Historical Files, H22
by Clinton R. Haggard

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Gary Dale Smith, H11823222826, son of Rev. Virgle Lee and Cleta Geneva (Haggard) Smith, was born 8 September 1948, Windsor, Sonoma, CA, married 22 July 1967, Sebastopol, Sonoma, CA, Juanita May Banthrall, born 18 August 1951, Sebastopol, Sonoma, CA, daughter of Alvis and June (Bowen) Banthrall. They have a daughter:

1. Martie Lynn Smith, born 5 January 1968, Santa Rosa, Sonoma, CA.

Judy Lee Smith, H11823222827, daughter of Rev. Virgle Lee and Cleta Geneva (Haggard) Smith, was born 8 June 1950, Windsor, Sonoma, CA, married ca. 1970, Paul Richmond Bean, born 14 August 1941. They have two daughters:

1. Shawnna Renee Bean, born 25 May 1971, Windsor, Sonoma, CA.

2. Bucky Michelle Bean, born 22 February 1974, Windsor, Sonoma, CA.

Clinton Ralph Haggard, H1182322283, son of Calvin Riley and Leona Hazel May (Ewing) Haggard, was born 26 September 1920, Wellston, Lincoln, OK, died 26 April 1997, Providence, R.I., married 29 June 1946, Pawtucket, Providence, RI, Dorothy May Allen, born 7 July 1917, Pawtucket, Providence, RI, daughter of Harry Adams and Lillian May (Tordoff) Allen. They have two children:

1. David Allen Haggard, H11823222831, born 18 December 1952, Pawtucket, Providence, RI.

2. Susan Eleanor Haggard, H11823222832, born 21 July 1954, Pawtucket, Providence, RI.

Clinton Ralph Haggard, H1182322283, son of Calvin Riley and Leona Hazel May (Ewing) Haggard, was a veteran of World War II.

Registered Selective Service Board: Oklahoma City, Oklahoma.

Home Address: 1315 N. Wisconsin, Oklahoma City, OK. Home address at time he entered into service: 1158 S. Sidney Drive, Los Angeles, CA. (home of his sister Geneva [Haggard] Smith).

Enlisted: 10 July 1942. Place of entry into service: NRS, Los Angeles, CA.

Service Number: USNR 633-57-07.

Net Service (for pay purposes): 3 years, 3 months, 25 days.

Date of Separation: 4 November 1945.

Place of Separation: PSC NOB TI, San Pedro, CA.

Separation: Honorable.

Remarks: Separated on Point System. Ribbons: Victory Medal WWII, Good Conduct, Asiatic Pacific (one star), American Area.

Ratings Held: Seaman 2c, Seaman 1c, Coxswain.

Foreign Service: Yes. When the Japanese surrendered he was on Iwo Jima and had the option of enlisting for another 90 days and going on to Japan or returning home. He noted that he hadn't lost anything in Japan and chose to go home. Little did he dream that a generation later his daughter would marry one of the enemy and he would be paying his own air fare to go to Tokyo for the birth of his grandson.

Kind of Insurance: NSI, Effective date: November 1945, Next Premium due: December 1945, Amount of Premium due each month: $6.60. Intention of Keeping Insurance: No.

Total Payment upon Discharge: $167.80; Travel or Mileage Allowance (Included in Total Payment) $1.15; Initial Mustering Out Pay: $100; Name of Disbursing Officer: Lt. (jg) G. L. Owens, (SC) USN.

Non-Service Education (years successfully completed): Grammar School, 6 yrs.; Webster Junior High School, 3 yrs.; Central High School (OHS), 3 yrs. (Diploma, Class of 1940); Rochester Institute of Technology, School of Printing, 3 yrs. (Certificate, Class of 1948); Rhode Island Community College (various computer courses).

Service Stations: NCTC, Davisville, R.I. first boots at Camp Endicott, Davisville, R.I., assigned to 31st Naval Construction Battalion, Company B, Platoon 3 (erroneously shown as Platoon 4 in 31st Battalion History).


By late summer of 1942 practically every run on the N.Y.N.H. and Hartford Railway stopped long enough in Providence to disgorge a swarm of train-weary, summer-clad civilians who were shepherded with a "hup-right, hup" to waiting busses bound for Camp Endicott. Their arrival was somewhat in advance of the GI clothing which is the bane and blessing of every serviceman. So the indoctrination of Endicott's first "boots" into the mysteries of a "military manner" began with a polite disregard of the blue jeans, corduroy pants, plaid knickers and colored shirts which shivered, "suh" at early morning muster. This leaning to nondescript garb has persisted with the old 31st'ers lo, until now. Camp Endicott has given the last polish to the majority of Construction Battalions with its Advance Military Training program. But training the men of the 31st was its first experiment with raw recruits.

Camp Endicott at this time was not much more than a mud hole, complicated with yawning excavations and pipe ditching. It was an obstacle course all its own. From barracks to shower room, especially at night, was a neat problem. Many a man made part of the trip with a triumphant leap, and turning to laugh at his less fortunate buddy, fell up to his ears in the next gully.

Boot is like nothing you have ever gone through before, and you hope never will again. It is a turning point in your life, and quite abrupt. Take from Socrates his ability to orate, confine him to a guarded yard with a Samson — from whom you have already shorn the hair that guaranteed him strength. Then tell them both they no longer have names, but that from here on they will be known by numbers, that their thinking will be done for them — and you have an idea of the first impact of boot camp on the average patriotic American. Their entry into the ways of a disciplined Navy kept them speechless and powerless for a solid month.

Boot was a continuous orgy of drilling, bayonet practice, KP and guard duty (the main gate at Camp Endicott was a hole in the fence), inspections and vaccinations, during which their hopes receded daily into ethereal space. Through it all ran the theme — a devilish thing with the sting of a thousand pitchforks and a terrible finality from which there is no appeal —"ours not to question why, ours but to do or die." Slowly we caught on there were three ways to do a job — the right way, the wrong way, and the Navy way.

We were not ordinary boots. Those in command recognized this, and for the first time in the history of our Navy (we tell ourselves) men in boot camp were placed on Regimental Guard Duty (an honor and a privilege). This was unquestionably something dangerously like turning a yeoman loose on a bulldozer, if you get what we mean. But "picked" men from the 31st (they learned early to volunteer for nothing) stood those posts and stood them well, and Camp Endicott remained unsullied, amply protected from any enemy or saboteur. One conscientious Texan was put on post twelve and forgotten. Forty-eight hours later the post was rediscovered, and the guard, still challenging would-be liberty hounds, finally relieved. This devotion to duty, Sir, is typical of our fine American manhood not alone in Texas, Sir, but all over these United States.

Toward the end of training, a series of three realistic air-raids, courtesy of Quonset airmen, aroused the camp. Flares, explosions, dive-bombing, and screaming whistles gave you no time to wonder if—! And the helmet became popular headdress. More realism was added as the idea of a mock invasion was developed to go with the next outburst. The 31st Battalion was designated to invade. When the time and hour arrived, the commandos of the outfit had within thirty minutes, disarmed all the Marine guards, cut their Colonel's telephone wires, routed out of his home and arrested Captain Fred Rogers, commanding officer of Endicott. The supply yard two miles away at West Davisville was also taken without trouble. There were no casualties — but plenty of signal mortars lit the skies, and dynamite explosions were heard for miles. Perhaps it was then that we were tagged for the Iwo job.

The month which had done so much to initiate many of us to a new way of life ended up on a typical note as it introduced us to the art and headache of moving. Lock, stock and barrel we packed ourselves clear across the drill field to H Unit. A more spectacular event was the dress review. Usually this is the kind of affair which make the civilian want to get into the Navy, and the Seabees want to get out. But on 9 October 1942 it was different. This was the commissioning ceremony of the Thirty- first United States Naval Construction Battalion. Boys in blue, a right good crew, passed in review. Captain Rogers presented the colors to our first commanding officer, Commander H. H. Micou. In Navy terms we were now a "ship" all set for the "shakedown cruise" of advanced training, and then the long voyage.

Before that trip, though, there was another to take — wherever we wanted to go as long as we returned in five days. Believe it or not, a lot of them made it to Texas and back. Good FAST boys! — If, in September of '42 we were boots the rawest of civilians, by December of that year we were still boots — the rawest of Seabees. BuDock's baby was as yet more in the idea stage than it was on the pages of current history. We knew from that wise old sage, the recruiting officer, and press releases of "things to come," that the 'Bees were destined to play an important role in the war. But that record was not yet written. We were issued weapons and given uniforms, but eight to ten weeks probably did not transform us into the smoothest of Uncle Sam's military units. Still we were game, maybe eager, for this venture into the unknown frontiers of the war to perform a vague though highly important task. So with more enthusiasm than cadence, we marched from the ABD Hut Area in Camp Thomas through a drizzling rain to board day coaches for the first leg of the journey.

Anybody's scuttlebutt was good. For all we knew we might cross country to sail from a west coast port or board ship in New York to sail in almost any possible direction. Guessing where was one of the games that occupied us on that trip from which we had no guarantee there would be a returning. Other games were played, too. Sure, we thought about leaving home. In a New York tunnel our train was delayed by the very interurban that used to carry one of us to work. In Washington we stood on a siding for a half hour, only five minutes from another guy's home. Then when we reached Norfolk, VA, and had filed through a huge cold shed to the waiting ship — the "Orazoba" from which we waved a bleak good-bye to an empty dock, as our vessel slid out of the bay a mate pointed out the white house on the shore that was his home. That, and thinking about the five-day leave that did not let some of us get home, made you feel odd to say the least. One of our mates, a World War I veteran, noted he was in the brig of this same ship (for being drunk), while returning home from World War I. We heard a German submarine later sank this ship off the coast of North Africa.

But now, at least, we knew where we were going. Civilian workers aboard, headed there, too, were able to tell us that. Bermuda, eh? A hell of a ways from the war that was! Oh, well, we'd see. Meanwhile, the rough waters of the Middle Atlantic took its toll. A goodly number of us suffered from seasickness. At first you thought you were going to die, but by the second day you were afraid you wouldn't. The drills, and blackouts at night, and the talk about submarines gave you something else to think about.


