The life of Gunnery Sergeant John Basilone has been a cultural touchstone for different American communities throughout World War II and after the advent of his fame. Even today, Marines and Italian-Americans alike view Basilone as someone who represents their own struggles and achievements. Through memorials, many of which are not generalized to apply to a broader swath of people but are very specific to Basilone himself, these communities, and American society as a whole engage with Basilone's story and those he has come to represent.

John Basilone's story is one that sits at the crux of the American ideals of patriotism, heroism, and duty. Together, the Basilone memorials symbolize a hero from the creator's perspective – an American warrior, a distinctly Catholic, Italian-American Marine who went above and beyond the call of duty and became in some ways representative of all Marines and Italian-Americans because of it.

Born to Italian immigrants in 1916, as one of ten children, John enlisted in the Army in 1936 and served until 1939. He then enlisted in the Marines and was made a machine gunner with the 1st Battalion, 5th Marines. Along with his buddies, he shipped off to Guadalcanal. It was there that Basilone pulled off the exploit that made him a celebrity overnight.

During a night attack by the Japanese 2nd Division in October of 1942, Basilone took charge of a small band of troops and held a portion of the Marine line with his machine gun in hand. He ran through the jungle for ammunition, repaired his men's jammed guns, and transported the hot, heavy machine guns in his squad to where they would be most effective. Though many accounts – some fanciful and embellished – exist of that night, they all agree on one thing: with uncommon bravery and calm, John Basilone and his men held off a steady assault of Japanese troops despite the darkness, dwindling supplies, ammunition, and men.

Though most memorials made in Basilone's honor are specific to his heroism that night on Guadalcanal, his story does not end there. In his book 'Hero of the Pacific: The Life of Marine Legend, John Basilone', war correspondent, and Marine James Brady describes how John was
"ordered to the States as an officially anointed hero" only to journey with other contemporary celebrities groomed to be "traveling salesmen assigned to show the flag, boost morale, and sell war bonds."

John was endearing to the American public. More so, he was a fighting man at heart – he wanted to be "back with his buddies," serving on the battlefield as was his purpose when he enlisted. This desire to be with his comrades – one understood by his new bride, fellow Marine Sgt. Lena Riggi – prompted John to leave his celebrity life behind and return to
battle. John Basilone lost his life on February 19, 1945. The first day of fighting at Iwo Jima. He was posthumously awarded the Navy Cross for his heroism in leading the charge against a Japanese fortification that had kept American troops pinned on the beach.

Basilone's valor and heroism during the war have since been the impetus for creating numerous memorials erected in his name that only serve to solidify the idea of the heroism he embodied. Among these memorials are bridges, school buildings, a statue in his hometown, a road in Italy, an
official stamp by the USPS, two battleships, and an obstacle course at the Marine Corps Recruit Depot in San Diego.

Tributes continue to be made to honor him as recently as January 2020, when the keel was laid for the USS John Basilone. Additionally, each September, the John Basilone memorial day parade runs through his hometown of Raritan, New Jersey. Why is John Basilone, a Gunnery Sergeant in World War II, a figure whose experiences are still relevant and compelling to warrant continuous memorialization throughout the near century after his death? Why is the myth of John Basilone still held so dearly after all these years?

Marine Corps war correspondent Cyril O'Brien said of the hero, "'Basilone is someone you can hang your ribbon on because he was so outstanding, but you're really talking about the people beside him as well." Basilone himself made sure that everyone knew that "Only part of the medal belongs to me; pieces of it belong to the boys who fought by my side on Guadalcanal." Once the Medal of Honor hung upon his uniform, Basilone represented the heroism of every Marine – those who served before him, those who served with him, and those who served after him.

In this same way, Italian-American communities memorialize John Basilone to recall the struggles and triumphs of Italian immigrants and their descendants throughout American history. Again, Basilone
personifies the best of the best – a son of immigrants, undeniably a patriot and hero in a time when it was doubtful Italian-Americans, particularly those who were devout Catholics, could be either. As Michael Frontani writes in his essay "Becoming American," "The image Basilone presented, inseparable from the American values underpinning its construction, challenged prevalent perceptions about Italian-Americans as
dysfunctional, foreign, and often criminal."

