Pacific and island hopping for the Air Transport Command. They routinely provided aeromedical transport for wounded troops, moved critical aircraft parts where needed, or gave passage to high ranking military officers.

While on one mission in the Pacific, Pat remembers flying over Hiroshima and Nagasaki after the atomic bomb strikes in Japan. He saw the devastation first hand from about 4,000 feet in the sky: “Japanese homes prior to the war—a lot of them were built with bamboo. They were not brick; they were not stone, concrete. So when the bomb hit, it just took out everything above ground. As you went across, you couldn’t see houses because they’ve been blown off, leaving blue spa tile remaining.”

Pat’s brothers served as well: his middle brother in the Army Air Corps and his younger brother as a Yeomen in the U.S. Navy. After separating from the Army Air Corps, Pat went into the field of education back home in Southern California. He was the first principal at McFadden Intermediate School in Santa Ana from 1964 to 1979 where he routinely ran into other World War II service members he served with from where he grew up. Pat was honored for his service to our great nation during World War II in 2017 & 2018 with a flight on a B-24 Liberator, a B-17 Flying Fortress, and a B-25 Mitchell at John Wayne Airport in Santa Ana, California.

Pat has been to Washington, D.C. with the Honor Fight program, to New Orleans to the National World War II Museum with the Gary Sinise Foundation, and, in January 2019, on an EAA 1929 Ford Trimotor. He joined the Commemorative Air Force, Inland Empire Wing, headquartered in Dallas, Texas.

As Pat summarized his experiences, “Quite an adventurous life for ‘A little old Hoosier farm boy.”’

First Hand Narrative by Staff Sergeant Richard Anthony Thomas

All the actions that my squad and I participated in and the dangers we were faced with are as vivid in my mind as if they happened yesterday. As God is my witness and with truth paramount in my mind, I attempted to describe them as accurate as I possibly could to give the true sense of the environments in which we maneuvered. However, the unequivocal proof lies in the final results we had accomplished in all our mission.

This narrative describes three missions: (1) First, my squad and I rescuing fifty men in the face of the enemy and lead them back one and a half miles to safety. (2) The second mission was the recovery of two and a half tons of food from behind enemy lines that had absolutely no chance to succeed except for several miracles. Among them were thirteen incidences that did happen, however, had any one of the fourteen incidents had not occurred exactly as they did, the mission would not have been successful. Certainly, a phenomenon so extraordinary as to be unbelievable were it not manifested in truth by the true facts and the physical results substantiated by events that followed immediately after. (3) The third mission was our attempt to rescue two men in enemy territory that ended up in the discovery of a large enemy force preparing to engage our force. In each case, without hesitation my squad confidently stepped forward armed only with their rifles, but most of all, by their undying faith in God and their belief that our cause was right and just.

Our unit was H Company (medium mortar machine gun company) of the 422nd. Regiment 106th Infantry Division.

On the 15th. of December 1944, the 106 Infantry Division was positioned along the German Siegfried line for 27 miles.

My first assignment began when our Company Commander’s runner gave me the order to report to Headquarters immediately.

All five of our officers were present when I reported to Headquarters; Captain Jacobs immediately said “Sergeant Thomas our Division is spread out along the Siegfried lines so thinly that there is a mile and a half gap between each unit I want you to report to headquarter in the morning and pick up a twelve-man squad and patrol our mile and a half north to the end of the Siegfried lines at Auw, Germany, that will be all Sargent”. This was a direct order for sure, a little brief perhaps, but I excepted it as a compliment and said “yes sir” and turned and left headquarters. (Unfortunately, I would not ever see four of those five officers again).

Knowing that our Division was spread out for 27 miles, when the normal range for a Division should be only 5 miles; how many of those miles and a half gaps were there? This had to be equivalent to trying to stop a river flow with a sieve with holes as large as one’s head. This was definitely the time to have trust and confidence in our leaders.

My first priority was to critique, as much information I could glean regarding the terrain within our 1 ½ mile North from the force that we were relieving.

Fortunately, I was able to stop a Sargent that was rushing by and told him I was to lead the patrol on our one and a half miles North in the morning and asked him what was the terrain was like in that area? He horridly said “you will be traversing below a steeply forested incline that you could use for an immediate means of coverage; that would be West to your left and to your right, East, there would be an open area beyond which would be enemy territory”; then he said “good luck Sargent” then he turned and rushed off to catch up to his unit.

With that information, I decided that I would begin my mission just before sunup to avoid enemy detection, as much as possible, but still have enough light to detect any enemy activity.

The next morning, I rose early, cold and stiff as a board. My bed had been a frozen foxhole; I had two blankets that I shared with my M1 rifle. My pajamas consisted of the clothes I wore many days before. At this point I tipped my canteen up, swished a few times, and swallowed. That took care of brushing my teeth, having breakfast, lunch and possibility dinner as well.

The weather was bitter cold with scattered snow and the ground was frozen and crunchy with every step.

When I arrived at Headquarters to begin my first mission I met my twelve-man squad that were stomping their feet and beating themselves to death with their arms.

After introducing myself I told my squad that our mission was to patrol the one and half mile area gap between our unit and that of the 81st Engineers at Auw; and then I told them all the information I had learned about the terrain, and the dangers that we were likely to confront.

We did traverse north at the bottom of the steep incline for approximately one and a half miles and arrived where the steep incline broke off sharply forming a flat area at the bottom for approximately one hundred yards wide ending at an embankment approximately 50’ high across from the sheer break off. This flat area and the 50’ high embankment formed a cull-de-sac approximately two hundred yards to the West. (it must be noted here that due to possible PTS I cannot recall one foot of that one-and-a-half-mile traverse). However, my memory at this point, began again as I happily turned sharply West into the cull-de-sac area and away from that dangerous open enemy territory East.

Less than fifty yards within the open area we came upon a different and distinct type of barbwire that I had seen in person and in training manual illustrations years earlier. This definitely marked off a friendly land mine zone about fifteen feet wide that extended clear across the cull-di-sac.

While observing ahead trying to figure out how we were going to circumvent this particular problem I saw a church on top of the fifty-foot embankment approximately 200 feet away; this had to be the town of Auw, Germany our final destination. I checked the time for my report; it was exactly 0530 hours; at that precise moment, the town of Auw, was struck with a pernicious bombardment by what turned out to be three German tanks. Their first heavy barrage of 88 millimeter explosive missiles struck the church several times blowing its steeple completely off as several other missals struck the church below.

At the same moment, there was the heavy mortar and artillery bombardment in the area we had just traversed a few moments earlier; the earth vibrated beneath our feet with every resounding deafening blast. Surely the enemy had seen our patrol as we arrived at the entrance of the cul-de-sac but held their fire least they upset their striking timetable; fortunately, we turned into the cul-de-sac and avoided that confrontation.

There was still another similar simultaneous bombardment that we could faintly hear further west beyond Auw; surely a two-point pincer entrapment maneuver with both spear heads moving directly South towards St. Vith, Belgium. this for sure engulfed our patrol and all our troops in-between the two pincer movements; this overwhelming attack would, most certainly include us and our company as well.

This day of December16, 1944 at 05;30 established the very beginning of the “Battle of The Bulge” that accounted for the heaviest single battle loss in all American wars fought prior to this time.

Immediately following the church bombardment approximately 50 or more of our soldiers, (81st Engineers) rushed out of the church and down the steep 50-foot embankment. After one or two minutes, more of heavy shelling on Auw one Tiger Tank rushed up Auw’s main street and in our full view stopped in front of the church and fired still another explosive missile into the church followed with several 50 caliber machine gun bursts. The tank then turned to the next building and methodically repeated the same procedure.

At this point we heard two other tanks lower down that sake street seemingly working their way up towards the first tank using the same procedure. It became clear, their stratagem was to coordinate their attack by having the first tank block off all of our soldiers at the top and methodically raze home as the three tanks moved together.

While the merciless devastating attack on Auw was taking place the deafening nearby enemy artillery continued to bombard down the area we had traversed just moments earlier.

The soldiers that ran down the incline immediately began waving a white tee shirt attached to the end of a large tree limb in a gesture of surrender to the tank in their view less than fifty yards above (because of the tank crews limited downward view the soldiers below were not, at that point, visible to them.