Sighting land after even a two day voyage has its thrill. Slowly the speck on the horizon took on size and shape and color. The green hills, the colored gardens, the dazzling whiteness of the beaches and buildings of this near, yet foreign land, and the harbors of clear, opal tinted water was our introduction to a place of slow tempo and strange customs. "A bit of the old world," or "horse and buggy" — depending on how you looked at it.

The narrow roads accommodated their buggies and bicycles; only the doctor had an automobile. Every home had its own water catchment, for its only source of that precious liquid was the rain. A scattering of coral islands with many people, much fishing, garden truck, the famous onions, potatoes, lilies, but neither snake nor apple, the smallest drawbridge in the world, and four o'clock tea. This was Bermuda which, with our help, was to turn from vacation land into an important frontier base on the road to North Africa and the turn of the Axis.

Our jobs here? Forgetting the gripes and confusion and the kidding we took as "Honeymooners," plenty that we did was important. No list would be complete. But there were the underground fuel tanks — the marginal wharf — the large fleet warehouse, the gun mounts, the ammo dumps, the gunnery schools built; the maintenance work, the painting, the wiring, the ship repairs, the stevedoring (A ship unloaded every five days); the hospital, the golf course, the officers' club, and the Admiral's fish pond.

The closer the connection we could see between the job we did and the winning of the war, the more satisfaction we took in our work. The planes that landed there with bullet holes in their wings, and the ships, in whose holds we shifted cargo so that repairs could be made closer to the battle front than anywhere else, reminded us that even though it was a long way off, the war was still going on and much of our efforts on the island of coral and cedar did support the big job. With this we had to be content.


Construction of a 560 foot seawall at St. David's to replace the obsolete and generally unsatisfactory floating wharf formerly used to dock Navy mine sweepers and other small craft. Formal commissioning rites for the new wharf included a visit by Rear Admiral Ingram Sowell and Brigadier General Alden G. Strong. A small fleet of bedecked Navy ships further attested to the importance of the 31st's Number One project.

D Company was responsible for the whole job, including construction of a rock crusher to grind up coral for the entire base. Lt. George L. Wey and Lt. M. B. Kite were the officers in charge of the project, which was completed in four months. Hundreds of cubic yards of assorted materials and several thousand man days were utilized in the operation.



Among the big jobs here were the five concrete fuel tanks, capacity 100,000 barrels. Surveyors, jackhammer artists (my job), carpenters, concrete men, and shipfitters all had a hand in this job, including setting up the pumping stations which went with each tank. Dozer operators soon had the whole business buried in coral sand. Before this was done sprayers were turned loose to coat the tanks with liquid rubber which dried to make them moisture proof.

WARTIME BERMUDA became a strange combination of picturesque beauty mixed with an "armed-to-the-teeth" formidable appearance. Next to fields of innocent lilies, powder magazines and antiaircraft gun installations reminded all who saw that a war was going on.

BULLDOZERS levelled off hills to create rifle ranges, and carpenters built classrooms for instruction in the use of 50 calibres and other anti-axis devices.

SHIP LOADING details worked day and night cleaning out holds of countless numbers of vessels paying visits to "Honeymoon Island." Many ships turned up with holes in their sides — following tangles with enemy subs in the dangerous water that was the Atlantic in 1942 and 1943. Cargoes were shifted to make room for quick repairs, and soon, ready for the sea-lanes again, the once-crippled vessels were returned to service.

WAREHOUSES . . . Naval Air Station and St. David's. As the importance of Bermuda's Naval Air Station increased, it fell to the 31st Battalion to build an addition to its warehouse. By far the hardest job was to give it a solid base, for the coral reef was full of caves, one of which swallowed over 500 yards of concrete. Reinforced concrete columns at fairly close intervals provided the needed support. (Valuable experience for the job that was to come on Iwo Jima where the northern part of the island was an underground city connected with interlocking caves.) From there on it was simply a building job which was handed over to another outfit when someone said, "Back to the States."


Bermuda — known as a vacation land in peacetime — provided recreation galore even to wartime Seabees. The 31st swimming pier, one of four built by the Battalion, proved to be a popular spot to while away spare time. For the first time in my life I went swimming on Christmas Day. Movies were held in the camp area, and basketball flourished from beginning to the very end. Occasional USO dances at the "Flats" or at Somerset were gala affairs with plenty of rug and cake-cutters. Thoroughly appreciated were the golf facilities at Mid Ocean or at Riddles Bay. The 31st participated in the first football contest on Bermuda — known as the Lily Bowl — but came off second best losing to another Navy team in a tight 19 to 18 thriller.

While on liberty in Hamilton I attended the Methodist Church and met the Campbell family who invited me into their home, which I visited many times later. They had a son attending school in Canada and expressed a desire to move to the United States but due to currency transfer restrictions were not allowed to do so. During our stay in Bermuda the British pound was $4.00, today it is about $1.53.



In October 1943 the 31st boarded two ships for their return to Camp Endicott, Davisville, R.I., for reorganization. One ship went directly to Camp Endicott and the other the SS Antaeus to Norfolk, VA, for another coach ride. The rough waters of the Atlantic took its toll again (seasickness). Busses seemed very strange after eleven months of horse-drawn taxis. Although our stay in Bermuda had been a pleasant one everyone was glad to leave. Our service had been of inestimable value, but we were not a rear echelon outfit and no one could deceive us into thinking otherwise. So we left Bermuda looking forward to rougher and dirtier jobs. WE FOUND THEM.

A NEW 31st

A few days after re-assembling the eagerly awaited overseas leave came through. To all corners of the country scattered the thousand and more men for a brief month's holiday and a joyful homecoming. But the United States being in a state of war, all good things soon came to an end. The end of November 1943 found us back at camp with bets on how soon we would be moving out again. The process of rejuvenation the battalion had already begun. Commander Micou had been transferred during his leave to the Pacific to assume command of a Regiment. General Service — or the prospect of sea duty — opened up for some rates, a hope that was later frosted for many,. but not until almost 400 men of the 31st had transferred out. Their places were taken by drafts of men from Camp Perry, from the 3001 and 3003 detachments and other battalions. Only five of the original officers remained. For a brief while Lieut. Cmdr. R. C. Greer, Jr., commanded the outfit, but soon he turned over the reins to his executive officer, Lt. E. J. McGinnis, who carried on for two months until Lieut. Cmdr. D. J. Ermilio appeared on the scene to take over the battalion.

With a full compliment again the 31st set out to make the best of their indefinite stay at Endicott. With the blush of spring came the move to Sun Valley (R.I.), a five mile hike, for extensive military training and maneuvers in the field. Included was a week spent at the range in rehearsal for the great day of firing "for the record" when daddy became an "Expert Rifleman." a "Sharpshooter" or a "Marksman."

This over, the next step was Camp Thomas where (while on liberty I attended a dance sponsored by the YWCA in Providence, R.I., and met the girl of my dreams. We exchanged addresses and started corresponding). Shortly thereafter we were confined to camp — more particularly the guest house — at which many a 31st'er bravely comforted his (1) wife — or (2) girl — or (3) somebody else's wife, with a cheery, "Oh, don't worry a bit. It won't be for long." It wasn't. Some were on hand to welcome us to the west coast.

To the tune of "California, here I come," our three sections began their diverse routes to the west over country that was new to many. In the course of five days there was opened to us a panorama for which we were fighting; America, with all her deserts and plains, her mountains and lakes, her farms and her cities. (At a train stop in Indiana a group of women, unsung heroes, met us at the station with coffee or soda, sandwiches and sweets.) The week's end found us at Port Hueneme, Ojai, Oxnard, CA, our home for the next four and a half months. Without delay we began 'sighting-in' our new carbines, and our tears flowed like wine when we learned the hard way how to adjust our gas masks. Suddenly combat training was broken off to permit a move to nearby Camp Bedilion, and then those coveted pre-embarkation leaves we had wondered about.

At leave's end the imminence of our departure had faded away. So we settled down to "left, right, left," and carpentry details, and liberty! Hollywood, Los Angeles, Santa Monica, Ocean Park — we made them all, and the Ventura USO to boot, but as August of 1944 rolled around the refrain, "We'll never leave the States," increased as two sizeable detachments were sent to San Clemente and San Nicholas island for construction duty.

Within a scant month they were all back, and we were confined to an embarkation area at Camp Rousseau where feverish last-month preparation of transfers in and out, or dispatching wives home — got under way. Then it really happened. We left the states.


The evening previous to October 2nd we had wound up a Sunday of visiting and picnic lunches and last good-byes by taking in the movie at Theatre A with our loved ones. No one remembers the picture, but we won't forget the three minutes of darkness after it was over, then the lights, the moist eyes, and the ordeal of tearing ourselves away. Now the separation was real. Our loved ones left by the side door and we came out the front for a reluctant march to our guarded area.

There was little sleeping. Cigarettes were lit, puffed twice, and put out. A few of the boys whiled their time with a nervous game of craps in the head, and others thought of Scriptures and the folks back home who couldn't be there.

Reveille at four. Before ever the eastern mountains had permitted dawn to flush the skies, we had groped our way to our neighboring hosts for a pick-up breakfast, and returned to police the camp, roll up our bedding and await the trucks.

With packs, carbines, duffle bags, and ditty bags we were transported to the docks to que up in the proper order for individual mustering onto the ship. Once aboard, the Bedilion Band, which we had heard every morning of our stay there, came to give us a concert send-off and to play request numbers. A few wives who worked at the port braved the occasion. One swell girl waved her white handkerchief while a tugboat pulled us through the harbor entrance. As she disappeared in the distance the journey of the 31st on the waters of the Pacific was begun. (No seasickness on the Pacific.)