The statue that stands in the middle of Raritan, New Jersey's Veterans Park, serves as a reminder of all John Basilone's image and figure came to epitomize during his life and in the years after his death. Unveiled on Raritan's Basilone Day in 1948, the statue is no minimalistic, generalized representation of a war hero. A rugged, virile Basilone stands tall with his machine gun cradled in his too-big hands, reminiscent of Michelangelo's David, indicative of the larger-than-life status Basilone took on after that night on Guadalcanal. His curly hair and defined features, modeled after photographs of Basilone, give him a decidedly Stallone-like quality.
A crucifix and dog tags rest on his bare chest. The significance of this
statue is twofold: first, it delivers the clear message that Americans – be they Marines, Italians, both, or neither – celebrate men of action, bravery, and strength. Second, it delivers the message that these same Americans, spread across diverse communities, come together to celebrate a
distinctly Catholic, Italian-American Marine.

The John Basilone memorials deftly combine official and vernacular memory: while upholding the idyllic American war hero, they also allow local communities, like those of the Marines and Italian-Americans,
to engage with their remembrances of lost comrades, individual struggles, and shared victories. And yet, in the case of Italian-Americans, the Basilone memorials also serve an additional purpose; while
encouraging respective communities to engage with their own
experiences, the Basilone memorials also encourage American society as a whole to accept and engage with a historically ostracized community and their culture.

Writing of the Life magazine spread of Basilone's homecoming in 1943, Fontani describes "the Basilone image, fully formed – an image intended not only to spur bond-buying and enlistment in the Marines and other services but also to place Italian-Americans squarely within
American culture and society." The memorials are representative of the traits and experiences that Marines and Italian-Americans hold dear and remain treasured within those communities. Still, they also represent those traits to American society as a whole. What is so significant about the Basilone memorials is that they represent the American ideals of heroism, bravery, patriotism, and sacrifice. They do so through the specific lens of the experiences of an Italian-American Marine.

In the story of John Basilone and the memorials that preserve it, Americans have a hero who embodies the triumphs of our best men and the joys of our most ordinary. He was, as James Brady describes him, "an authentic hero, the real goods. He was a warrior who fought with
an extraordinary courage and resolve... he would be rewarded by a nation with medals and gratitude." As John Basilone was rewarded in life, Americans still honor our debt to him for his story. Through the memorials dedicated to him, the story of John Basilone serves as a
valuable cornerstone for the preservation and sharing of American values. It allows American communities to celebrate and memorialize their own stories through the story of one hero.

(edited by Laura Bailey)

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It has been said we create memorials, so we never forget, and monuments so we always remember. The Bainbridge Island Japanese Exclusion Memorial provides its visitors a means of never forgetting the incomprehensible experiences of Japanese-Americans on the West Coast during World War II. It simultaneously recognizes the importance of remembering that citizens' freedom and rights are worth fighting for in America regardless of the foreign foe.

It is essential to examine the Bainbridge Island Japanese Exclusion Memorials history by focusing on the events leading to the Internment Decision, the Exclusion of the Japanese, and the impact on residents of Bainbridge Island. These factors influenced the desire to create the Memorial, its support, and the eventual design. It is a unique Northwest site of memory compared to other Japanese Memorials in the United States.

The attack on Pearl Harbor in December 1941 led to a nationwide anti-Japanese fervor in the United States that culminated in the Internment of over 120,000 Nikkei in several concentration camps inland of the West Coast. This act was legally sanctioned by Executive Order 9066.