The wounded men were completely distraught and screaming things barely unintelligible to us, except the one word “comrade” that was frantically repeated over and over again. This was the result of having several devastating explosive missiles burst inside the church causing tremendous shock waves that was horrifyingly traumatizing to their brains and all their senses and now they could also hear the tanks above causing mayhem in a killing frenzy throughout their company.

For a tank to take prisoners would put the tank in an extremely vulnerable position as a stationary target; or they could cause an easy panic and a massacre that would not be beyond the realm of possibility for this enemy; prisoners are a liability to the enemy whereas dead bodies are an asset.

(This did occur a day or so later near Malmedy, Belgium when an enemy tank did massacre some 72 of our soldiers that were attempting to surrender.)

Mercy sure was not being shown above us in Auw and if those tanks were to return they certainly would not show empathy here either. For us to stand by and do absolutely nothing to prevent such a possible catastrophe would be unconscionable.

Our patrol mission was finished here and now I had the responsibility of getting my squad back to our company that, for certain, were being pounded unmercifully at that very moment and if I did not make a concerted effort to do so I could be charged with desertion, the most egregious crime in times of war.

Right now, I had to make an instantaneous decision that would potentially risk our lives, but perhaps we could save the lives of those soldiers that were in eminent danger; in order to do that we would have to act immediately. With no time for explanations I turned to my squad and said, “I’m going to take the point and cross this mine area and I want you men to follow in my very footsteps!”. My squad had no alternative but to follow; for them not to do so, in face of the enemy, would be the second most serious egregious offense and subjected to the same severe immediate disciplinary action as that of desertion.

The route I chose was straight across the marked mine field area where the short-frozen grass was the thickest and unbroken. As I cautiously crossed the area, I kept looking back and watched my squad as they stayed on my path; it was then that I remembered that I had not selected a second in command. However, it would be better for them to select one of their own.

The discretion to take on a mission of this magnitude can probably be attributed to American training and inherited sense of liberty and freedom which makes the American soldier stand out more than all others. This predominantly instilled freedom to use the soldier’s initiative and ingenuity to confront any situations that is constantly in flux is advantageous, as opposed to the dogmatic, stay a particular course to achieve an objective. With these concepts and premise instilled in my mind I felt it was my prerogative to take the initiative and forestall our immediate return to our company and interact immediately with this particular situation.

After crossing the mine field area safely, we started to approach the stranded engineers while the enemy tank above the embankment was visible to us and at our distance of nearly 150 yards we were definitely in their view as well. At one point the tank did turn directly in our direction and hesitated a moment (possibly they could not discern by their limited vision if we were part of their force or not) they then finally continue to turn and raze the buildings across the street in the same manner that they had perpetrated upon the church.

The enemy, no doubt, had seen our patrol as we approached and entered the cul-de-sac a few minutes prior to their 0530-hour attack but held their fire least that would upset their punctual attack timetable. Had we started our patrol just ten minutes later we would have been caught up in that devastating enemy barrage.

When we did reach the Engineers, I believe the enemy tank above could still have been visible by us but I was concentrating totally on the wounded men; many of them were visibly wounded physically and understandably completely devastated as well as physiological to nearly the breaking point. Imagine one explosive bursting in the same room you were in; now add four or five more. We were fortunate that their eyes were still in their sockets and their brains weren’t scrambled. Under these tenuous circumstances sympathetic understanding and delicate control was positively necessary.

While still being cogent of the stranded soldier’s condition we did convince them that we could get them back to our lines safely but we would have to start immediately because those tanks could possibly return after completing their destruction above.

At this point I did not have a plan but I knew we had to get these men into the forested area quickly.

The engineers agreed enthusiastically and when we were sure the tank was out of sight we made it to the safer forested area near the marked mind field where we had the time to quickly arrange for two of my squad to bring up the rear and the rest to assist the main body; while I reconnoitered up at the edge where the forested incline broke off sharply above the cul-de-sac.

At this point we were moving up and away from the enemy spear head that was advancing toward our company by the same route we had used to arrive here.

When I finally reach the top of the incline I found that the terrain was manually cleared for 25 yards below the top of the slope as a fire break; this cleared space continued above the forest and below the top of the slope for about two miles straight South. This clearing was perfect in that it put the steep forested area between our group and the enemy that were advancing below; also by staying below the top of the crest we would be out of view from the enemy spear head in the West that was also moving south toward St. Vith.

When my squad finally reached the clearing with our charges in tow we slowly and tediously traversed south staying below the hill crest even though traveling at the top would have been much easier with less brush and debris.

After traversing for approximately one half mile, my squad in the rear relayed a message forward for my advance group to hold up in order for the more severely wounded group to catch up.

Just as we all gathered together again we heard tanks approaching rapidly from the west and then hesitated for a moment at the bottom of the slope opposite the slope we were on; at that point one of the tanks raced straight up the slope directly toward our position and stopped just below our common crest and made a one hundred and eighty degree turn; also we could hear the other two tanks spread out below.

It was reasonable to suspect that these tanks might be the same tanks that demolished the town of Auw. The decision for us to traverse the much more difficult route below the crest of the incline was a prudent choice.

Because of the 81st Engineers’ horrifying experience in Auw, our charges were now understandably near panic again and all of them, almost simultaneously, started fumbling with their rifle clips and throwing away their black armor piercing rifle shells, claiming that they would be treated severely if they were discovered in their clips. These men’s nerves were completely shot and needed treatment as soon as possible.

My control was nebulous here and to force or demand that these troubled men not surrender would certainly make them feel that I was assuming too much authority and control over them; they also had weapons to enforce their will. Therefore, as a consequence, rather than provoke their obsession to surrender I tried to persuade them by being calm and confident that we were not as vulnerable as it seemed.

My confidence that these tanks could not easily attack us here stemmed from my training in track vehicles school in Aberdeen, Maryland and also, applied physics at the University of Tennessee, as an aviation cadet that included extensive physics classes that covered energy and the dynamics concerning the center of gravity.

These huge tanks were extremely heavily armored with tons of metal forward, a perfect example of their disadvantage in striking us here; for in order for the tank crew to lower their guns on us they would have to break over the top from their incline to our much steeper decline position. That tremendously heavy multi-ton frontal armor weight would suddenly drop down causing a multiple drastic center of gravity changes that would force the front of the tank down sharply; this would in turn raise the tank’s rear high and then that too would crash down. Both centrifugal forces would propel the tank forward and bounce completely out of control down the loose gravely slope and end up uselessly in the trees below.

Our position was precarious as our charges were still so distraught that it would be best to keep them moving away from this situation. We did this by dropping down even further staying closer to the edge of the trees in order to take cover quickly if we needed to; this seemed to ease our charges, concerns, and anxieties considerably.

When we were about a mile and a half from Auw I quickly glance over the slope and saw that the enemy’s West main pincer bombardment attack, was even further South than we were; feeling a sense of urgency I then led the group sharply east into the trees, hoping that the enemy’s east spearhead had not penetrated this far South.

After a short distance through the trees, we broke into a clearing where we saw a number of our own forces nearly 400 yards below. We had moved only a short distance toward them when we saw leaves being kicked up 10 to 15 yards in front of us. We realized that we were receiving friendly fire from below; with a considerable amount of yelling and waving, the firing ceased and we gradually made our way down the slope with the wounded in tow.

When we did reach the bottom, we found it to be an artillery unit; a Major in charge approached me and asked if I was the soldier that led these men there. And before I could answer several grateful soldiers said, “Yes Sir, he sure did!” The major then said “you wait right here sergeant, I have an important dispatch to send and I will be right back”. With that, he jumped into his jeep and he and his driver took off.

I knew that the Major intended to write my squad and me up for citations however, considering the battle being waged in the west moving so rapidly south I didn’t want to be cut off from our Company so I had to ignore the Major’s direct order.

When I turned to my squad and told them that we were going to move out, they were visibly shocked that I would disobey the Major’s direct orders. We wished our former charges good luck and we walked away in search for our company.

AT THAT VERY MOMENT, I LOST COMPLETE MEMORY AGAIN (P.T.S.) until we finally located our company and we were utterly shocked, beyond belief, to discover that nearly half our company were either killed, captured or wounded leaving only one officer, Second Lieutenant Louis Walker, as Company Commander of the 96 remaining men that were still visibly shocked; it was extremely difficult to find out what happened.