After some sharp zig-zagging through the nets the Agwi Prince set sail on a southwesterly course, and as the mainland slipped slowly away at the morning's horizon, some wondering thoughts and maybe some prayers passed through our minds. But soon we settled down to a routine of card playing, boat drills, "breeze batting," band concerts, and chow line forming. The plan changed only for an occasional target practice by the ship's gun crew at floating barrels or other bobbing objects. At the rail we watched the flying-fish skim out of the way of the bow and kept an eye out for ships — friendly or otherwise. At dusk we could depend on the order barked over the PA, "Darken ship." Thereafter we stumbled and groped in the inky blackness, bumping into a mate or stubbing our toes on some permanent deck fixture. Better judgment and barked shins drove many to the stuffy confines of the compartments with their closely-spaced tiers of bunks and men's packs and seabags on every hook and in every corner. Sleep, at times, was impossible. Sometimes you gave up and sought, again the cool breeze on deck, and looked over the side at the elegant and mysterious lights in the disturbed waters. Phosphorescence like flying-fish, was no longer a line thrown to the "pollywogs" by the "Salts," but a real phenomenon. Boxing bouts and swing sessions on a forward well deck were a daily event offering some diversion from the monotony of life aboard the ship. Now and then we glanced to the east and wondered when we might again travel this course in the opposite direction, to the homeland we had just begun to appreciate.

On the sixth day after we left the States something white broke the horizon on our starboard bow. Slowly a snow capped mountain peak took shape, becoming more detailed as we plowed into each new wave. The first view of the Island of Hawaii was impressive: from high up where the volcano Mona Kea wore her white hat, to the water's edge, the line of the horizon descended along a steady angle, changing only to pick up a new color now here, now there before it became part of the ocean we sailed. Sugar cane fields appeared in a crazy patchwork of designs cut at random. Bright reds and greens and yellows screamed from the foliage and buildings for our attention.

As we approached the breakwater at Hilo harbor our speed gradually slackened until we were barely inching along. What was the holdup? In a few minutes a little old-fashioned, white pilot boat chugged towards us and as it came along our starboard a wisened, swarthy old man leaped for the chain ladder which had been dropped over the side for him. Cheers broke out in praise of his agility. The harbor pilot aboard we made our lumbering way to the far corner of the grey dingy harbor. There were a few Marines and sailors about the wharf who carried on a long distance conversation with us, answering our questions about liberty, the curfew, and what outfits were around.

A night was spent at the dock before unloading the next day. The waterfront experts of Company D were consigned to nearby Camp POW, which they later deserted for their own enviable setup at Camp Wainaku — place of barking dogs, rain, and fence freedom.

Leaving them to their perpetual supply yard activities, the rest of us boarded a narrow gage train of flat cars for an unforgettable trip. That ride up the coast combined the best Coney Island had to offer with all the scenic views of a fairyland. Whizzing around the flimsy "S" curves made the engineers among us wonder, we caught our breath only to gasp at the tableau of sheer beauty before us.

Streams dashed down high cliffs into chasms so far below that, as we sped across the narrow trestles that spanned them, we hardly dared to look down to delight our eyes with a view of the lush, tropical vegetation growing to giant proportions. Here and there we were invited into the darkness of a tunnel, leaving the sunshine behind us, coughing at the smudge we were fed for a minute or two, then emerging into the private cloudburst of a new little valley. Again a few times we found ourselves faced with a sharp grade; suddenly the engine would cut loose and disappear, leaving us in the middle of a cane patch. In a flash, combat conscious Seabees with drawn knives were over the side and in the field slashing for themselves a length of sweet stalk. Others helped themselves to the tomato-like fruit of the guava bush. At the end of the line we left our flat cars for a 30 mile truck ride inland, climbing by night to the shivering temperatures of Kamuela, 2,800 feet above sea level and to Camp Tarawa, home of the 5th Marine Division and, for three months our home.

We remember it as a dust bowl in the middle of a cattle ranch, yet in company with its dust and misty rain one often could walk into the very middle of a rainbow. (That malarkey about the pot of gold at the end of a rainbow is a fraud!) Here we began to know the Marines — learned what made them into the fighting machine of the Pacific — made many good friends among them.

Their training seemed tough to us. If they were trained to fight defensively, we did not know it. Their emphasis was strictly offense, and that is why every Marine was feared worse than death by Nippon's armies and her Imperial Marines. Long marches over rugged country, topped with a bivouac, then more marching; full packs, with canteens, entrenching tools, and rifles added to the load, gave us aching backs and blistered feet, but put in A-1 condition. Extensive training in firearms, mortars, and the 50 calibre machine gun, was a part of the program too. An interesting break was the exhibition by the Marines of their method of attack. We saw their rockets, flame throwers, and tanks in play and were glad those men were on our side.

During this time our demolition squad was formed, comprising a selected group of the younger element who daily performed such feats as walking (ha!) 30 miles — spending their rest periods playing football, or having wrestling matches over a nice soft bed of sharp lava rock. For technical training they delighted in working all hours of the night dismantling booby traps and land mines. And the day was good if it was climaxed by blowing up a large hill or a tree or a piece of abandoned (?) road equipment with some new type of explosive. At the end of eight weeks they were as ready as they could be for their job on Iwo Jima.

There were lighter moments: liberty was established — a 48 hour pass every three weeks — as during this time, one could join the weekly party which toured Big Island in a fleet of Sampans. It was a good trip for those who have a yen for globe-trotting. In the course of a crowded two days we visited the museum which was once the palace of the old Hawaiian royalty, where the Kings Kamehamcha and their hefty wives frolicked the summers away. We deserted the sugar cane country of the east, and the cattle ranches of the north, to travel through Kona's coffee plantations on the west, and to watch them process the berry at one of their mills. We learned that there was a little grass shack (you spell it), Hawaii. Then as we resumed our journey toward the National Park, we learned what we could of the musical Hawaiian language from our native driver, even to pronounce such difficult words as pi-pe-li-ne. We had driven through lava fields, seen the hardened formations, the bottomless lava tubes, the canyons, rolling ash-rock which were the marks of an angry volcano. But at the Park we saw the huge gaping craters of Kilauea — trembling "pits of eternal fire." On a lower level we walked through one of the cold lava tubes into the bowels of the fury-spent mountain, coming out into a place of tropical fern and wide-leafed palmettos. It was a trip we will not forget.

Meanwhile the men of Company D (they called themselves the CBMU) were having a time in the Vicinity of Hilo. For awhile they existed in bleak, muddy Camp POW with the Fifth MarDiv Pioneers. Within a few weeks they took over their own camp at Wainaku, where they were joined by part of a war Dog Platoon. These well trained hounds were fascinating by day and tuneful by night, but it paid to keep your distance. Stevedoring with a vengeance was the lot of Company D, especially in the supply yard where all the boxes and equipment had to be marked and remarked, moved and removed, piled and re-piled, until everything was in order for combat loading. They had the advantage of a fair-sized city close at hand for their liberty. But some of them had more fun climbing up the hill to pick clusters of bananas, then sail them down the obliging stream flowing through a cane chute to the camp below. Others used up their energies taking all comers in the local basketball tournament.

Training, work and pleasure halted abruptly just after Christmas (which we spent swimming at Black Beach) as detachments of our men began loading on the several vessels congregated for the Big Move. Most of the 31st men were assigned as ships platoons to load and unload cargo. The Marines with whom we were travelling would one day depend upon our doing that job as right as they were to do theirs. Again we pulled around the breakwater of Hilo harbor, this time setting a course for an unfriendly unnamed rock in the western sea. It was a different kind of thrill we felt as we ventured toward a strange land and into the unknown.


December 27, 1944 to January 6, 1945: Leave Camp Tarawa, Kamuela, TH, arrive at Hilo by truck, LST, and flat cars. BOARD SHIP, 31st men are scattered on a dozen different APA's, and ten LCM's and LST's. Marines come aboard.

Monday, 8 January 1945, 1700 — Depart from Hilo in a large convoy with other APA's.

Tuesday, 9 January, 0930 — Arrive off island of Maui, T.H., proceed with landing maneuvers. 0940 — Ship's P.A. system announces news of Mac Arthur's landings on Luzon, P.I. . . . everyone happy. 1730 — Secure from maneuvers and head for sea.

Wednesday, 10 January, 1200 — Arrive in Honolulu Harbor, dock at pier 11 at 1400. What a mob of people! (Liberty for one-quarter of troops from 1600 to 1800) our luck all the bars close at 1600.

Thursday, 11 January — Remained in port all day.

Friday, 12 January, 0800 — Leave Honolulu, target practice and maneuvers at sea, enroute to Maui for second practice landing.

Saturday, January 13, through Wednesday, January 17 — Joined with 39 other APA's and AKA's, 8 cans, 50 to 60 LST's and LCI's for practice landings on Maui during the day and formation maneuvers all night at sea. Secure from war games, set out for Pearl Harbor and Honolulu.

Thursday, 18 January - Return to Honolulu. Liberty and Recreation at Navy Park. Visited the famous sites while on liberty — Waikiki Beach, the Royal Hawaiian Hotel, etc.

Tuesday, 25 January — Loaded stores on ship.

Saturday, 27 January, 1100 — Depart from Honolulu, join convoy at sea, 20 APA's and AKA's, 6 cans and 6 DE's.

Tuesday, 30 January, at sea — We are told for the first time our destination is Iwo Jima — plans, maps and briefings. Going to be some show!

Friday, 2 February — Crossed the International dateline.

Monday, 5 February — Arrive at Eniwetok, anchor inside the atoll with approximately five to six hundred other ships, an unbelievable sight!

Wednesday, 7 February, 1000 — Depart for Saipan through sub infested waters.

Saturday, 10 February, 1930 — Passed Guam at dusk, too dark to see.

Sunday, 11 February, 0615 — Passed near Tinian to enter anchorage at Saipan. Hundreds of ships are here ready for the final push — Battlewagons to LCS's. We watch flights of B-29's taking off and returning from raids on Tokyo and our goal of Iwo Jima.

Monday, 12 February — Night maneuvers at sea.

Tuesday, 13 February — Debarkation maneuvers off Tinian, this is the final dress rehearsal for the big show. Everything runs like clockwork, sea is very choppy, some men are hurt on nearby ships while going up and down nets. Battlewagons reported to be giving IWO her warm-up.

Wednesday, 14 February — Back to anchorage at Saipan.