Bainbridge Island, a small island eight miles from Seattle by boat, was an interracial rural community where 272 Japanese lived and worked in harmony with their neighbors. On March 30, 1942, given only six days advance notice, 227 residents of the island became the first Japanese-Americans to be removed from their homes. They were force-marched down the path leading to the Eagledale Ferry dock guarded by US soldiers, where they boarded the vessel for Seattle and an unknown destination. Eventually, 12,892 Washington residents found themselves relocated to concentration camps. Over time, the term for these camps has been softened to "internment camps" or "relocation camps" to avoid direct correlation with Holocaust concentration camps. Still, the phrase at the time was "concentration camps." Most of the Bainbridge Island Japanese would remain in camps until the end of the war, and many of the younger Nissei men would serve in the United States Army in Europe. Of the 272 Japanese-Americans who left Bainbridge Island, only 150 would eventually return. The injustice of incarcerating citizens for unfounded security fears would not bring an apology or reparations by the government until 1988.

Before their expulsion, Japanese-Americans had been an integral part of the Bainbridge Island community and were generally welcome in coming back. The Bainbridge Review, a local paper, was one of the only publications on the west coast that objected to the exclusion and reported updates on life in the camps. However, despite help from local friends who had remained, many had to start over when they returned to the island. The Bainbridge Island Japanese American Community (BIJAC) was founded after the war to assist those returning and new residents.
In 1988, directly after the passing of the Civil Liberties Act of 1988 by the United States Congress, the BIJAC partnered with the Bainbridge Island/North Kitsap Interfaith Council (Interface Council) to form the Bainbridge Island WWII Nikkei Internment and Exclusion Memorial Committee. This committee led fundraising efforts and partners with local politicians to receive federal funds for the project allowing it to proceed with partnership from the City of Bainbridge Island.

The first Memorial, a simple stone with an information plaque, was dedicated in 2002. Later that year, the Bainbridge Island Japanese-American Memorial Study Act was passed into law, and progress resulted in the groundbreaking dedication in 2006. In 2008, the site received Federal Status and officially connected to the Minidoka National Historic Site in Idaho.

The Bainbridge Island Japanese Exclusion Memorial has multiple sections planned in phases on the road once leading to the former Eagledale Ferry Dock site. Building the Memorial along the same path and same space where the Nikkei boarded the ferry off the island creates a link to the past that visitors to the site can envision. This experience also aligns with famous photos taken as the Nikkei walked to the ferry (Figure 1) that further "evokes the day of departure." The official vision is as follows:
The vision is for a memorial area that is evocative and contemplative with the power to instruct future generations about the injustices of the past and the fragility of assumed rights. Perhaps most importantly, the Memorial will commemorate and honor the strength and perseverance of the people involved and celebrates the capacity of human beings to heal, forgive and care for one another.

Local Native-American artist Jonpaul Jones was the designer of the Memorial. Jones has been honored nationally for "honoring the natural world and indigenous traditions" and designed the National Museum of the American Indian in Washington DC. Growing up in Oklahoma as a member of the Choctaw reservation brought a personal connection to the exclusion that influenced his design. "I'm an American-Indian, and I understand being sent away from your homeland." His design incorporates the area's landscape while combining Japanese and Pacific Northwest materials and building styles spaced over five acres of land.

Of the completed portions of the Bainbridge Island Japanese Exclusion Memorial, the "story wall" is the most prominent feature and is meant to be the most thought-provoking. It intends to "convey a feeling of belonging, stability, and quiet strength…[and also to] convey a sense of slow and steady movement". Visitors move quickly to the wall past the information pavilion and solemnly walk down the path, reading the names and contemplating the friezes. Dozens of paper cranes hang from the wall as symbols of peace and add a living connection to the past. The Memorial can be uncomfortable to view as it poses the greatest generation in a way seldom seen. Depicted is an inherently bad light of racism and reactionary policies justified by "a means to an end." The monument captures the event while providing information on anti-Japanese bias after Pearl Harbor but does not go into great detail on racism or life in the camps. However, politicians and interned Nikkei pressed to ensure all visitors understand the focus on "Nidoto Nai Yoni." At the dedication ceremony, local politician Jay Inslee (and eventual state governor) alluded to this with "We don't sit in judgment of the past but in inspiration of the future."