Words cannot describe the horror, the very nostalgia we felt losing our buddies, a relationship beyond all others; to the very point of the unspoken words “I will step in front of the bullet meant for you”. Their sacrifices were for freedom, liberty for America, yes for you and for us. We, each, in our only way, prayed for our lost friends, comrades, our buddies. So, for us that may survive this horrible war, these sacrifices are the hurtful, persistent hidden indelible scares within that we will, in silence, forever endure.

This was a very sad and depressing day for us all. Although deeply saddened to learn of our extremely heavy company losses we were pleased to learn of the many brave deeds that our fallen comrades had performed this day. It is our great honor to have known such noble men; they shall remain in our hearts and souls forever.

It was less than one hour after our arrival that we were completely surrounded. Had my squad and I been delayed at the artillery placement, we would not have, by some circumstances, been able to have joined our company at all

Our company was, at this point also comingled with a mixture of over one hundred other soldiers from other stranded units.

We were now in the Adrian Forest Area and on the extreme east border of the Schnee Eiffel Forest, adjacent to Nadler Laudesfeld single lane dirt road that ran East up a steep slope, that was adjacent to our area, and properly it led directly in Germany.

The slope was clear except for three hedgerows that ran laterally across the slope that were 5 yards wide and over 200 yards long with each separated by 100 yards of open space between each row;

Our situation was dire now that our group was completely blockaded from our main force some 15 miles away. We were virtually without supplies including food or weapons to combat enemy’s tanks that we could hear in the background. Our only hope now was for the heavy overcast, which had been plaguing us for days, would lift permitting our air force the visibility to attack the enemy’s heavy Panzer Tank Groups.

The day following our arrival, two German tanks and sound truck arrived on the down slope of the Nadler Laudesfeld road and blatantly displayed their arrogance and warned us of their presence. We did not have antitank weapons so we were unable to respond. The sound truck proceeded to inform us that they were in charge of that area and that we were not to enter; after which the two tanks retreated back up the east road leaving the sound truck that I was told, was demolished with a hand grenade.

Lieutenant Walker sought me out and stated that he would have given me an officer’s field commission but because our records were lost he was unable to do so now. This could have been a continuance to my being recommended for officer’s candidate training by him and others officers in our company just prior to our records being closed then, in the process of our being shipped overseas.

I expressed my appreciation for the comment and assured him that I would help wherever I could. In reality, I was well qualified as a motor sergeant but I was not sufficiently trained to lead a technical mortar platoon so I was a bit relieved that I didn’t have that responsibility.

The day following my conversation with Lieutenant Walker, an opportunity to help came when Spec. 5 Earnest Gerry approached me and said that our unit was almost completely out of food and that he and eleven other soldiers had volunteered to become ‘Rangers’ and added that one of his Rangers knew where there was a cache of food. However, he only knew it was in some buildings Northeast of our position; that was well in enemy territory where the enemy tanks had retreated the day before. He also said he was told at headquarters that there were several vehicles available there that could be used to bring the food back.

Spec. 5 Gerry stated that he contacted all officers and noncoms in the whole group and asked them if they would lead them but all had declined. And now he asked me if I would.

The concept of such a formable venture was perhaps beyond the realm of possibility and the dangers grew exponentially greater with every second that passed and every step we would have to take deeper into enemy territory. But to do absolutely nothing as compared to trying to do something substantial was not an option for these extraordinary brave men that called themselves Rangers; the name so synonymous with, bravery and valor.

With the determination of true Rangers Tec. Gerry, courageously took on the tough job and responsibility of organizing these Rangers for this dangerous mission and now he needed a leader. He was fundamentally correct in doing this in that a squad without one single leader would be a reckless squad of twelve leaders with little or no reasonable instantaneous coordination needed to function efficiently.

Spec 5. Gerry and his men knew if they could retrieve this cache of food our unit could possibly hold out long enough for the weather to clear enough to enable our air force the visibility it needed to destroy enemy tanks;

That these men were determined to do this made them exceptional and extraordinarily brave men. I believe that if I did not join them they would, no doubt in my mind, attempted to take on the mission by themselves.

Our company commander undoubtedly, anguished over our terrible loss of lives earlier, preferred that this mission be a volunteer one. This gave us the privilege and advantage of calling off the mission at any time the objective were deemed to be unattainable.

I wanted to meet these men of such strong convictions so I said, “Let’s go see what you have”.

After Spec. 5 Gerry gathered up his Rangers, I saw America’s greatest, their shoulders were back and their chins up and their eyes were steady on me as if they were not quite sure.

We all had our hands thrust deep in our light weight field jackets pockets to keep warm; our stiff damp leather boots were poor insulators from the cold so we were constantly stomping our feet on the frozen ground.

After I was introduced to the men I said, “I want you all to know that I understand that I wasn’t your first choice and that is ok, but above all else though, it is imperative that I have your full trust and confidence; and as we move along I intend to earn them both”. I said further “the one thing that amazes me most though is that all you men are willing to put your lives on the line for something of such significantly dangerous that will have less than a ten percent chance of succeeding and nearly zero chances that it will not do any good at all if this heavy overcast doesn’t lift”.

“As I understand it, the building where the cache is supposed to be located is north. Well, in that case that would be off this Laudesfeld road to our right that runs East, and because of the steep terrain it is the only possible road that we can use to return here. Therefore, our first step is to find the road that runs north off of that road that will lead us to the building we are looking for”.

“The terrain is clear except for our best friend, those three hedgerows, which will give us good coverage as we penetrate forward for at least a short distance into enemy territory. Remember too that their blockading enemy is only a couple hundred yards in the forest grove below those hedgerows so we will have to assume that they may have snipers in them and I would expect them to be in the first row. I will take the point; if we are going to do this we will have to start right now”.

We cautiously made our way through the three hedgerows and just as we emerged from the last hedgerow we saw a man trying to retrieve an errant cow that, no doubt, was extremely important for him and his family’s survival. He saw us and took off running with huge strides in the clear space beyond the hedgerows; one of my men yelled, “Shall we take him Sarg?” and even before he got the last word out I yelled back an emphatic, “No”. This assured me that these men were alert and this was either a spontaneous and instantaneous reaction or possibly their first test of me. They knew very well that we don’t shoot civilians. Any shooting at all would have jeopardize our whole mission as well.

After this incident, we continued up the slope and just before we reached the top we saw several two-story buildings, probably less than one half mile across a wide-open area beyond the end of the hedgerows (We learned later that it was indeed the little town of Laudesfeld, Germany). At this point it was too far for us to see if the buildings were occupied by the enemy reserves or the two tanks that appeared the evening before.

The man that knew where the cache of food was located stepped forward and said that those were the buildings that we were looking for.

Our next objective was to locate the road leading to those buildings and to make sure that portion too was not obstructed in any way.

As we moved up the slope a little further we saw a small section of road on our right running north toward us and disappeared behind a small rise; this, no doubt, would be the road we were looking for. Now, leaving nothing to chance, I had to confirm that portion of road running toward us and that portion of road and the remaining portion that ran toward the buildings was clear and useable; at the same time reconnoiter for the enemy position as well.

After directing the men to stay below the crest I crawled to the top; when I reached, the top I found that the road was cut into the top side of a huge deep canyon that was so sheer and steep that by just taking one steep over the side would mean you would end up 200 feet at the very bottom. The opposite side of the canyon was just as sheer and steep and approximately 250 yards across from the side I was on; this impassable canyon was a perfect defense barrier for the enemy and consequently their presence was only needed at the buildings where the North end of the deep canyon ended: the canyon extended South to my right completely out of sight.

The section of road leading to the buildings had a shale rock surface varying between 14 and 16 feet wide. It had a 3-foot bank on the side opposite that of the canyon but absolutely flat on the jagged canyon side. The road was perfectly flat and smooth as if it had never been use. Did that mean that this road was not safe for vehicular use?

As I stood up on the 3-foot bank to observe the road closer to the building I heard a faint, hardly negligible, swoosh sound that came from low on my right side. Then there was an instantaneous nothingness; my next point of consciousness came when I found myself face down about 10 feet down the slope, my helmet must have taken the full brunt of the fall or I was partially unconscious as I did not feel the impact when I hit the ground; except for the eerie feeling of being disoriented and confused I was perfectly alright.

Finally, with a concerted effort, I was able to focus on what might have occurred so miraculously as to put me lying there when I was standing upright above. In my semiconscious mental state, I faintly remembered hearing that vague swoosh sound and concluded that it had to have been a missile displacing air before it struck the 3-foot road embankment below my feet and the impact forced me upward so suddenly I momentarily lost consciousness.