Thursday, 15 February — Several crippled ships limp in — a liberty ship with a gapping hole at her water line, and a destroyer with bow stove in. Ashore heavy artillery raked hills directly in back of American installations to eliminate a number of Japanese still holed up on this island. Most memorable thing about Saipan was the fact it remained lit up like a Christmas tree all night long, while the rest of the world was completely blacked out.

Friday, 16 February, 1100 — D minus 3, leave Saipan in large convoy including subs and carriers in our group.

Saturday, February 17 — We receive K rations, ammunition, grenades, bottle of brandy and last minute briefings. P.A. system announced carrier based planes have raided Tokyo, units of the Pacific fleet shelling Iwo Jima! Admiral Nimitz invites Japanese fleet to come out and fight. All of this is part of the plan for the Iwo invasion.

Sunday, 18 February — D minus 1, at sea. Everyone apparently calm, last minute instructions. We really had SOME dinner tonight: Turkey, Pie, Ice cream, candy and nuts. Just like Thanksgiving — everybody packed and ready to jump in the morning.

MONDAY, 19 FEBRUARY, D-DAY. This is it!! Up at 0200, Battle breakfast at 0300. First shell fire visible, too dark to see island. It is getting lighter now, we can see the other 799 ships with us. We move in closer to disembark our troops. Hell is really popping all over Iwo. 0700, the boys go over the side, some will not come back. Everyone is quiet, no shouting. Everyone has a job to do and goes about it. Its been a tiresome trip but we are all refreshed with the spirit of the job at hand.


Reveille did not need to sound on D-Day morning. Men were up early for their breakfast of steak or ham and eggs, a concession to the misery that lay ahead. The approaching job began to take on reality when we heard the distant blasts from ships guns, and looked out to see the inky blackness of the early hours punctured with balls of red and yellow billowing fire. As dawn stole in unnoticed amid the noise she let us see the outline of the island ahead — Suribachi on our left. At a safe distance from the counter-fire of shore installations, convoys of small boats were lowered over the sides and went into their merry-go-round act near the mother ships as they waited for their loads. The designated time approached; invasion parties were called up from their compartments below, and lined up ready to climb the ladders and cargo nets.

Hour after hour, day after day, the ships disgorged their men and supplies. The Japanese had steel-reinforced concrete bunkers with artillery zeroed in to cover every section of the beach. The Japanese waited for the second or third wave of Marines to land before opening fire. Soon the beaches were so cluttered with supplies and disabled vehicles there was no way for the Marines to escape. First American wounded brought on board for medical treatment. Hour after hour the first several days, Japanese installations poured fire and lead down upon the beaches. While Marine infantry and artillery were laying it on ahead, Seabees and Marine pioneers ran the battle of supply lines from ship to front. Battleships, with 16" guns capable of hitting a target 25-30 miles away, were firing directly into Mount Suribachi at point blank range.

Cranes, shovels, trucks, bulldozers, amphibious ducks, LST's, barges, boats, and sheer brawn all were utilized in passing supplies. The combination of sand and slope put quite a strain on wheeled vehicles when loaded. Matting laid along the "road" helped a lot, but it soon curled up and as a road bed became a petty good foxhole roof. Spare minutes were used to garner dunnage and other salvage with which to make the rest of the foxhole. Eating was a la hobo; grab onto a box of C rations or, if lucky 10-in-ones, and a 5-gallon can of water.


As seen from the troop ships east of the island and the troops at her foot "Hot Rocks" loomed as the formidable obstacle to Iwo Jima's capture. You cannot describe the thrill that ran through every man in the operation on D plus 4, when Old Glory was seen flying from her summit. (This was the day I landed at the foot of Mount Suribachi.) While this did not bring the early fall of the whole island as we hoped, rugged Suribachi commanded deadly control of the invasion beaches until her cave-placed artillery was silenced. Once taken the old volcano was found to be hollow. To begin with the 31st Seabee Battalion holed-in mostly on the slope above Red Beach No. 1, after coming ashore, although some of the earlier arrivals were down the line in Red No. 2 area. With the securing of the southern end of the island jobs a plenty were coming up. That meant we had to set up a temporary bivouac area where we could establish our shops and get to work. On D plus 7 or 8 all but Company D, which stayed behind to unload ships, moved over the ridge to the west side of the island. In short order foxholes were dug on the slopes, and equipment was put to work. No one whose work took him outside the area came back without a bit of lumber, shell cases or ammunition boxes, tarpaulins, sand bags, or salvaged metal to make his home as comfortable as possible. This was our home for seven weeks.


With the move to our bivouac area on the west side of the island, the days of "every man his own cook" came to a close. There was too much else for us to do. So in short order, the first galley on Iwo was set up to feed not only our own men but any number of Marines who came back from the front lines to rest for a few hours. Hot rolls, fresh from the oven. Our bakers were the best.

Nor was it very long until a mess hall, small but a help, was in operation. Other facilities contributing to morale followed: fresh water, post office -- and every now and then mail, and services depending on electricity. For a while at least we were the aristocrats of Iwo.


Wherever Iwo Jima is remembered, there will be remembered also Mount Suribachi. And with it there will be remembered the men of the 28th Marine Regiment who took that hill, and our own men who built the road up its side. Contrary to some unreliable stateside newspapers, this road was strictly a Seabee job, to be more precise a 31st job. This was our start in turning what had been taken by our Marines at a dear price into a military advantage. The purpose of taking the island in the first place was not only to silence their harassing attacks on the Marianas but even more to secure a closer base to the mainland of Japan for our own air activity as well as a haven for the emergency landing of returning bombers. Coupled with the successful operation of any airfield is the need for the best possible weather intelligence. Suribachi would serve our offense as the place to locate our weather observation post. It would serve our defense as the place to locate our main radar station. To get this to the top Suribachi and keep it serviced required the building of a road. The construction was assigned to Lt. DeWitt's dirt pushers of Company C, under the supervision of capable CWO Purcell. The building of the road had publicity because as far as the Japanese were concerned it couldn't be built, and because it was built in a relatively short time. The lower part of the road required dynamiting to get huge boulders out of the way before the dozers could work it. The blasting crews drilled and planted their dynamite at night while the rest of the gang working their equipment up over the solid rock used every minute of daylight to whip the upper part of the road into shape. On the third day after work began, the pioneering dozers were atop the mountain. Then followed quickly the widening, grading for drainage, fine grading of the steep, winding highway. Can do. Will do. Did.


Nature did not intend for Iwo Jima to be much of an air base. It has been variously described as looking like a pork chop from the air, like the crescent moon, and like an Egyptian mummy. The latter description, though a bit far fetched, took into account the contour of the island in general, labelling Suribachi the head of the mummy and other hills the knees, fists, arms and toes. Well from the assault beaches, and those on the opposite side, the island does rise to a kind of ridge or backbone which widens and rises higher as it extends toward the northern and wider part of the island. The ridge becomes more of a plateau which nature left interrupted by peaks of varying height and a series of eroded valleys, deepening as they reached toward the ocean.

Given years of control, equipment and methods none too modern, and a supply of Korean slave labor, the former tenants of the bleak territory had been able to construct two small airstrips and to attempt a third which was abandoned. We concurred with the Japanese in one thing: we too, wanted a third airstrip. The difference is that we got it. This is the story of its getting. The terrain over which it was built resembled nothing more than you see of the archaeological remains of a partly unearthed, ruined city. It was crevassed, full of rock, marked with frequent walls which only nature built.

A deadline of thirty days was given. A week later the course of the strip was altered a few degrees. At the end of the month, the strip was ready for its asphalt topping. During that time the surveyors were kept busy tramping over booby-trapped ground to stake out the course; then retracing their steps they set the needed markers to bring the strip down to grade. Bulldozer operators working on day and night shifts, as did everyone, battled sandstone-like rocks, walls and hills, while carry-alls followed at a great clip to scoop up their loads where there was too much dirt and to carry them to the considerable stretches of the 6,800 foot strip where fill was needed.

Demolition men were not alone in keeping their eyes open for land mines, duds, booby-traps, and the nests of Japanese aerial bombs or other ammunition. That no one was killed or seriously injured in this construction is a tribute to the sober alertness of men who knew that their lives depended upon this alertness, for there were plenty of deadly missiles laying around. The night crews had the doubtful entertainment of sniper activity which was harassing but not effective.

For some distance the edge of the strip ran onto hot, steam spitting sulphur ground, with its rotten egg smell. Japanese planes, disabled American tanks, Japanese gun mounts, and other junk had to be hauled away. Dynamiters were called in to blast away a stubborn hill. When the deadline came the beautifully leveled strip was ready to turn over to the Army Engineers for the job of topping, allowing us to move on to more of the same kind of territory only more sulfurous to build taxiways and heart stands. But we had the satisfaction of seeing a squadron of P-51's land on our strip before we gave it up.


The closer a job actually is to an airstrip, the more glory there is in it. The connection is obvious even to the casual observer between heavy equipment preparing an airstrip and the operation of that airstrip. It is the same old story everywhere: the bouquets go to the Mother who is on the scene while the torment and the anguish of the Father pacing the floor below invites good-natured ribbing. If Company C mothered the air strip, Company D fathered it. Here we want to give "father" the credit he has coming.

But you must be prepared to hear that "father" had some other not so noted progeny along the way. To keep the story clean as a Company D story can be, we'll stick to the facts.

To have the kind of airstrip we needed for constant use and heavy bombers it was necessary to pave them. Neither the sandy ash of the first strip nor the clay-like sandstone of the second could hold up under the heavy load without constant maintenance. The plan called for asphalt paving over a crushed rock base. The first available source of the rock was the foot of Suribachi — but crush it yourself! So the site was chosen on the west beach and the job began. The first problem was to get the doggoned equipment erected and running right. Like a new bride in a kitchen, the equipment was erected with a book in hand — a recipe was followed. That was about the sum of all that any of the men knew about the infernal machine.

But recipes, cookbooks, and plans have something to them, so before too many days the rock crusher was operating. The lower part — or two intermediate crushers were put up first. These were fed by hand with smaller rock while the strong-jawed primary crusher was mounted in its place, butted against a big pillbox. Finally, after headaches, loss of sleep, blood, sweat, tears, and a few choice cuss words had been expended on it, she was a-runnin', by cracky!