Compared to other Japanese-American memorials to World War II, the Bainbridge Island Japanese Exclusion Memorial links most directly to the location and individuals. Its existence proves the desire of the Pacific Northwest Community to learn from its past. Monuments are not history, but the Memorial urges us to "feel" history and tie the past to the present and the future through specific victim imagery and comfortable Northwest styling.

With remembrance, there is also a notion of guilt by creating the Memorial and paying community reparation for the mistreatment of Japanese-Americans on the very site where it occurred. The Bainbridge Review, along with others in the community, fought specifically against racial bias that attempted to prevent the return of the Nikkei to the island. The Review's owners, Bob and Milly Woodward, hosted heated community forums on the Japanese. They fought for the rights of their friends as American citizens regardless of their nationality.

A specific effort acts as evidence connecting the Japanese-Americans that were an integral part of the local schools, businesses, and social community before the exclusion and after the war. One frieze depicts a Japanese boy in a Bainbridge High School baseball uniform. It is an attempt to show the Japanese were "just like us," playing baseball for the local high school they attended with local [and as] residents. This example helps the viewer embrace the sense of guilt and disgrace to exclude "good citizens."

Sharing the local history of Bainbridge Island, the Memorial's creation, the direct design decisions, and the reaction to the monument creates an understanding of why the monument exists. It will be a supported part of Bainbridge Island for years to come. The motto "Let it Not Happen Again" is intended never to forget what happened to Japanese Americans in World War II. It is also a promise by a community always to remember.

(edited by Laura Bailey)

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There are four memorials to the Navajo Code Talkers in Arizona and the "Four Corners" region - the area where Arizona, Utah, Colorado, and New Mexico meet. These monuments help us understand the history of Navajo code talkers in the United States Marine Corps.

Navajo Code Talker memorial statues in Arizona, New Mexico, and the Navajo Nation reflect the complex relationship between the United States government, indigenous peoples, and the "memory politics" of recent years.

The Navajo Code Talkers were recruited in 1942 to use their indigenous language (Diné) to develop a sophisticated communications code believed to have helped win World War II in the Pacific theater. United States Marine Corps proponents of Navajo code-making petitioned for the use of the language, which differs from that of neighboring indigenous communities. Furthermore, they argued, "Navaho (sic) is the only tribe in the United States that has not been infested with German students during the past twenty years."

The Navajo people, who refer to themselves as Diné, are indigenous to the Southwestern United States. The Navajo Nation encompasses 27,000 miles of land straddling New Mexico, Arizona, Colorado, and Utah, known as the Four Corners region. The Navajo Nation sent 3600 individuals to serve during World War II, approximately 400 of whom were code talkers. Three hundred Navajo soldiers were killed, including 7 code talkers. When they returned to their native lands, some Navajo veterans participated in healing ceremonies using traditional medicine to rid them of the demons of war. Still, otherwise, their war service was yet to be publicly acknowledged.

Considered essential in helping to win the war against the Japanese, the Code Talkers, "who risked their lives encoding, relaying, and decoding critical messages under extreme battle conditions," were not recognized officially for their service until 1982, when President Ronald Reagan authorized Navajo Code Talkers Day. Although the declassification of information about their activities came in 1969, it would be another 8-9 years before the 29 original and subsequent 300+ Code Talkers received Congressional gold and silver medals for their service. This recognition resulted in the dedication of four memorials to the Navajo Code Talkers in the Four Corners region.

The oldest memorial, at 22 Thomas Rd in Phoenix, Arizona, depicts a single seated male figure dressed in Native clothing and holding a flute in front of Phoenix Plaza, a multi-story office building. The second Phoenix statue is a copy of a code talker figure designed by Navajo sculptor Oreland Joe. At 16 feet tall, it was dedicated in Wesley Bolin Memorial Park in 2008 with an accompanying interpretive sign written in English.

A third Code Talker Statue sculpted by Oreland Joe sits within Veteran's Memorial Park outside of Window Rock, Arizona, capital of the Navajo Nation. The statue features a single kneeling helmeted Marine operating a radio, with the soldier carrying communications equipment on his back and a machine gun on his lap. The Window Rock statue, erected in 2004, is surrounded by scenic red rocks in the Veteran's Memorial Park adjacent to tribal headquarters, with an interpretive sign written in English. Finally, a similar 8.5-foot statue in bronze featuring a standing Code talker was placed near downtown Gallup, New Mexico, by the Southwest Indian Foundation.