The enemy just gave us a priceless gift; had they not fired that faulty missile we would have assumed that there weren’t any enemies protecting the road and we would have most certainly used it to our demise.

Still in a slight state of confusion, I started to uncoordinatedly scramble back up the slope on my hands and knees again. and for every six inches that I moved forward I slipped back a couple of inches on the loose gravel. I became irritated and frustrated with my slow progress and apparent weakness from the sudden rush of adrenalin. At that point, I realized I didn’t have my best friend, my rifle, and felt strangely naked and vulnerable without it but I had to observe as to what had occurred above immediately.

Just two feet from the top, I slipped and fell to my stomach. It was, at this point, that I thought that perhaps my stomach could possibly be directly over the misfired unexploded projectile that might still explode. I had to make an instant decision. I would rather have it take me where I was, rather than loose both of my legs if I crawled up further. After hesitating several moments and nothing happened I gathered myself together again and with bated breath and a concerted effort I crawling to the top. When I looked over the 3-foot road bank I saw a weird but beautiful eddy of light blue and sea green collage of colored smoke appearing in little ball like puffs a few inches above the center of the projectile’s center.

This fascinating hypnotic phenomenon was so faint as to be almost subliminal and surreal as an apparition. The beautiful sight would disappear, then reconstitute itself again as the gasses mixed with its perfect combination of oxygen and then finally disappear completely.

Accompanying all this activity there was the sharp stringent nasal and throat sting and pungent acrid stench of dynamite, notwithstanding the taste of danger that was exuding from the crater’s center was real and profound.

Still with fear and apprehension that the missile might still explode or that the enemy might see my head and shoulders above the crater and fire another missile, I had to continue to investigate as to where that missile was fired from in order to eliminate the source before we could possibly even think of using this road.

The projectile crater was eighteen inches deep with a circumference of three foot ending near the top of the road bank where I had been standing. Had the missile exploded, as intended, I would have been part of that circumference and my squad would have had a difficult time finding all the pieces of my dog tags.

I felt real fortunate for the extremely narrow escape and thanked God for the miracle and His blessings. This faulty missile could have been arranged through the good work of a forced labor saboteur of the enemy and should be acknowledged and thanked for the dangerous contribution.

The splash of earth caused by this missile was greater to my left towards the buildings. This told me that the missile was fired from across the canyon further up on my right side. When I looked up in that direction I could faintly see something, barely negligible, several hundred yards across the canyon; I surmised that to be the underside of anti-aircraft camouflage netting; that would have to be directly across the canyon from that portion of road that led straight up from our bivouac area; and now by the tank’s turret turning 90 degrees the enemies’ large 88mm. (3.464” in diameter) was pointed in my direction and straight down the road leading to the buildings in a perfect offensive and defensive position.

This was no doubt one of those two tanks that had so blatantly appeared the day before with a sound truck that warned us not to enter this area. The location of the second tank also added another serious dimension to our concerns; it too could possibly be with the tank that fired the missile or it could be at the building area with the possible enemy reserves as well.

Considering the enemies demonstrated accuracy there wasn’t any way we could possibly use this road without eliminating that tank crew; even if it were, in the remotest sense, even possible it would take an inordinate amount of time that we did not have. Would this volunteer mission now seem to be considered unattainable?

To continue this mission would inevitably increase the danger exponentially greater with every step that we took probing deeper into enemy territory.

Even though there was only the slightest possibility of succeeding, there was only one way we were going to give up now and that was if the second tank or enemy reserves were in the buildings or the food wasn’t there.

When I dropped back down to my squad, one of my men handed me my then clean rile. I could see by the look on the men’s faces their concern and amazement that I was not injured especially after seeing my filthy condition.

We were now grouped together on the down slope below the road and out of sight of the tank crew above and the prevailing blockading enemy below the hedgerows. To move toward the buildings without the slightest bit of cover would be incredibly dangerous.

I quickly told the squad all that I had observed above and how brilliant the enemy was to have selected their perfect defensive and offensive position that only one tank would be required to be zeroed in on the full one mile length of the road that we had to use.

I told them further that we could still proceed to the buildings and if the enemy reserves or second tank wasn’t there and the food was we could then consider how we could possibly eliminating that tank crew while still being cognizant of the reserves and for the second unaccounted tank and crew.

It was incredulous to even think we could possibly overcome an enemy tank with rifle butts would be a definite sign of insanity but these men believed in miracle’s and most especially when we already had one.

With total commitment to our mission until we could not possibly continue further; we proceed below the crest of the hill and above the hedgerows until we reached their very end where we halted to reassess our situation; from this point to the buildings, our final destination, was a wide open area without any cover what so ever for over one quarter of a mile; If the second tank or the enemy reserves occupied the buildings we would have to retreat back to this point as it was the only route we could possibly take to return to our unit. From this point, we observed that there was a steep drop off of perhaps two hundred yards below the buildings where the dense forest began; that too could definitely give us an area to retreat if we encountered a superior force at the buildings.

The Rangers were blowing on their hands as they rubbed them together eager to persevere and take on the task ahead; their complete cooperation and resolve to our purpose was magnificent. Just to know and feel that they were right there the instant I needed them was reassuring.

As we tentatively moved forward towards the buildings I dared to take moments to desperately try to think of a plan to eliminate the tank crew above if indeed the food was there. My first thought was we could remain all night at the buildings and at sunrise attack the tank crew at first light the following day. I summarily ruled that out as we did not have the weapons or the time to accomplish such a mission; each time I quickly returned my mind back to the dangers ahead; then It did occur to me that the conditions were perfect for one other possible plan that had a considerable amount of risk and only a slightly better plan than no plan at all; we were not unlikened to that of a drowning man gasping and grasping for that last little straw that may save his life. Let us call it, “The Hail Mary Plan”

With that mind set I completely concentrate on the dangers ahead and signaled the men to spread out.

The enemy tank crew above probably already knew our strength but to make sure I wanted to momentarily and quickly expose ourselves and at the same time, inspect the condition of the lower section of the road that I could not see from above earlier. My plan required the “whole” tank crew above to take notice of our larger strength.

That opportunity arose a short distance ahead, and when we arrived there, I found that the road was clear and wide enough but that sharp drop off at the ragged edge of the road on the canyon side sure looked ominous. There was still that huge incredible danger that a heavy loaded truck might sluff off a significant part of the canyon edge but if we stood close to the extreme right side and drove fast enough we should be ok. The fact that the road surface was perfectly smooth with no visible auto tracks bothered me considerably.

After being reassured of that we again began to approach the two-story buildings again; it’s multiple windows looked awesome and formidable; much like that of a fortress with a tremendous defensive advantage, whereas, we were completely vulnerable with absolutely no coverage. When we finally did reach the buildings, we found that neither the enemy reserves or the second tank occupy the buildings and the ranger that knew of the food cache confirmed that the food was there and intact.

Our next problem was somewhat solved when we found one of our own abandoned two-and-a-half-ton truck. As an auto repair shop foreman in Nome, Alaska, I was quite familiar with that particular model truck. It was however, down in a huge bomb crater that involved the whole street of this small town. The truck had a long body with three-foot side rails and an immense powerful engine that drove all six wheels with deep treaded tires, it was exactly the truck we needed. My concerns were that even if we did get the front wheels over the top edge of the crater the truck might hang up in the middle and damage the driveshaft.

One man in my squad was an experienced driver that was also familiar with this particular model truck. He jumped into the cab and with absolute full throttle the powerful engine roared and with all six wheels screaming and churned the driver continued to rock the truck back and forth, and with every effort forward, the two front wheels churned at the crater’s top edge making it even sharper on each attempt.

I purposely stood to one side to watch the drive shaft to make sure it wasn’t damaged if the truck did make it over the top; I absolutely could not believe it when on the third, and I am sure it would have been our very last desperate attempt, the driver was miraculously able to bring the front wheels over the top of the crater and onto the hard surface above. The immense engine weight over the churning front wheels was able to pull the lighter truck body over the top and amazingly the drive shaft barely touched the loose gravel.

After the truck was retrieved out of the bomb crater, I told the men to collect Jerry gas cans from other abandoned vehicles and fill the truck’s gas tank full to the top. That was done in a couple of minutes. The reason for this was that I didn’t want the slightest possibility of an explosion caused by a bullet strike above the fluid.