And through her tandem jaws and insatiable gullet travelled more than two hundred thousand tons of rock, graded into four sizes. Primarily, this went to the stockpiles for the airstrips. Road construction also called for no little crushed rock. Now and then, strictly off the record, busy concrete mixers or a suddenly dry camp site hinted that a midnight visit had borne results. While it did seem to those who worked around it (few visitors came often or stayed long) that all of the by-product of rock dust was for their own exclusive consumption, a considerable amount of this miserable stuff went to the asphalt plant operated by another battalion to be mixed with their paving product. From first to last this assignment was rugged duty. The first night of assembling the crusher, enemy shells were directed our way. During the first week of its operation Japanese were flushed out of caves all around there. And every now and then a dud would turn up in the hopper. No one knows why it, or any of the other duds, didn't go off. Demolition crews and jackhammer boys were kept busy chipping the mountain away, while shovels loaded the the dump trucks and other dumps hauled the graded gravel away. On one of those early hauls to the stockpile on the second airstrip a snipers bullet went through a windshield. It was a good shot at night, but Tojo forgot our trucks had a left hand drive. Frequently the toggle plate broke down, and the job stopped for 12 to 24 hours while they were taken out and welded. Eventually, all the suitable rock at Suribachi was crushed, and a new location was found toward the north end of the island. But it did not rate as much importance or interest.


It has already been mentioned that a detail of 31st'ers were at work clearing shrapnel from the first airstrip while it was still under fire. As the progress of the battle permitted, more extensive work was undertaken by another battalion to make that strip usable. Within a couple of weeks, though, we were back at the strip again, to widen, lengthen and pave it. Much of the Japanese asphalt had to be ripped out. To meet specifications set forth both cutting and filling were required. This field was in the ash-end of the island. Clay had to be hauled to give a solid base to the topping. Much of the more than 2.5 million cubic yards of earth moved by the 31st was in connection with the work on No. 1 airstrip. Crews under CWO Wolfe and CWO Dreher worked seven days a week on twelve-hour day and night shifts to accomplish a rapid completion of an up-to-standard strip. The strip was in use while work was underway.

Occasional crack-ups had to be hauled off the field, and when much rain came bulldozers were begged to pull good planes out of the clay mud. Otherwise it was a merry race of dozers, motor patrols, trucks, shovels, rollers, graders day in and day out. The ditch digger was called on for drainage work and for laying electric cable. War's end found a 6,400 foot strip complete, several parking areas, and considerable progress made on a second strip V-ing to the south end of No. 1 field.


Carpenter and maintenance companies did much of their work around the camp area, but a number of jobs on the outside required their talent as well. In many cases the job belonged to another outfit — all we did was the work. However two projects closely allied with the airfields fell to them: the building of operational control towers and installation of lighting systems on No. 1 and No. 2 fields. Galloway's gang on No. 1 and Duffe's on No. 2 erected the sturdy 50 foot sentinels which served as traffic cops of the air strips. Able electricians under CWO Kerlin's directions were told to "get those airstrips lighted." They did. Upwards of 59,000 feet of underground cable was laid at No. 2 strip alone, with perhaps half that much at No. 1. The installation was done after the main week of paving was completed, which meant crews had to dig up asphalt patches to install the lights. Cement gangs had to pour many underground wells for flush lights, servicing controls, as well as lights on either side of the strips. On desolate Iwo's strips were set the same type lights as used on LaGuardia Field.


A doubtful gift was a crevassed, cave-ridden, shot-up piece of property next door to "Bloody Gulch," the scene of the last costly resistance and Japanese General Kuribayashi's cave. Later we learned our chow hall was built directly over a huge cave of no longer accessible Japanese medical stores. Persuasion, smoke grenades, and blasting were employed to clear caves of Japanese soldiers. Failing that they were closed and later reopened. Sanitation details had to

bury Japanese dead, demolition squads to clear the area of ammo and close caves, earth-movers to break it up into a series of fairly smooth levels for a sudden move to this outpost in early April. Prior to this we were still living in the foxhole area.

Every day our demolition men would close a number of caves, every night the Japanese would reopen them. When we went to close one of the caves a Marine guard refused permission. He had been trying to persuade a Japanese soldier holed up inside into surrendering. I'm not sure how the standoff was settled. When we posted guards in the area at night snipers would shoot at them. Apparently they had silencers as you couldn't hear the sound of rifles, only the sound of ricocheting bullets. During training we were taught while on guard duty "to walk our post in a military manner." Here I picked a spot on top of a large rock and tried to be invisible, trying to determine from whence the shots were coming. Many of the Japanese dead were booby-trapped by their own men to give any souvenir hunters an unwelcome surprise. I know of no attempt at identifying the victims as most had been dead for several days and the stench was one you can never forget.

Long hours and hard work complicated with outside jobs calling for a high priority, left little time to make ourselves comfortable — but you can depend on it, the 31st used their men and minutes to advantage. Bryers gang put up the best chow hall on the island in a week. William's waterworks, Gatlin's garage, and Fielder's framers were operating just as quickly. Gradually we acquired cement decks and frames for all tents. Electricians were on the ball. Movies for the night crews were shown in the chapel. Spearhead theater drew good USO shows. Hell, man, why gripe?

From the standpoint of those who went on to Japan for even part of the winter, life at Iwo Jima was not too bad after all — after all the work was done, that is. Granted there were first the Japanese and then the Army, with a few air raids thrown in, that just kept life from getting too monotonous. Storm warnings often caused us to batten down the tents, and, while torrents of rain dropped, typhoon proportions were never quite reached. The terrific heat of a summer sun beating down on the tents where night crews were trying to sleep was more of a problem, licked in part by those who were able to toggle up some kind of tent fly — or false roof.

Individual initiative, which suffers a lot in time of war, found its outlet though. Inside no two tents were alike. The taste in pinups varied from the Varga creations to the more meaningful pictures from home. Chairs, benches, tables, lockers for clothes or personal items were different, ingenious, useful.


Top ranking social event in official circles was the visit of Boss Seabee, Vice Admiral Morrell, Rear Admirals Cotter, Manning and Captain Needham on tour of Iwo. Entertained at camp were all island CEC officers, and top Army and Navy braid, who saw the Admiral piped aboard with complete formal ceremony. After banqueting, Admiral Morrell in brief general remarks expressed satisfaction and pride in the quality and extent of Seabee work on Iwo, and guessed the future aloud. Within two hours Japan offered peace.

Most noted visitor on the USO circuit was Gene Autry and his star entertainer Rufe Davis. No, Autry's beautiful horse did not come, 4-F. The beauty he did bring was very nice though. Yet, the Okies took the show easily. Pig squealing, whistling, snorting, Rufe Davis, imitator, was season's best.


There was a fad a few years ago in the United States of buying ant colonies housed in boxes with glass sides. Where the Japanese in the jungled South Pacific reminded our troops of tree-swinging monkeys they appeared to us much like these exhibition ants. All of Iwo was their hill and it was full of subterranean passages and caves and stored supplies as any other ant hill. Some of these were enlarged from natural openings, but some were hand-hewn with crude instruments. The result was a tremendous system of interconnecting hideaways, or rather many such systems as later maps show. Many entrances and most vents were cleverly camouflaged, and small notches served harassing snipers well.

Hill No. 362 was the high point of the broad part of the island. Located at the south end of what is now the third airstrip, it was a deadly Marine objective. When taken it served as a radar site. Its jutting promontory housed a great cave system in which our buddy Whitey Kneer gave up his life. Several months later his body was recovered and buried in the cemetery of the Fourth Marine Division. Whitey was a Golden Gloves boxing champion in California and had just bought a brand new car when he enlisted. He left his car with his fiancee and planned to wed as soon as he came home.


The ten thousand foot airstrip which the Seabees of the 41st Naval Construction Regiment (a Regiment is composed of several Battalions) left as their mark on the center of Iwo Jima is the longest in all of the Pacific — some say the longest military airstrip in the world. In contrast to the second airstrip which the Japanese had there and formed but a small part of our own one wonders how in the world they ever expected to win the war — so pitifully inadequate were their tools to do so.

Those who surrendered after weeks of anthill life were speechlessly amazed at what been wrought. The hills had been levelled and the ravines had been filled for more than a four mile stretch to permit the laying of two parallel strips, only one of which had been paved to comprise the second airfield. Except for "farming out" equipment and operators, this job was not primarily ours. We just helped with crushed rock and lit it. But we did do the same kind of work in building the taxiways and airstrips between No. 2 and No. 3. It is enough to say, "third verse, same as first." — Same old story!


Moments of great dramatic intensity are seldom recorded and yet now and then such a scene is captured and becomes the common property of the citizenry — a thing of power and appeal to tug the heart-strings and to fire imaginations. This happened on Iwo Jima. When our Stars and Stripes were first planted on top of old Mount Suribachi, Associated Press photographer Joseph Rosenthal set that moment down on film and soon that scene was known all over our nation. But even as the Treasury made it the touchstone of its bond drive, and the Post Office brought out a commemorative stamp of the occasion, the flag had left Suribachi for the Island Command Post. Then late in summer Brigadier General Hopkins, upon assuming command of the island, took steps to restore the flag to the pinnacle of its first success on Iwo.

Inscribed on either side of the bronze plaque depicting the original flag-raising are these words: "Among the Americans who served on Iwo Jima, uncommon valor was a common virtue." — Nimitz. Dedicated to those who fought here by the Island Command AGF. Erected by the 31st USNCB. Old Glory was raised on this site 23 February 1945 by members of the Second Battalion, 28th Regiment, Fifth Marine Division.