To understand the Code Talker statues, one must first consider the complicated history of US-Native American government policy and the cultural commodification of Native Americans. In manifest destiny, the Navajo people were displaced from their ancestral lands to Bosque Redondo in present-day New Mexico, where they were starved and forced to walk back to their homeland (The Long Walk) in the 1860s. Other policies included the equivalent of cultural genocide—removing Navajo children from their homeland and sending them to boarding schools where they were not allowed to speak their language and forced to abandon traditional attire for the Western costume. Navajo people experienced numerous problems due to US Uranium mining within their lands and subsequent unauthorized experimenting on Native miners. Not until after World War II in 1948 did Native Americans receive the right to vote in Arizona, New Mexico, and US elections.

In 1989, the first Code Talker memorial statue, an 18-foot bronze, was dedicated on the grounds of Phoenix Plaza, a privately owned 20-story office building. This code talker is dressed in native moccasins, wearing a squash blossom necklace and holding a flute. The interpretive sign on the monument is in the Diné tongue with an English translation. The sculptor, Doug Hyde (1946-present), is a veteran and Native American of Nez Perce descent.

The Hyde statue of the code talker in Native dress with a flute portrays the Code Talker not as a soldier or warrior, but as a "peaceful" Native American, without a trace of aggression or militaristic impulse, even though the code talkers were trained soldiers and saw combat. At first glance, it would seem that the individual's identity as a soldier is not distinguishable. The Native American prominence is palatable to the general public, at odds with older "savage" stereotypes. When one looks more deeply, however, the image may identify the Code Talker in Native American tradition as a "trickster" due to the nature of his code-making and breaking activities. In many Southwest indigenous traditions, the flute player (Kokopelli) correlates strongly with the attributes of the trickster.

The 2004 Window Rock statue is very different from the design of Hyde. First, its location is in the capital of the Navajo Nation (home to about 3000 Navajo people according to the 2000 Census), within a Veteran's memorial park established in 1995. As described, the code talker figure is realistic in form and features a single kneeling Navajo Marine dressed in military garb with communications equipment of the era upon his back. Other than the title and location of the sculpture, the figure is indistinguishable from other soldiers of the World War II era. The sculptor, Oreland Joe, was born in 1958 in the Four Corners area and is of Navajo/Ute descent. A copy of the statue also is displayed in Phoenix's Wesley Bolin plaza adjacent to the Arizona state capitol.

Like the Marine Corps statue of Iwo Jima in Arlington, VA, the Joe statue seems to find its pattern after a photograph of an unnamed Native American code talker held in the US Government archives. A plaque accompanies the Navajo Code Talkers memorial within Wesley Bolin Memorial Park in Phoenix that features a quote, "Were it not for the Navajos, the Marines would have never taken Iwo Jima," attributed to Major Howard Connor of the US Marine Corps.

The Gallup monument, also created by Joe, is very similar to that of the other two Joe Code Talker monuments and was erected in 2005 in the western New Mexico town of approximately 21,000 people, 43.8% of whom identify as Native American as of 2000 according to US Census records. The Gallup statue's difference from its siblings in Window Rock and Phoenix is noted primarily in the stance of the Code Talker, in which he is partially standing rather than crouched. The minimal interpretive sign reads, "29 Marines prepare to depart during World War II/Navajo Code Talkers/Departure/May 4, 1942."

The Navajo Nation itself has been relatively slow to recognize the code talkers. In 2007, 25 years after the US Government's recognition, the Nation established an annual Code Talkers Memorial Day on August 14. Similarly, it was not until 2020 that a national monument to Native American veterans found its position in Washington, DC, despite receiving authorization in 1994. The Washington DC memorial features an abstract rather than figurative design. It is geared toward all Native American veterans vs. World War II code talkers, although an accompanying online exhibit does focus on the Code Talker legacy.