This would also rule out relying on a fuel gauge. After this was done the driver drove the truck up to the steps of the building where the cache of food was stored.

It is here that we had reached a certain caveat, the extreme truck noises that we could not have been avoided; surely the enemy would be on guard for that distinct possibility. (Perhaps, this seemingly impossible mission should be aborted at this point.)

Futility in mind; just one more step, the driver drove the truck up to the steps of the building where the cache of food was stored.

This is where I told my squad my “Hail Mary Plan” which was to load the truck with food and at the same time entice the enemy to attack us instead of our attacking them. This could only be done by our ruse plan of pretending to throw a wild stupid drunken American liquor party.

This was the only way we could possibly succeed with the enemy zeroed in on that road. I was resolved we were not going to attack one or possible two of the enemy tanks with just rifle butts or use the road with the enemy zeroed in on it.

It would be disingenuous to believe that the enemy would be so dysfunctional as to leave their coveted safe position; possibly an offense so egregious as to be punishable by death. Therefore, the illogical plan for them to attack us would be in the range of near zero percent; and “absolutely” zero percent chance for us to succeed if they did not.

These amazing Rangers did not share my hidden skepticism but immediately, with total commitment, enthusiastically put every ounce of energy they possessed loading the truck quickly. Their loud laughter was authentic and if I were told that they were kicking at the walls and braking windows from inside the building for effect, I would not have been at all surprised. Although, their immediate action, again, bothered me significantly in that the enemy should know that liquor does not act that quickly.

Each one of these little glitches gave me even further pause to doubt the feasibility of our mission; my first thought was to try to slow them down to reality seemed impossible.

It was indeed imperative that we constantly reevaluate our chances of success and if deemed totally impossible, as it seemed, we really should have the courage to abandon this hopeless mission and declare absolutely “enough”.

I dared for just one moment to think back to the formally perceived escape route into the forest directly below these buildings.

The squad, on the other hand, worked as if possessed and believed, no knew without a doubt, it would work. Their profound enthusiasm made me suspect that I might have missed something here. Were they not aware of all the dangers involved? My mind raced back, I could not remember, nor could I be distracted to try and recall; it did seem as if they were leaving all the worysome danger part up to me.

It was indeed imperative that we constantly reevaluate our chances of success and if deemed totally impossible, as it seemed, we really should have the courage to abandon this hopeless mission and declare “enough”.

There was always that “one” omnipresent conscientious guilty feeling in placing these men in such a precarious and dangerous position of trying to accomplish something so impossibly futile that may cost them their lives.

My job was to stand aside and stay keenly acute and completely focused on our environment and extreme vulnerability every second that we were in this enemy territory. I was especially alert for an explosive sound that would indicate the road was being made unusable for us, and an indication that the enemy was preparing to abandon their position to attack us, in that case the road would be made useless to us and we would have to abort our mission.

The HAIL MARY PLAN had occurred to me when I recalled when I stood guard in Alaska how unbelievably far sound travels in a rare severely cold atmosphere. How terribly tempting it would have been just to retrieve one glass of whiskey to relieve the bitter cold and total boredom.

Here we had almost perfect conditions. The blockading enemy was now nearly the same distance from us as the tank crew above. However, the noises that they would normally be making themselves engulfed in the heavy forested area, would block out the noise we were making here. On the other hand, the tank crew above was up the sheer vegetation free canyon with its precipitous walls that would naturally channel the sounds right up to them.

Through the Rangers’ dedication and enthusiasm, the truck was filled to capacity with two tons of food far faster than I thought possible. At this point the men stated that there was still more food and should they pull up a trailer that was nearby. I really needed more time to think and said, “yes “. I then sent two men to the building over- looking the area the enemy would have to cross at the end of the canyon to attack us. Now my forces were spread out a bit and I had to be cognizant of that as well.

The trailer was medium size and it too had three foot rails enclosing a ten-foot trailer bed. Even with fewer men, the trailer was being loaded quickly with another half-ton of food. My added concern then was what effect would the extra trailer load have on the questionable shale road surface?

It was not much more than one half hour after the trailer was connected to the truck when one of the rangers said, “That’s it Sarg, we got it all!”. At that precise moment, before I could have possibly utter an expletive and abandon the mission the two men that I had sent to observe the end of the canyon, for the possible enemy attack, came running up stating, “Here they come, Sarg!” They said this as if they absolutely knew it was going to happen this way all the time.

When you believe, as these young men believed, you are definitely on the right path and have God on your side. An Immediate decisive decision to act quickly had to be made; were all the criteria of the enemy attack met?

The approaching enemy could very well be the “second” tank crew of the two tanks that did appear the evening before; too, the approaching enemy may not be the full tank crew that had fired their misfired missal at me but had left one man behind to fire their weapons that would explode us over the canyon edge in a huge fireball; or the approaching enemy could very well be the advance guard of the enemy reserves that we had been expecting; thereby leaving the whole tank crew still remaining at their lethal position.

(Several hours later, my squad and I did, on another mission, discovered the enemy reserves that had passed through this particular area shortly after we had left)

There were huge risks ahead but there were risks when we penetrated the enemy territory, that nearly cost me my life; the risk of approaching these buildings from a one quarter mile-wide open area was also a huge risk, this one was not unlike any of those.

The dangers here are but minuscule as compared to those that were taken on the beaches and cliffs of Normandy where hundreds of brave and courageous Rangers stormed those beaches, and did scale its precipitous cliffs while others attempted to do so and are, in fact, still there.

In essence, we are on top of those cliffs and we are not going to back down now. In such a huge risk of possible oblivion we continued our mission.

This is where the Rangers’ profound motto comes to mind, “Lead, follow or get the hell out of the way”. If we failed, only God would know how hard we had tried. And for those who believe that we should not have proceeded on this devious road under these particular set of circumstance, do not know the spirit of the Rangers that I knew.

In the vast magnitude of world wars, either by land sea or air, thousands of such decisions have to be made every second of every minute of every day. The good ones, are more often forgotten, but the really bad ones, that are so prevalently made in all wars, are never forgotten by those of us that have made them; they are truly the brutal invisible scars that we, who prevailed, will try to forget but unfortunately cannot and are too, in part, a casualty of war.

To abort our mission now was unthinkable especially when the enemy had met, at least, our minimum criteria that we had only slightly believed possible; we were at that very moment; totally committed to persevere immediately in spite of the dangers until we completed our mission. This one is for our buddies our friends.

The driver and I jumped into the truck cab and the rest of the men piled in back and we took off immediately knowing that we would be in sight of the enemy when we passed the last building.

The urgency would have been much less had the two Rangers I sent to overlook the end of the canyon had fired their weapons at the first sight of the enemy; that would, in fact, have forced the enemy to withdraw instead of advancing. This was, still another emphasis for an instant decision and commitment into swift action in order to compensate for that error.

Fate had brought us to this place and now everything was “totally” on the line; we had absolutely nothing more we could possibly offer. If we succeeded it would be because of Divine Providence that we so often call a miracle.

Our barricaded unit of two hundred men completely depending upon our success here and the overcast skies to lift.

As we passed the end of the last buildings, the Rangers in back of the truck did see the enemy that were surprised and not prepared to react quickly to what they saw and we were soon out of range of their small armed weapons to have had an adverse effect; such is the necessity of planning ahead when swift action is required least any hesitation could have resulted in casualties or our truck could have been easily rendered out of action by one single bullet.

How incredibly fearful it is to know you and your squad could possibly have only one infinitesimal part of a second more to live if we should see that dreaded rifle flash straight ahead of us now; if such an explosive missile should strike our powerful moving truck the explosive missile combined with the highly revved up engine parts could end up in our cab in literally thousands of pieces as an instantaneous fireball; all of us would then end up at the bottom of the deep canyon as a war statistics;

There was no need for me to yell at the driver to keep to the right; because he could see directly straight down that precipitous canyon from his side and he certainly didn’t need any distraction from me. This truck was a lot wider than I had originally envisioned and the deep shale indentations from the canyon side into our road space were far more intrusive then I had originally thought; ironically my thoughts were, could there possibly be something else more devastating ahead that I might have misjudged?

All our lives depended upon our driver’s skills. I had test driven this very model truck many times in Alaska but I could never have matched the skill that our driver was preforming here. He double clutched every gear smoothly up and down with hardly one engine revolution above that which was needed and he split gears with a smooth transition as if they were automatic.