Old Mount Suribachi in the distance now stands sentinel over the resting place of many who, subduing her, taught her to wave proudly the flag of the United States. More than two thousand men now lie buried in the cemetery of the Fifth Marine Division, which is laid out in the shape of a cross. Among them are Clyde Victor Reaves and Thomas Grove. Men are usually inarticulate when their sentiments are deep. They can only try to show how they feel by fashioning some memorial symbol. Our effort is shown on either side of the flagpole here and the one on top of Mount Suribachi. The bronze plaques and emblems were cast out of salvaged metal left in Iwo's wreckage, using a handmade forge. The tribute and bas-relief of the Suribachi flag-raising were cast in bronze and mounted on the memorial stones. Resting place of Albert Meeker, Larry Schueler, and Lloyd "Whitey" Kneer is the Fourth Marine Cemetery.

The memorial was designed by J. B. Fraser (one of my friends). On either side of the flagpole in the cemetery are three cement benches set in a circle. In the center of the right circle stands the stone of polished cement. It is like a pyramid with the top cut off to leave the surface of an inclined plane. In this is set the bronze tablet of tribute. On three sides are bronze Marine Corps emblems, while into the front side is set a reproduction of the famous flag-raising scene. Silently it carries our sentiments. It has been said that during the height of the battle we had a serviceman for every square foot on the island.


As it happens this page is being written on December 7, 1945, four years after Pearl Harbor was treacherously attacked by the Japanese. It is being written in Japan, in every important corner of which are to be found the occupational forces of the U.S. In the wake of this war, there are now going on trials in Manila, Tokyo, and Nurenberg to determine the war guilt of the many military and civil leaders of the axis forces, and to mete out punishment which cannot hope to be in proportion to the consequences of their acts. In Washington, Congressional investigations are in progress to assess the degree of responsibility of our own military and governmental leaders for the unpreparedness which greeted the Pearl Harbor attack.

Particular men will likely be judged for their individual errors of judgment, command, and diplomacy. But the sense of the share of responsibility which rightfully belongs to all of our American people may have been forgotten in the flush of victory. Four years ago we believed we could live apart from the rest of the world, relying upon our vast economic resources. Believing this, we were not ourselves prepared for Pearl Harbor. We were like a man living in a cyclone belt but refusing to build himself the protection of a cellar or to plan ahead for the possibility of his own destitution.

Now, there is going on in the councils of all Allied and friendly nations not only an earnest planning for that possibility but also a great effort so to reconstruct our international relationships that such a destitution may be diverted. There are two rocks with which this effort must contend and upon which it may founder: the pressure of national and economic self-interests, and our own indifference. So long as we refuse to consider what is good for mankind, just so long do we condemn our next generations to die in the civil warfare of mankind divided.

It can be told now that this Battalion was definitely scheduled for the invasion of Japan (target Sasebo). It is often the reward of doing a good job that you are expected to do another just as well. Knowing this, you may be sure the only tears shed on this V-J Day among us were tears of joy. We had been through one invasion, it ranked with the toughest, and as a unit, we had been doggoned lucky. The loss or the injury of the men to whom this book is dedicated can never be recompensed. We can only be thankful there were not many more from our numbers to join them. Had we been obliged to share in the original plan, it is certain according to the law of averages that some of you would have joined Reaves and Grove and Schueler and Meeker and Kneer. And to others would have fallen the lot of Jobe, Steed, Roddy, Bobbitt, Massey, Fry, Boles, Massa, and Lynn. Remember this when you see a "Gold Star" home, and whenever a wounded veteran requires the had and the understanding of a brother.

As it was, we did not have to judge the terrain of these islands with a military eye: whether it would be hard to take, where to set up command posts, how best to transport supplies, what natural defense and foxhole facilities there were.

Except that it was not home, we could lift up our eyes unto the hills and delight them with the view of magnificent mountains. We could give more than a speculative fisherman's glance at the bays and inlets and rivers. We could see nature's incessant effort to lend beauty to squalor in the roses and little chrysanthemums that still bloomed when we arrived. And we could declare field day for our repressed, human curiosity about strange people, strange places, strange customs.

We found ourselves in a land that was densely crowded, among a people whose living standards could hardly come up even to the worst America has to offer. There seemed to be few in any middle class. A few were well-off. The rest we would call destitute. Wherever there were servicemen, curious children gathered in droves to beg chocolate, cigarettes, chewing gum when they needed more than anything stockings for their bare feet and handkerchiefs for their runny noses. It not appear that Japan was bothered with a declining birth rate so much as with the problem of keeping alive and healthy the people they had. Their effort to conquer must have intensified this problem to no end. But the grizzled, weather-beaten farmers and their crones and kids worked at it with the crudest of implements, laboriously. The shopkeepers did their best to garner the spending money of willing, souvenir-hunting Americanos. And the populace in general, who may very well have wanted no war and certainly wanted no defeat, bowed like bobbing dolls and smilingly offered the ingratiating cup of ceremonial tea (or sake) to the occupational forces of a people whom, four years earlier, they had hoped to defeat.

THE HUNDRED DAY JOB on Iwo Jima ran to almost eight months. But moving day finally came, and even as frosty gales emanating from the V-J pressure area were blowing other battalions into history we made one of quickest exits from that place it has ever seen. Most of our gear had been loaded on the "Benjamin Waterhouse," and a detail was left to finish the job and to accompany it on its meandering until it should join us again.

The rest of us mustered the morning of 16 October 1945 to be carried by truck to White Beach where LCT's stood by to taxi us to the waiting USS Guilford. "Good-bye, Iwo, we're going to Japan." With their usual military gear on their backs, 31st'ers leisurely clambered up chain ladders. Some 400 31st'ers had headed Stateside from Iwo (including me). Their places had been taken by men from the 133rd, 162nd, 95th, and 106th CB's, 1078th CBD, and drafts from Pearl Harbor.

Eager Beaver was the photographer who hurried to get a picture of the first Iwo Bee aboard the APA. Guess he did not count himself. It was the same as any other Navy transport. Previous troop passengers had walked off with the library, so there was nothing to read. The chow wasn't bad, and the ventilation in the holds where the bunks tiered four and five high was better than usual. A welcome change from wartime travel was the absence of dusk's "Darken Ship," the reduced number of drills, and the evening movies.

Silent guns aboard ship were nevertheless kept ready as part of routine Navy practice. Their main function on a peacetime trip was to provide a bit of shade and a vantage post for listless staring at the sea.

Just passing time was a major occupation of the troops aboard the whole trip. Here and there you could find a game of cribbage, checkers or chess in progress. Now and then a man fortunate enough to have a magazine made himself comfortable in some awkward spot and lost himself in reading. But most popular were bull sessions and card games — almost any kind — which were interrupted only by the twice-daily "swab down" on deck. The voyage was so smooth that some veterans in the art of seasickness were surprised to find time on their hands too.


And what a reception! (A few months earlier we had expected to be landing with guns blazing!) Upon arrival in Sasebo Harbor we proceeded to spend a day and a half of uncertainty before debarking began. The Guilford crew, anxious to join the "Magic Carpet" shuttle service to the States, gladdened to see its load of 'Bees spewed out by the LCT loads. And the 'Bees too were anxious to get ashore to the Promised Land, and to those cement barracks. But at the other end of that brief cruise through Omura Bay and its whirlpool entrance there awaited a couple of cavernous, well-strafed hangers — and lots of work.

Men arrived in advance of sleeping bags or field ranges, and in greater numbers that they had cots available. The more fortunate of the cotless found supply racks on which to shelve their sacks. Others spent a night or two on the floor until the situation unsnarled. A sizeable draft of ill-equipped "boots" arrived in the dead of night without so much as a mess gear in their possession. But so long as the chow was "C" and "K" rations, without coffee, that made little difference. When the ranges were broken out, the food got hot. Later on it got better. As more men appeared, usually after dark, we outgrew the one hanger and spread into our Marine hosts' movie area.

Wreckage galore, drew many volunteer parties over the rambling base to inspect the ruins. Omura had been not only an air base but also the largest plane-assembly plants in Japan. Naked steel framework and shot-up Japanese planes of many types remained to tell the story. One of their new torpedo bombers, "Grace," never used in combat, was among them. The job of policing the hangers soon began.

The work of preparing the new camp site for occupancy was soon under way. The buildings were as spacious as college dormitories. They were all frame structures: some were simply made a little warmer by a cement-plaster on the outside. Inside on the top deck most of the barracks had no ceiling. Rafter ventilation was very effective, helped by the absence of windows until they were repaired.

Old Glory was raised over the camp for the first time on 5 November 1945. Camp had once been a Japanese Army Training Center. The former occupants had left behind their bedding platforms and lots of fleas and lice. These barracks were divided into rooms about 18 x 20 feet separated from the center aisle only by partitions extending a third of the way up. Each room had a center aisle with platforms 18 inches high on either side. The Japanese soldier just threw his pad on the shelf and slept there.

A passion for sanitation possessed us — along with some fleas. Jeep trailers full of soapy water were hauled to whatever building was under attack for a thorough swabbing. The sanitation crew followed with their penetrating DDT spray to spell certain death to the vermin. The flea-bitten clean-up crews who fled the barracks stripped naked for an insect powder job of their own.

Some of the outside work was done by Japanese labor. Those under the charge of WO/ Sinner and "Mo" Hair believed in giants. The dismantling of unsavory Japanese "heads" was carried on by Japanese labor, along with other similar jobs. By the time the chow hall and galley was set up, and the laundry and showers put in, the place began to show promise of being as good as the next camp on Kyushu.


There we unloaded. Through it our supplies trickled in. From it our High Point men left for that far off foreign land — Amereeko. To Japan it was one of her most important Naval Bases, especially for submarine activity. The target of repeated bombings, the Sub Base was badly crippled. Dock side cranes escaped damage, fortunately for us, and were used at our Navy's boat basin, and for unloading supplies.

Bombing also made shambles of central portions of the town near the Japanese Base, levelling much of the area, and gutting sturdier-built public buildings. Occupying forces based there cleared much of the rubble to set up supply dumps.

Communication lines — rail and wire — were operating as though nothing had ever hit them by the time we got there. Railroads were interesting, old-fashioned, narrow-gauge affairs, which did a better job than some we've known at keeping on schedule. A visit at the depot convinced you that all of Japan was going somewhere. Actually the fewness of cars forced crowding to equal New York's subways at 5 P.M.