Almost all of the original code talkers have passed away. While oral histories and photographs remain, the four Memorials described here, massive and impervious to weather and time, may be what endures to shape future understanding of the Code Talker experience.

edited by Laura Bailey

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Found deep within the heart of Texas Hill Country is a peaceful Japanese flora and rock garden available to visitors for the enjoyment of its beauty and serenity. Little known to those who enter is the complex history responsible for its existence. Woven together throughout the property is a display dedicated to two Naval war heroes: the United States Admiral Chester Nimitz and Japanese Marshal-Admiral the Marquis Tōgō Heihachirō. Visible to all is the beauty of the two worlds as they combine their architecture and cultures in an expression of desired peace between nations.

The German heritage city of Fredericksburg, Texas, where the National Museum of the Pacific War resides, facilitates a campus exhibiting battlefield artifacts, memorials, a stage for combat reenactments, and the Garden of Peace, a Japanese garden. The intimacy of this vista inside this war complex against the Texas backdrop on the surface is perplexing. A small amount of text on the property explains that the garden exists as a symbol of friendship, but its surroundings contradict this story. Why then is it here, in Texas, roughly 1,200 miles away from the Pacific Coast?

Nestled within the original exterior retaining rock wall of the Admiral Nimitz Gallery, the Garden of Peace was officially opened and dedicated on May 8, 1976, the 130th founding of the German Texas Hill Country city Fredericksburg, and was as a special project of the American Bicentennial. Designed by architectural designer Taketora Saita, the garden contains a 360 square foot replica of Marshal-Admiral the Marquis Togo Heihachiro’s study at his home in Maizuru City, Japan. Sourcing rocks, trees, and plants locally in Texas, Saita designed the garden using two distinct Japanese garden styles. Situated on the north end of the site, the craftsman referenced Togo's home garden, a traditional Japanese style, along with its waterfall and pond, for reproduction in the small space beside the replica Togo study. The small building gazes south towards the rear of the Nimitz Gallery. Between them lay a stone garden, symbolic of the "expansive and infinite [Pacific] ocean." Strewn among this sea of water-worn white pebbles, the placement of large rocks represent the Pacific islands. According to descriptions in the local press, Saita explained that coupling the two garden styles "gives rhythm and tempo by aligning immutable stones against fresh and bright greens for a background and lends harmony to the plan and to the space." When asked about his vision for the garden, the designer said, "...careful attention has been given to making you feel an Oriental mood and presenting genuine objects refined by the unique Japanese traditions."

However, the prospective concept of the museum grounds developed in 1971 did not include plans for a Japanese garden as its focus was upon a flower and vegetable garden. Born from the conviction of a local group of Fredericksburg citizens and the city's Chamber of Commerce in 1963, the Admiral Nimitz Museum operated a few years before struggling to maintain operations. Ownership of the museum was transferred to the state, rendered an agency in 1970, and then administered by a commission established by the 61st Texas legislature. The commission's original development plan presented a holistic vision for the museum that incorporated each component of the original property (hotel, ballroom, saloon, garden, outdoor structures). It also specified how it should function, stressing the importance of recreating the period style and 1890's atmosphere in which the young Nimitz matured. Threading this authentic experience of the historic traveler's rest stop throughout the facility, the concept not only paid particular attention to decorative details but also included the casting of "real characters" to entertain guests with stories of bygone days. An article at the time boasts of the design, "The visitor will feel a wave of nostalgia, for life was quiet and reasonable in this day." In this regard, the proposed 1971 design is vaguely reminiscent of the cultural and spiritual affinity for cultivating tranquility found in Japanese gardens, yet not entirely a direct correlation. According to Sakuteiki, the oldest published Japanese text on gardening, "There is no need to include extraneous things." Limited sources reveal when or why the modifications to the original garden plan changed. However, a 1980 Texas Legislature Sunset Commission report acknowledges that two separate modifications, once in 1972 and again in 1977, were made since the master plan's origination. Given the dates of the proposed concept and the installation of the Garden of Peace, the possibility exists that the first modification included the new vision for the natural space.