After the first quarter mile, I let the driver worry about the road conditions while I focused intensely straight ahead for that one deadly riffle flash; possibly enough time for me to relive my whole life within that tiny portion of a second.

We climbed steady but it seemed as though we were in slow motion; it felt like an eternity before we finally reached the turn just 250 yard directly across the canyon from the enemies’ tank position; as we made the ninety degree turn straight down the last half mile toward our bivouac area I began to breathe again and thanked God once more for His blessings.

Life is so precious in war and it will never be more appreciated than it was at that very moment; not so much that I was safe but “they” were, and now I can live in peace with that. At the very least twelve great men were, even if only momentarily, back safely.

When we finely arrived at our area we received an extraordinarily loud spontaneous burst of cheers and applause; this told me that they all knew about our mission but did not know that I was involved until one man in the squad, I would suspect it to be Spec. 5 Gerry, jumped off the truck and shouted loudly “if Sergeant Thomas were to attack hell I would follow him!”. Such a touching remark was kind and generous and it cleared up that which I had missed at the building area earlier; it was indeed their full confidence and implicit trust that I had promised them I would earn at the very beginning of our extraordinary precarious mission that seemed, at the time, to be unattainable.

These “Rangers” were absolutely worthy of the group they had so proudly chosen to represent and truly deserved the recognition and all the accolades they earned and were respectfully receiving now. It was their unshakable faith, bravery, and willingness to persevere to the extreme limits which seemed beyond that which human nerves could possibly endure that made this impossible mission possible. Wars are won by just taking that, seemingly impossible, one step more forward.

The tension of getting these brave young men back uninjured struck me to the point that it almost cost me to lose my tough stoic image that all sergeants rely upon so heavily. I turned and walk away.

I had not gone far before a soldier caught up to me and, after getting in step, said “Sarg, my officer told me to ask you if it would be safe to go back?” I replied, “No” and emphasized it even more emphatically by saying, “Hell no!”. Saying nothing more that could have possibly been misconstrued to mean something else I continued to walk away.

I did not report the mission to headquarters as I felt the material evidence was quite sufficient.

A short time after this incident one member of my squad brought me a delicious paper plate of the food that we had undoubtedly retrieved. I did not realize that I was so hungry; I must have been thriving on adrenalin.

As I was eating, I felt as though we were alone among many others and my squad member was measuring me as a man, as they all do at the very beginning to gain their explicit trust and confidence that must be a hell for those men that cannot but have no other choice but must follow to whatever their destiny.

As I finished the food, I thanked him and as I drew my field jacket sleeve across my mouth I said, “What no napkin”? He threw up his arms and we both had a laugh that relieved some of the tension. Bringing this food was a kind and thoughtful gesture that was indicative of their approval. He took my paper plate and turned to walk away, I slapped him on the back and said, “thanks for all the good work today” and in a controlled voice, a little deeper than I intended, said “and please thank all the others as well”. He said “I sure will Sarg, I sure will”. With that he lowered his head, kicked at the frozen ground and quickly walked away; possibly in resentment that providence did not place us in the same unit, I too, felt the same way. God these guys were good.

Now this Ranger would join his own tested and now seasoned buddies in a relationship that, to death, transcends all others. Without a doubt, “war makes boys into men” in just one single day.

We had met the enemy together and together we had succeeded in doing all that we could have possibly done; now we stand by to wait for further orders; our destiny is, by happenstance in the hands of others that we must also gain confidence and trust with our lives.

It could not have been more than an hour after our mission was completed that Spec.5 Gerry approached me again and told me that a Lieutenant and two of his men jumped into a jeep and went right back to the buildings we had left and were met with rifle fire. One of his men, even though badly wounded, had just returned and told the story of what had happened when they arrived; stating that he didn’t know for sure but he thought the Lieutenant and his other man might have been either captured or killed.

I wondered just what part of “No” did those men not understand. Sometime later I learned that the officer wanted to recover his footlocker. It would be my conjecture that the officer was not given my purposeful explicit answer to his relayed question.

Spec. Gerry then told me that we had orders to try and recapture the two men and that he and the squad were ready and waiting.

This all sounded unbelievably incredulous but they have strict rules at the front and you better take them seriously. One of them is you don’t ask “why” and I had to physically restrain myself from not using it here. This “try mission” sounded more like a desperate but polite request rather than a direct order which gave us more freedom and latitude to evaluate and respond in kind.

My snap judgment was that it would be best to quickly conduct a reconnaissance and possible reconnoiter at night but it certainly would help if we had more light at the very beginning. Therefore, I had to take Spec.5 Gerry’s word that this “try order” came from headquarters. This was taking military informalities to the extreme, but with so little light left and Spec. Gerry’s credibility was certainly impeccable up to this point. We had to move quickly to take advantage of the little light that we had left.

After we reached the men I told them that this time we would proceed in a tight skirmish line, six on each side of me so we could react quickly in the dark.

We moved through the first hedgerow and proceeded towards the second when I heard a small double playful yep from what seemed to be a hungry playful puppy begging for its dinner. I hit the frozen ground hard and loud with my rifle butt as a signal for the Rangers to do the same.

That so familiar special unmistakable yep bark of a hungry playful puppy was certainly indicative that someone was out there with that dog. Could this possibly be the enemy with a dog mascot?

I was determined not to take any unnecessary chances on this particular “Try Mission”, therefore I was not going to move out until I was positive it was safe to do so.

We were probably less than 60 yards below the second hedgerow that had a white snow drift approximately 2 feet high and 8 feet long piled up against the side of the second hedgerow trees.

We lay listening for one minute, or possibly two; because of the heavy overcast and extreme darkness I concentrated steadily upon that one bank of snow and to my surprise I saw a perfect unmistakable silhouette of a German soldier crawl quickly past the snow bank on his hands and knees and then disappear in the darkness beyond; then another, and then still another. Their helmets were the most distinguishable part of their silhouette. They, no doubt, had seen us and were getting into combat position.

The enemy’s huge and significant advantage was that they could lob hand grenades down the frozen incline and quickly retreat behind the second hedgerow. This would be the most logical and effective weapon the enemy could use and should have used if they knew for sure we were their enemy. Just one grenade could completely wipe us out; it was imperative that we retreat before they could coordinate and expedite their significant advantage.

When I prepared to signal the men to fall back, I noticed, for the first time, that one of my men on my right flank was still standing and intently peering ahead.

The enemy must have known that their blockading force had to be near and they may not have been quite sure if we were one of their troops or not. One word from me in English to warn the standing man would dispel all of the enemy’s doubts. I did not know any words in German, except a few swear ones. Although, appropriate here, I chose to slap my tight leather shoulder strap against the stock of my rifle with my cold hands. Still there was no response from the man standing; he was definitely putting our whole squad in jeopardy; we could not pull back and leave that man standing. I continued slapping my strap as hard as I could and pinched my cold fingers several times in the process; the pain was now so bad I thought I could not continue but I had too. The standing man finally noticed and got down. I then motioned for the squad to fall back.

I was angry as hell and when we got back of the first hedgerow, I told them to “Pay attention, damn it!”.

We had no sooner regrouped behind the first hedgerow when we heard the loud clatter of pots and pans and one distinct ringing warble clatter of a large pot lid dropped or more likely deliberately thrown on the frozen ground. Possibly by some angry irate cook that was just ordered to cook a hot meal when he foolishly thought they should have stopped earlier at the building area instead of in the total darkness and uneven terrain here. Again, a possible sign that the lack of morale and discipline was becoming more pervasive among the enemy forces.

The magnitude of cooking facilities was indicative of a formable contingent equivalent to that of a rifle company. Also in the background, there were soldiers calling to their buddies, possibly trying to get their particular group organized in the dark.

This contingent had to be the enemy reserves we were expecting and had to have arrived at the buildings (Lindfield) almost simultaneously, with the tank crew’s arrival to attack us. Thus, vindicating our concerns at the time and also my decision not to use the overnight attack on the enemy tank crew.

This formable enemy reserve group was heading south directly toward our bivouac area less than one half mile away. This vital information was far more important than the now totally impossible “Try Rescue Mission.” Consequently, I had to abandon our mission here and return to our unit with this crucial and important information.