From our ship in the harbor we could see a church steeple of familiar architecture crowned with a Cross towering over downtown Sasebo. It reminded you that Christianity had once been here, and made you wonder what had happened to it. Christian communities still remained, but the old problem which has plagued all Christians of reconciling the calls of Church and the Demands of State were with them. As in America, this war produced not many martyrs among the Christians of Japan.

Bombs respected neither man nor creed. The places of worship were as apt as not to be demolished. Some narrowly escaped it. Kyushu is said to be the stronghold of Catholicism in Japan, but there are no few Protestant groups too. Christianity remains a decided minority among the Japanese, with Buddhism and Shintoism claiming about equal strength, each fifty times stronger than Christianity.

Gateways are typical entrances to the Shinto shrines where the Imperial ancestors of some of the 8,000,000 Nature gods are reverenced. Inside the entrance one may expect to find statues of their gods. Of central importance in the religious scheme of a land whose main diet is rice, is the god of cereals — Inari — who is in the center of the altar. To the left is the god of war, and to the right is the god of air. (At least that is what we are told.)

Buddhism contrasts with Shintoism. Where the latter is simple in its architecture and worship, it inclines to ornate temples and more complicated philosophical thought. While more conservative Shintoism presents a pull toward the past, Buddhism, on the other hand is more apt to encourage progress among its followers. Strangely there are many who go both to temple and shrine to worship. What seems to us to be contradictory does not bother the Japanese. Most cemeteries are crowded.

It is quite ordinary to find babies strapped on the backs of sisters or brothers not much older than they. Mothers at work in home or field carry their youngsters in the same way. The birth rate being what it is, this often represents a double burden. American mamas would have a fit to see the head of a sleeping baby lopped over at right angles to his upright body.


We are told that they had an occasional modern city. We know they had some good public buildings and excellent factories. But the average man benefitted little from this, or the woman either who was pulling a crude plow in the field. Rickety carts were useful as chopsticks and twice as modern.

The story of rice is the story of Japan. Rice is the basic article of diet. From its straws are made thatched roofs, floor mats, sandals, baskets, and rope. From its grain come cereal, flour, and potent sake. More than half of her people wrest their living from Japan's soil. More than half of her crops are harvests of rice. These scenes are common wherever it may be grown: the crude plowing of the stubbled land, the back breaking gathering of the crop, the rows of hand-tiered sheaves drying on their bamboo horses. The terraced paddies of vale and hill yield rice to feed Japan . . . while fish are gathered in from river and sea to add to her simple fare.

Stateside farmers who consider forty acres and a mule a pretty modest request certainly would have their eyes opened here. He who has more than a couple of acres in Japan is indeed well-fixed. The evidence of security is subtly advertised by the appearance of black tile roofs on his sheds and house instead of thatching. Another indication of prosperity is the possession of an ox and plow to turn the clods for next year's crop instead of doing it by hand. The rice is thrashed either by flailing it or by a treadle-operated beater; then the chaff is gleaned and the grain dried on mats laid in the sun.



They who wanted a scrap got scrap — the hard way. Or, say the Japanese with gesticulation and facial pantomime to match, "Nagasaki — Poof!" That is all you can say about the extensive area of the once-important port and center of industry which was levelled by the atomic bomb. While the zone of damage is great enough in itself, and is appalling, it is almost impossible to grasp the idea that this was the work of one small bomb exploded hundreds of feet in the air. On the edges of the zone a few structures stood in a halfhearted way, badly broken and freakish exceptions for some unexplained reason, stuck out like sore thumbs. In general round and cylindrical objects had a better chance of survival. Parts of a hospital and medical college built of reinforced concrete remain windowless. There has been no release on how those inside fared, or whether the place may be used again. Here and there a family has built itself a humble shack in the midst of the rubble. Mankind has, indeed, found a way to destroy itself. Now must it find the spirit which is the condition of its survival.


7 December 1941 — Japan bombed Pearl Harbor.

5 June 1944 — D-Day in Europe. Allied Forces landed on the coast of France

19 February 1945 — Start invasion of Iwo Jima

June 1945 — Germany surrenders.

8 August 1945 — Japan surrenders.

4 November 1945 — Date of Separation from military service.

5 December 1945 — Clinton Haggard returned to Rhode Island, for his third

meeting with a "Rhode Island head from Pawtucket." (Name of a song of local interest.) They announced their engagement on Christmas eve.

29 June 1946 — Married the girl of his dreams, Dorothy M. Allen.

5 March 1994 — Davisville Seabee base closed.


TOKYO (AP) — 1 August 1949 — Nearly four years after American troops took the island, two Japanese machine gunners surrendered Thursday on Iwo Jima, the Army announced today. They were clean and well-fed. Each had a recent haircut. They were wearing warm American uniforms, including fatigue sweaters and GI shoes. They lived on food stolen from the Americans, and canned what they didn't eat up. They were sent to Guam for interrogation before being repatriated.


TOKYO (AP) — 25 March 1968 — The Stars and Stripes no longer flies over Mount Suribachi on the island battlefield of Iwo Jima, a spokesman from the U.S. Embassy in Tokyo reported today. For years Suribachi was one of the few places in the world flew 24 hours a day instead from dawn to sunset. A photograph by Associated Press photographer Joe Rosenthal of the flag-raising on Suribachi by U.S. Marines at the height of the battle for Iwo Jima in 1945 was one of the most memorable to come out of World War II.

Last week a small group of Marines from Honolulu lowered the flag on Suribachi "Quietly without much ceremony." A bronze replica of the flag was placed at the site. The spokesman said he had no other details.

Iwo Jima was the site of the bloodiest battlefields in the Pacific fighting. The invading Marines lost 5,895 men and soldiers and sailors who died there raised the toll to 6,821. The Japanese lost 19,000 men.

Iwo is one of the Volcano Islands which along with the Bonins are to be restored to Japanese rule later this year. Since the war, the Volcanos and Bonins have been under American administration. Recently there has been discussion that the Japanese might object to the American flag flying over their territory when the island is restored.


Since 1942, the Base has Housed More Than 100,000

Seabees Who Were Trained as Fighters and Builders


Journal-Bulletin Staff Writer

NORTH KINGSTOWN — Saturday, March 26, 1994 — The Davisville Seabee center, home of the giant Seabee mascot and birthplace of the Quonset Hut, shut its gates yesterday after a 52-year Navy presence in the town. With the clang of a brass ship's bell and the last entry signed in the base log book, the Naval Construction Battalion was officially disestablished in a ceremony laden with Navy traditions and a few tears.

A crowd of 450 former Seabees, civilian workers and their families gathered in a steady drizzle and afterward gathered in a packed reception hall to greet co-workers who still cite the "We Build, We Fight" Seabee motto with pride. "This ls like burying a good friend," said East Greenwich resident Peggy Forman, a retired Davisville clerk-typist. Her husband and son were Seabees.

"They went the wrong direction when they closed this base," said her husband John Forman, who drove the couple's mobile home to yesterday's closing ceremony. Its license plate reads SEABEE.


The base officially closes on April 1. The Navy is expected to turn over most of the 900-acre base to the State Port Authority, which wants to use 500 acres as an industrial park. The park would be linked to industrial land in neighboring Quonset Point, a naval air station closed in 1974. The rest of the Davisville base would be managed by North Kingstown and the Narragansett Indian tribe for recreational use or open space.

The Seabee base at Davisville was founded in February 1942 as the world's first Navy Construction Unit. Over its life, the base housed more than 100,000 Seabees who were trained as fughters and builders. Davisville Seabees served during World War II, Korea, Viet Nam, and in the Persian gulf.

Besides shipping equipment and building bases overseas, the Seabees built the first Quonset Hut and pontoon landing strips. The base was also the home of the Seabee mascot, a Tommy gun-and-tool-toting bee which stands guard at the base entrance. Mascot inventor Frank J. Iafrate attended yesterday's ceremony.

"It's pretty incredible what has been going on here for many years," said Rear Adm. Jack E. Buffington, commander of the Naval Facilities Engineering Command, which overseas all seabee bases. "All you people played a tremendous role in history," Buffington said. "I can't say enough good things about you."

As a Seabee bugler sounded out taps, the U.S. flag in front of the base administration building was lowered, folded and given to Governor Sundlun. "Just as the side-by-side Davisville and Quonset bases played a key role in military victories worldwide," Sundlun said, "the land will now become the key to Rhode Island's economic victories."

Cmdr. Robert P. Buchholz, the last of 21 commanding officers at Davisville, bade the seabees an emotional farewell. "Davisville will live on in the hearts of many, many thousands of people who lived here and outside these gates," said Buchholz, his voice wavering. "Therir work and dedication have been strength and inspiration to me."

Commander Buchholz and his family will move to San Francisco, where he will become the second-highest ranking officer in the Navy's engineering command on the West Coast. Since Davisville was put on the base closure list in 1991, the Seabee center has retired or transferred 122 civilian workers and eight military officers.

——— 30 ———

David Allen Haggard, H11823222831, adopted son of Clinton Ralph and Dorothy May (Allen) Haggard, was born 18 December 1952, Newport Naval Hospital, Newport, RI, adopted 28 April 1953, married 28 April 1974, Smithfield Avenue UCC, Pawtucket, RI, Kimberly Cullen, divorced, September 1994. Married 22 April 1978, Smithfield Avenue UCC, Pawtucket, RI, Judith Leslie Keenan, born 21 June 1953, Memorial Hospital, Pawtucket, RI, daughter of John Edward and Agnes Loretta (Toher) Keenan. They have two children:

1. Kristine Anne Haggard, born 15 Jan. 1979, Women & Infants Hospital, Providence, RI.

2. Jonathan Keenan Haggard, born 5 December 1980, Women & Infants Hospital, RI.

David divorced September 1996, married 15 December 1996, Canton, NY, Mary Elizabeth (Betsy) Darrow.