Though no longer in office in 1971, President Lyndon B. Johnson had always favored the museum and committed to aid in its development. "We are going to do all in our power to make this one of the finest museums in the country," he said in an address at a banquet in the Texas city. The project was of personal interest. Johnson served briefly as a lieutenant commander under Nimitz during the war. Admiral Thomas Moorer, Chief of Naval Operations under Johnson, received a request from the President to assist in making the museum's plans become a reality. Moorer wrote his Japanese Naval colleagues to ask for their cooperation. This request garnered enthusiasm as Admiral Nimitz had engendered the utmost respect from the Japanese. Nimitz, an admirer of Japanese Naval hero Admiral Heihachiro Togo, marched in a 1934 funeral procession, played a significant role in restoring the Russo-Japanese veteran's flagship Mikasa, and contributed to the reconstruction of the Togo Shrine that found destruction during the Second World War. Keen on expressing their gratitude for Nimitz's display of respect, the Japanese commission then raised $83,366 (25 million yen) from the citizens of Japan to fund the garden. Artisans used the money to construct a replica of Togo's study on the island, dismantle it, bring it stateside to reconstruct it along with the build-out of the garden.

Altogether, the Garden of Peace enhances the landscape on the grounds of the historic Nimitz Hotel and Stagecoach Stop, the Fleet Admiral's childhood home. Organized by a committee of Japanese retired admirals, the garden finds its dedication in the great "friendship" of two war heroes.

(edited by Laura Bailey)

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Memory is showcased in a myriad of ways within a society and that collective memory is then given a physical representation by way of a memorial, through an institution of living memory, or ruins that have survived the ravages of time. The same can be said when analyzing a war memorial, “whether a statue, a place, a building, or a combination of these and other elements, we see a social and physical arrangement of space and artifacts to keep alive the memories of persons who participated in or are affected by war”. This such relationship between space and memory is complex but can be used to explain why Hiroshima chose to preserve the remains of the Genbaku Dome and how the decaying building became such an integral part of present day society.

Ruins tell an intriguing story of what a society deems worth remembering or what deserves to be forgotten. A unique characteristic of ruins is that they are not “passive remains but active cultural agents that transverse their status of remaining parts of a lost whole and accrue an identity of their own as ruins; they become monuments qua ruins and not just ruins of monuments.” In the years after the post atomic bomb drop, the identity of the Genbaku Dome has transformed from one of intense pain and suffering into a noteworthy beacon of peace on a global scale. What makes the ruins of the former Promotion Hall particularly distinctive is that Japan, specifically Hiroshima and Nagasaki, are the only victims of nuclear warfare so no other structure in the world can compare in terms of having such global significance and eventual societal inclusion.

The original domed building was built in 1915 by Czech architect Jan Letzel and is located 260 meters away from Aioi Bridge (the original target of the atomic bomb “Little Boy”) in the once bustling military city of Hiroshima. Thanks to Letzel’s use of steel and stone construction, the former Promotion Hall was one of a few structures left standing near the bomb’s hypocenter (the building stood 160 meters from the blast site). When observing the ruins that are now the focal point of a staggering Memorial Peace Park, onlookers are met with a stark image of seemingly paradoxical origin, destruction framed by revival. The message of this scene is that remembering how completely the city was destroyed enables us to fully appreciate the miracle of Hiroshima’s rebirth. The notability of this dilapidated structure has carried on through time except in the present day, the building has taken on an entirely new meaning than that of utter destruction.

The concrete ruin itself “performs a visualization of different forms of mourning: we mourn loss, death, decay and destruction; humanity’s futile and successful attempts to master nature; and nature’s indifference to humans and their cruelty against one another”. The ruins of the Genbaku Dome are a physical representation of what happened to the city and the destructive capabilities of human versus human violence. The aftermath of such immediate and total devastation is that the urge to mourn is in direct competition everywhere with the urge to forget, creating the dilemma of whether to leave or remove one of the few physical reminders remaining from that infamous day. What was once a martial city held firm in their military prowess, was reduced to nothing more than the apocalyptic, scorched traces of a former life. Hiroshima was much like the solid bronze dome of the original Promotion Hall, once supported by sturdy walls of brick and stone, extirpated within minutes.