As we started back to our area, I realized I had forgotten the password to reinter our bivouac area. Fortunately, we were not challenged and it revealed an extremely serious flaw in our perimeter security that would have to be corrected immediately.

When I reported to our company commander, Second Lieutenant Walker, I told him about the large enemy force that had just pitched camp for the night less than a half mile away and quite apparently moving south towards our position. He accepted the message and sat stoically and did not ask any questions. I did not elaborate because I was positive he felt the gravity of the situation. I then told him that I had called off the “Try Rescue Mission”. When he did not respond to that either I felt he knew about that mission and Spec. 5 Gerry was right when he reported the “Try Mission” to me. After a short uncomfortable pause, I also said, “No one ever challenged us when we reentered the perimeter at the NW sector”; with that information and the report of the enemy movement the sergeant of the guard took off running to correct that serious situation.

I felt compassion for our Company Commander, the responsibility and burden he had to bare and deal with was incredibly overwhelming. Our decorum was always cordial and conducted with mutual respect of rank and grade; he probably gave me far more leeway than I really deserved.

The following morning, as I approached the motor pool area I heard several German Burp Gun blasts coming from the enemy blockading area. When I arrived there, I saw several of our men standing, watching a burp gun missiles kicking up leaves a short distance away. The missiles seemed to be purposely landing about ten feet short. The shooter was on a heavily forested knoll, probably not more than 125 yards away. If he wasn’t trying to hit anyone, I wondered what he was trying to do? There was something wrong with this picture that needed to be checked out.

Due to the fact that the sniper was firing from his twelve o’clock position, I circled to his three o’clock position and started down a steep knoll opposite that of the shooter bracing myself from tree to tree as I made myself down. I was half way down when I began receiving some real personal burp gun blasts just a few feet along my route. I quickly dodged to my left, and then left again and ended up behind an eight-inch diameter tree. The enemy’s bursts continued at the rate of 8 to10 bullets with each burst. Unless he was using tracers, he could not see where his bullets were striking but by the way those leaves were dancing six to eight feet away, I sure as heck did. The sporadic burp gun bursts continued.

“Where did I go wrong?” I looked up, sure stupid. My trees did not have any leaves like the burp gun shooters did. Being that he was so well hidden I did not believe his visibility came this far over to his right.

I tried to think of a way to get out of this mess and there did not seem to be any; for one thing, I could not climb back up the steep slippery hill. The only way would be to go straight down and on the same path in which the leaves were dancing.

Too much of me was exposed on both side of that eight-inch diameter tree and this persistent shooter, seemed to have a veritable truck load of ammunition and was persistent on having me for lunch. As I was deciding which direction I was going to plunge, I saw an old black flatbed truck with a crude red X on the side with a man behind a mounted machine gun on the back coming out from the enemy’s blockading area. I judged it to be less than 125 yards and moving across my field of vision and to think it was all mine.

When I hurriedly tried to get in position I found that because I was right handed I could not fire my rifle from the left side of the tree; so, after the next burp gun blast I quickly swung around to the other side with my left leg rapped around the tree. The back of my left shoulder was now against the opposite side of the tree; my complete upper body was exposed facing the sniper. I held my breath and hurriedly souse off a snap shot and then quickly tried to pull myself back with my left arm that was now down low near the base of the tree. I kept working my left arm higher and higher while holding my rifle in my right hand, my right leg was well below the tree and kept slipping on the wet frozen leaves and wasn’t any help at all.

Time was running out; the next burp gun blast was soon to begin again; I thought for a moment I would have to let go of my rifle in my right hand but that was not an option. I then thought I would have to roll down the hill; in a last final attempt, with all the strength I possessed I barely made it back behind the tree; just as I did so I received another burp gun blast that struck just below where my right leg had been.

My quick snap shot had struck the windshield of the truck that stopped and a German officer jumped out waving a white handkerchief and yelled “halten”, dang, another burp gun blast, this was getting annoying, the officer again yelled “halten” even louder this time. The firing finally stopped. For me to have hit that moving windshield from the position I was in made all these happenstances scary and unbelievable?

This time I had to believe the German soldier’s strict obedience to their officers so I proceeded down the slope bracing myself from tree to tree as I made my way below.

After reaching the bottom I walked over to the officer who was already walking toward me. I believed he did this in order to keep me from clumsily taking him back to the truck and collecting his other two men who were not visible at the time.

Did I detect a little bit of ego and arrogance here? This officer’s maneuver put me in a precarious position in that I was not only out in the open but I was out of sight of our soldiers as well. I had no choice but to turn my back to the driver and machine gunner who were out of sight; I was also approximately 100 yards from the enemy’s barricading position. I didn’t think they would shoot me in the back because there was a certain amount of ethical decorum that is observed sometimes.

Someone “else” just had to be boss here and if this officer didn’t keep his arms up though, unfriendly fire might be the consequence and a real distinct possibility when we would come in view of our soldiers. We suddenly switched roles when I pushed his elbow up physically as a gesture for him to raise his arms higher, the surprise touch broke his stride with a little stumble. With his men watching, that was a “slight” that might affect his prestige and it did effect his psychic just a little in fear I might do it again. This changed the whole dynamics of the situation and he was not emboldened further. When we arrived to our area, I had our men blindfold the officer and they were very happy to take him up to headquarters for me.

While at our Headquarters, the German officer was irate and stated that he was a medic and that he was on his way to treat some of his and our wounded. He claimed his ambulance had been fired upon and while he was there he also advanced some reasons why our unit should surrender, stating that there were troops ready to advance from the north. Those had to be the enemy reserves that I reported to Lt. Walker the evening before.

The German officer continued to complain bitterly about his windshield being shot out and Lt. Houdon was sent out to investigate. The discrepancy was resolved when Lt. Houdon saw the mounted machinegun mounted on the flatbed truck; he then explained to the irate officer that the Geneva Convention prohibited weapons of any kind to be carried in or on ambulances. The machine gun was removed and the embarrassed officer was permitted to go on his way. I was busy in another sector at the time and did not witness that event but discovered that action in a report sometime later.

This was just another one of those informalities where I did not report any of my missions to headquarters (mainly because I was not seeking medals). After the war our Company Commander in essence wrote in one of his informal reports “of all the things that Sergeant Thomas did, few in the company knew of them”.

After the men left with the blindfolded officer I came to the conclusion that the burp gun incident was an over choreographed clumsy attempt to divert our attention; which was in itself, ridiculous because the black truck could not be seen from that position anyway. It did, however, pique my curiosity to investigate the ruse. Further-more, had the officer not mounted the machine gun on the back of the truck for additional protection I would not have fired upon his improvised ambulance in the first place.

That evening we were bombarded so heavily by artillery fire that my stomach was sore for two days from the pounding I received against the frozen ground. The barrage lasted several minutes but all the strikes were tree bursts and therefore the greatest danger was from falling timber and debris. The vibrating tree roots played the frozen earth like a banjo. I turned all my fingernails back just trying to dig my two-inch deep frozen foxhole just one quarter of an inch deeper, but couldn’t. The sound was deafening; the barrage was the most frightening thing that I had ever experienced. Reminiscent of the experience the 81st Engineers endured inside the church at Auw; which had to be ten times more resounding and devastating inside the building.

After the barrage ceased I checked on my men at the motor pool and found them all to be shaken up but otherwise they were ok. I was exhausted and felt that I had been shot at enough for one day. I picked up my rifle and blankets and made a small spot in the soft debris and threw my blankets down and fell asleep almost immediately.

About 4:30 the next morning I felt a hard object pressing extremely hard and hurtful against my temple. When I could not turn my head, I rolled my eyes as far to the right as I could, only to meet that of the enemy. I rolled my eyes back to where my rifle was but the German pressed a little harder as a signal, “You better not”. It was the first light of a cold chilly dreary day. There comes a time when one has no other choice.

The enemy then removed the barrel of his rifle from my temple. At least he did not pull the trigger and walk away, which is an expected procedure if he believes that the person is faking death and therefore a threat to him after he passes. It is so much safer and easier just to pull the trigger than to take a prisoner. At this point, a prisoner is a liability and a body out of the fight and no longer a liability. The enemy had every right to do this as I had not indicated any sign of surrender.

It seems as though our company Commander, with great courage and forethought had surrendered that night, therefore saving many lives, in a hopeless situation. Why did I not know the inevitability of this the night before?