1. Alexander (Alex) Darrow, (step son).


Joseph Leo Keenan, K, born ca. 1885, married ca. 1907, Pawtucket, Providence, R.I., Mary Louise Murphy, born ca. 1887, and had a son:

1. John Edward Keenan, K1, born 5 December 1910, Pawtucket, Providence, R.I., died 2 October 1965, married 18 November 1950, St. Mary's Church, Pawtucket, R.I., Agnes Loretta Toher, born 16 April 1921, daughter of Joseph Aloyosis and Margaret Frances (Flood) Toher. They had three children:

1.John Edward Keenan, Jr., born 29 September 1951, Pawtucket, Providence, R.I., married 9 May 1981, Greer, Greenville, S.S., Ruth Virginia Gest. They have three children:

1. Virginia Ruth Keenan, born 29 December 1983, Greenville, SC.

2. John Edward Keenan, III, born 15 February 1985, Greenville, SC.

3. Robert Keenan, born 1989, Nashville, Davidson, TN.

2. Judith Leslie Keenan, K2, born 21 June 1953, Pawtucket, Providence, R.I., married 22 April 1978, Smithfield Avenue UCC, Pawtucket, RI, David Allen Haggard, son of Clinton Ralph and Dorothy May (Allen) Haggard, born 18 December 1952, Newport Naval Hospital, Newport, RI, and has two children. (See H11823222831).

3. Robin Louise Keenan, K3, born 29 July 1955, Pawtucket, Providence, R.I., married 17 May 1980, Mary Mother of Mankind Church, North Providence, R.I., William A. Heaton, and has a son:

1. William John Heaton, born 18 June 1984, Warwick, Kent, R.I.


James Toher, T, was born ca. 1844, Cavan County, Ireland, married 1866, Mary Ann McGirr, born ca. 1846, Mayo County, Ireland. They had ten children:

1. Mary Toher, T1, born ca. 1867, Cavan County, Ireland.

2. James Toher, T2, born ca. 1869, Cavan County, Ireland.

3. Ferrell Toher, T3, born ca. 1871, Pawtucket, Providence, R.I.

4. Thomas Toher, T4, born ca. 1873, Pawtucket, Providence, R.I.

5. Agnes Toher, T5, born ca. 1875, Pawtucket, Providence, R.I.

6. Helen Toher, T6, born ca. 1877, Pawtucket, Providence, R.I.

7. Margaret Toher, T7, born ca. 1879, Pawtucket, Providence, R.I.

8. Joseph Aloyosis Toher, T8, born 19 March 1881, Pawtucket, R.I.

9. Sarah Toher, T9, born ca. 1883, Pawtucket, Providence, R.I.

10. Eugene Toher, TA, born ca. 1885, Pawtucket, Providence, R.I.

Joseph Aloyosis Toher, T8, son of James and Mary Ann (McGirr) Toher, was born 19 March 1881, Pawtucket, Providence, R.I., died 17 October 1971, married 29 July 1912, Margaret Frances Flood, born 1 June 1882, Woonsocket, Providence, R.I., daughter of John Francis and Julia (Nolan) Flood. They had seven children:

1. John Grattan Toher, T81, born 24 May 1913, Pawtucket, R.I.

2. Rita Francis Toher, T82, born 19 Sept. 1914, Pawtucket, Providence, R.I., died 1930.

3. Raymond Joseph Toher, T83, born 23 January 1917, Pawtucket, R.I.

4. Joseph Ferrell Toher, T84, born 17 May 1919, Pawtucket, R.I.

5. Agnes Loretta Toher, T85, born 16 April 1921, Pawtucket, Providence, R.I., married 18 November 1950, John Edward Keenan, and had three children. (See K1)

6. James Edmund Toher, T86, born 3 November 1924, Pawtucket, R.I.

7. Margaret Francis Toher, T87, born 9 February 1927, Pawtucket, R.I.

John Francis Flood, born ca. 1857, Blackstone, Norfolk, MA, married ca. 1879, Julia Nolan, born ca. 1859, and had a daughter (may be others):

1. Margaret Frances Flood, born 1 June 1882, Woonsocket, R.I.


Jusaku Hayashi, H, born 26 November 1865, died 26 January 1928, married ca. 1887, Mitsu Kobayashi, born ca. 1872, daughter of Sohgoro Kobayashi. They had a son:

1. Mitsuki Hayashi, H1, born 1 December 1897, Tokyo, Japan.

Matsuki Hayashi, H1, son of Jusaku and Mitsu (Kobayashi) Hayashi, was born 1 December 1897, Tokyo, Japan, married 1 December 1926, Fuku Fukuya Fukishima, born 6 March 1903, died 7 October 1943, daughter of Chojira Fukushima, and had four sons:

  1. Hiroshi Hayashi, born ca. 1927, Niigata, Japan, married ? has two daughters.
  2. Nisiki Hayashi, H11, born 12 March 1929, Niigata, Japan.
  3. Yoshifusa Hayashi, born ca. 1935, Niigata, Japan, married ca. 1960, Hiroko ?, and has two daughters: Fumica Hayashi, ca. 1967; and Nobuko Hayashi, ca. 1969.

  1. Fumica Hayashi married ca. 1990 and has two daughters
  2. Nobuko Hayashi married December 1995


Nisiki Hayashi, H11, son of Matsuki and Fuku Fukuya (Fukushima) Hayashi, was born 12 March 1929, Niigata, Japan, married 21 March 1952, Tokyo, Japan, Chikako (Oba) Nomura, born 7 March 1927, Tokyo, Japan, and had two children:

1. Fujio Hayashi, H111, born 12 January 1954, Niigata, Japan.

2. Kay Keiko Hayashi, H112, born 10 January 1965, Mountain View, Alameda, CA, married Kent Makishi, of Honolulu, HI.

  1. Robert Makishi
  2. Andrew Makishi
  3. Jason Makishi

Fujio Hayashi, H111, son of Nisiki and Chicako (Oba) Nomora, was born 12 January 1954, Niigata, Japan, married in a Christian Ceremony 21 August 1976, Smithfield Avenue UCC, Pawtucket, R.I., and in a Shinto Ceremony at the Ramada Inn, Seekonk, MA, Susan Eleanor Haggard, born 21 July 1954, Roger Williams General Hospital, Providence, RI, daughter of Clinton Ralph and Dorothy May (Allen) Haggard, and has three sons:

1. Stephen Tomio Hayashi, born 28 October 1980, Parma, Cuyahoga, OH.

2. Alan Kenji Hayashi, born 4 May 1984, Tokyo, Japan.

3. Brian Makio Hayashi, born 21 May 1992, Vestal, Broome, NY.

Ichizo Oba, O, son on Gonzo Oba, was born ca. 1876, Tokyo, Japan, married ca. 1904, Ei Kitakuni, born ca. 1878, daughter of Kohkichi and Chika (?) Kitakuni. They had two children:

1. Kaoru Ohba, O11, born ca. 1905, Tokyo, Japan.

2. Kimi Ohba, O12, born 15 January 1908, Tokyo, Japan.

Kaoru Oba, O11, son of Ichizo and Ei (Kitakuni) Oba, was born 1905, Tokyo, Japan, married ca. 1925, Toshi Inagi, and had two children:

1. Chikako Oba, born 7 March 1927, Tokyo, Japan.

2. Son Oba, born ca. 1929, Tokyo, Japan.

Following the death of Toshi Inagi, their children were adopted by his brother-in-law and sister, Akinobu Ienobu and Kimi (Oba) Nomura.

Kimi Ohba, O12, born 15 January 1908, Tokyo, Japan, married 4 July 1927, Akinobu Ienobu Nomura, born 3 May 1903, died ca. 1983, Tokyo, Japan. They had no children of their own but adopted her brother's children:

1. Chikako (Oba) Nomura, O121, born 7 March 1927, Tokyo, Japan.

2. Son Oba, born ca. 1929, Tokyo, Japan.

Chikako (Oba) Nomura, O121, daughter of Kaoru and Toshi (Inagi) Oba, and adopted daughter of Akinobu Ienobu and Kimi (Oba) Nomura, was born 7 March 1927, Tokyo, Japan, married 21 March 1952, Tokyo, Japan, Nisiki Hayashi, H11, son of Matsuki and Fuku Fukuya (Fukushima) Hayashi.



by Lillian (Allen) Reynolds

Theo Harding, DD, was born in Baseonton, Devonshire, England; died 16 September 1592, Church of St. Gertrude Louvan. He was married about 1536 and had a son:

1. Fitz Harding, born about 1537/42.

Fitz Harding, H, son of Theo Harding, was born about 1537/42, Combmartin, Devonshire, England; married about 1566, and had at least two sons:

1. John Harding, H1, born in 1567, Northampton, England.

2. William Harding, born about 1569.

John Harding, H1, son of Fitz Harding, was born in 1567, Combmartin, Devonshire, England; died 14 January 1637, Northampton, England; married about 1589 and had six children:

1. Richard Harding, H11, born about 1592, Northampton, England; migrated to America in 1623; married about 1630, Plymouth, MA, Elizabeth Adams.

2. Amos Harding, born about 1594.

3. John Harding, born about 1596, married Mary ?

4. Lemuel Harding, born about 1598.

5. Joseph Harding, H15, born about 1600.

6. Oliver Harding, born about 1602.

Joseph Harding, H15, son of John Harding, was born about 1600, Northampton, England, and migrated to America in 1623; died about 1630, Plymouth, MA; married about 1624, Martha Doane, born about 1602 in England; died in 1633, Plymouth, MA. They had two children:

1. John Harding, born about 1625, MA, married ca. 1647, Mary Hurst.

2. Joseph Harding, H152, born about 1629, Plymouth, MA.

Joseph Harding, H152, son of Joseph and Martha (Doane) Harding, was born about 1629, Plymouth, MA; married about 1651, Bethiah Cook, born about 1631, daughter of Josiah Cook. They had six children:

1. Martha Harding, born 13 December 1662, Plymouth, MA.

2. Mary Harding, born 19 August 1665, Plymouth, MA.

3. Joseph Harding, born 8 July 1667, Plymouth, MA, married ca. 1689, Diannah Hedges.

4. Josiah Harding, born in 1669; died in 1756; married ca. 1691, Hannah Rogers.

5. Amaziah Harding, H1525, born 1 November 1671, Plymouth, MA.

6. John Harding, born 9 October 1673, Plymouth, MA.

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