During the night, Lt. Walker released all those who wished to escape to do so. I was told by several men that my squad attempted to find me in the debris and total darkness but failed and finely took off on their own. I wished them God’s speed. They were the bravest men I have ever known and I was proud to have led them.

Under the circumstances that put us here at this time and place, of which we had no control, my squad and I tried and did the very best we could to survive even though it was only for a little longer. Had my squad found me that night we might have even done more.

A short distance after we were taken from our area, our hearts sank as we came upon the horrific scene of many of our buddies and comrades that had been missing for five days. They were by the roadside in frozen grotesque positions and covered with an even thin layer of light brown dust, making this whole scene even more starkly surreal and gruesome. The men in our group broken heartedly called out their buddie’s full names and others, in reverence, followed with their affectionate buddy nicknames as we fervently prayed and unashamedly teared as we reluctantly passed this horrific scene.

I knew many here but one especially well because of his outstanding vivacious personality. I was on my rescue mission at the time he was severely wounded; two of his buddies, who loved him, volunteered to put him on a flatbed truck in an attempt to get him to an aid station. All three were here, they did not make it.

This scene is indelibly etched, as an epitaph of sorts, that will remain in my memory forever. I felt ill and deeply depressed. This horrible scene certainly depicted the horrors of war with all its despicable facets. This heinous scene was compelling proof that war was most certainly invented by the devil and this had to be a hell for these brave courageous men that died here. The blood-stained grass told the terror of that moment.

Tears in all the grown men’s eyes said it all as we passed; it was impossible to have seen all of them and I was thankful I did not see any of my squad there that day. God’s speed you brave men, God’s speed.

After being forcibly made to move on from this horrific scene we begrudgingly slowly moved on to our own tortious destiny as well.

The Geneva Convention declares that the enemy can require a private to work therefore they were placed in stable prison camps (stalag}and were provided with a Red Cross parcel weekly with seven days of food plus cigarettes. They also had water for showers, shaving, brushing teeth and washing clothes, and bathroom facilities including such simple item as bath room tissue.

While we, as noncom, were forced to march, one tortious step at a time, some 400 miles or more from Belgium to the Czechoslovakian border during Germany’s record cold winter with all its elements of snow, rain, hail and bitter cold wind. For food, we had less than one slice of bread a day. To add even more to our misery, we did not bathe, change clothes, brush teeth, shave or even comb our hair for four months. Probably the most debilitating of all was that we were all completely infested with lice as we were cramped in any available barn each night. Need I add that dysentery was an acute integral part of the torturous march as well.

As for myself, at times, my thought of ever surviving the tortious ordeal hung by the tiniest of threads. The degradation, futility and hopelessness was prevalent to all of us yet we kept on taking one step more than by sheer forcefulness of will took just one more step.

One, of the several brutal atrocities that I personally witnessed, was when several soldiers were too weak to help their sick buddy to walk any further begged him to stand. A guard stepped up and promised to take him to a hospital. His friends assured their friend that he would be ok. We left them both there and as we rounded the next turn, we heard a single rifle shot and a few minutes later that guard that promised to take the sick soldier to the hospital, came hurrying around the corner to catch up. We booed and hissed at him but the guard just sneered and laughed it off. This made me ill, so I made my way up to the head of the column so as not to witness such brutality that was being perpetrated on the weaker and most feeble.

There was no way I could possibly know how many more died on this tortuous march. I heard an unbelievable number that did. All of us were fairly close to the same condition as the man that fell, yet we had to continue the march for another two and a half more months. There were other inhumane atrocities that I witnessed that were unbelievably even more repulsive that I fervently wish I could forget. Thus, is the cruelty of man’s inhumanity to man.

After one month on the march, I made one futile attempt to escape, but I was already too weak to succeed and was caught the following day. After being roughed up a bit, I was returned to the group. The guard, I was turned over to, took my dog tags and told me that I had a mixed uniform without dog tags and now I could be shot as a spy. He further stated, “I know you now and if you step out of line, to either side, it would make no difference to me, I will shoot you”.

One thing that sustained me to a small degree was that I took a chance and strolled off course into the edge of a sugar beet field and found a small sugar beet even though it was frozen I managed to gnaw on it for many days.

Three months after my attempt to escape we were approaching the boarder of Czechoslovakian when we began to hear the distinct rumble of the Russian artillery in the distance advancing from the Eastern front. A few days later when the rumble became much louder all of our guards left during the night except the one guard that held my dog tags; he sought me out the following morning among hundreds of other prisoners; even though my unshaven sallow appearance had changed drastically he sought me out and handed my dog tags back, nodded and without a word turned and walked away. I believe he had a slight respect that I had, at least, tried to escape. He, too, knew that the dog tags were the only identification I had to prove I was an American.

The manifested hostility and hatred held by both the Russians and the Germans’ for each other was beyond description. For Germans to be taken prisoner by the Russians would inevitably mean a severe beating for sure and to the death was a very distinct possibility. The Russian outcry was, “Never try to invade our country again!”.

Several German soldiers, possibly even our guards, noted my stripes, approached me with their hands up in order to become an American prisoner. Even though I had no empathy for them I stopped one of our trucks and turned the Germans over to them. The driver objected and said, “What do you want us to do with them, Sarg?”. I said, “That’s your problem now” and I turned and walked away.

Now that we were all free, our first priority in our emaciated condition was to find a source of food. I chose a house owned by an elderly couple that had chickens visible from the street. At first, the elderly couple were extremely frightened but I assured them that I would not harm them and that I only needed food and when I started to catch one particular chicken. The couple both kept yelling, “kronka”; I thought they didn’t want me to catch that particular chicken so that of course was the one I wanted. After they caught that chicken and killed and dressed it, they showed me the chickens’ abscessed lungs. I learned “kronka” means sick and they wanted me to catch a good one. I could see in their eyes and furrowed brows their empathy as if to say, “Did we really cause this”?

As this delightful couple cooked me a meal I sponge bathed in copious amount of water; after this a meal was ready and as I painfully tried to sit on their hard stool and couldn’t, the lady tapped my arm gently and literally ran to get me a pillow to sit on.

That night they gave me two twelve inch down ticks as a mattress and blanket; strangely, as they stood by watching, I felt safe and feel fast asleep almost immediately.

The next morning I thanked them profusely as they both escorted me to their outside gate and as I left them they timidly waved good bye. After I laboriously walked approximately 50 yards or more I turned and looked back and I saw them both still standing there watching. It seemed as though I had chosen a wonderful quant German couple that showed in their heart that they really cared. Perhaps, or just maybe, there is still some hope for this troubled world after all.

We were all emaciated when we were finally recaptured; to sit up straight was impossible because of the sharp pain on our raw tail bones striking a hard surface consequently we had to lean to one side in order to sit; that was extremely painful as well because of the terrible multiple painful pinches produced by the skin that receded between our ribs on the opposite side and we constantly bit the inside of our cheeks.

At this point I was loaded aboard a truck and the instant I painfully laid down on its steel bed I became an immediate victim of Post-Traumatic Syndrome; from that point at the East Border of Germany to the time I was dropped off at my mother’s home in San Francisco I have no memory; which had to have been at least a month or two later as I had already gained back my normal weight; I faintly remember someone saying, as I arrived at my mother’s door saying “you will be alright now”.

Lieutenant Walker looked me up in San Francisco after the war and stated that he was recommending me for the Congressional Medal of Honor. I was quite pleased and as we had dinner together in my home he persisted on asking me what exactly did I do on all my missions and for the life of me I could not remember one single thing.

When I drove him off at the airport sometime later we both expressed our deep disappointment. Approximately one year later, thanks to Lt. Walker’s hard work in gathering witnesses, I was awarded the coveted Distinguished Service Cross and the Belgium Croix De Guerre with Palms Ribbon, Belgium’s highest civilian award.

After the war, Lieutenant Walker wrote me that several of my two squads had receive the Silver Star and that all 24 would also receive the Silver Star if they could be located. Some of those are listed below.

Spec. 5 Ernest C. Gerry of F. Co. and from Co; H, Cpl. Herman W. Pace; Cpl. Lawrence J. Doer; Sgt. Roy D. Jensen; and Cpl. Clyde Mc. Daniel.

And so, this is our legacy that we leave to our grateful and wonderful Nation that we served with integrity and to the highest degree of our ability.

This is a true story of those of us who did our best to serve our country and did eventually returned home to our families but the real “heroes” were those thousands that did not.