Survivors had mixed emotions when reminiscing about the Genbaku Dome as it represented the loss of everything they once knew. Two-thirds of the population were in favor of its preservation, and one-third preferred its removal. The preservation of the Atomic Bomb Dome remained a contested issue well into the 1960s dividing Hiroshima’s citizens into two camps: those who wanted the site gone because it either brought up painful memories or the location right in the city-center seemed too valuable to be wasted on a ruin, and those who regarded the dome as a persuasive warning against nuclear warfare and as a crowd-puller for visitors to Hiroshima.

In an interview with atomic bomb survivor, Koji Numata, when asked about his thoughts on the dome, he responded with “I don’t want to remember anything (on August 6th). I want to forget it all. When that scene comes back to my head it makes me sick. I want to forget it.” Survivors who experienced the bomb instinctively wanted the ruins torn down almost like a defense mechanism. Citizens of Hiroshima were too busy reeling from shock, trying to gather up the remnants from their lives and did not even consider commemoration until years later. At that specific moment in time, the ruins of the Prefecture Industrial Promotion Hall were just that, ruins. A crippling reminder that needed to be removed from the landscape of the throttled, ash covered city so that eventually she could be reborn.

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In 1945, at war's end, a local group in rural northern Wyoming, including WWI veterans, commemorated the accidental deaths of ten airmen by installing a plaque near a remote crash site and petitioned to name a mountain peak in memory of the event. In memorializing the tragic war accident, the community honored the individual loss to make sense of the war and ensure the community's collective memory of the war's sacrifice. Over time the memory and meaning of the tragedy evolved from memorialization to local folklore and geographic reference.

On June 28, 1943, a B-17 bomber with ten crew members aboard left Oregon for Nebraska on its way to England to join in the Allied bombing offensive against Nazi Germany. It never arrived. The missing plane remained undiscovered until two years later, in August 1945, when the weather had worn off its olive drab paint, and two cowboys noticed the sun gleaming off the plane's metal remains. The bomber had crashed into an unnamed mountain of the Big Horn Mountains within the Cloud Peak wilderness, failing to clear the 12,887 ft. rim by a mere 100 ft.

The cause of the crash was never determined and remains a Wyoming mystery. The plane was flying at night, off course and below its assigned altitude of 15,000 ft. Poor weather, an inexperienced crew, instrument, or mechanical issues are all theories put forward to explain the crash. The crash was one of 479 non-combat B-17 losses in the US during the war. The type of crash was not unique as a search of newspaper articles from the period reveals numerous military plane crashes involving mountains. Shortly after its discovery, an ad-hoc group of Army personnel, forest rangers, and locals climbed the peak to recover the crew's remains, with one recovery member later commenting, "…I never climbed that peak again."

In the nearby town of Sheridan, a local Wyoming chapter (No.4) of 'American War Dads, led by a WWI veteran, originated the idea of a memorial near the crash site and other WWI veterans signed onto the project. A twelve-person delegation and eighteen horses and pack animals made the 100+ mile round trip into the wilderness and up the mountain to install the marker near the site. The goal was to place a simple bronze plaque listing the crew's name and date of the crash.

The local paper published an article dated September 7, 1945, upon the group's return, explaining the crash "…brought the hazards of war very close to Sheridan, and is the only incident of its kind of record in this vicinity…". A memorial pamphlet was printed, describing the events and plaque, and sent to the aircrew's next of kin that included the following passage: "Thus sojourners and travelers who pass along the trail…will come upon the tablet and be reminded of what so many owe to these men. They will be reminded also…that the gigantic mountain stands as an eternal monument over the scene of their death; another shrine marking the spot where brave Americans fell in the service of the country and to those who flew the great bombers on missions from which so many never returned."

While many memorials were erected years after the war, this particular plaque was installed immediately after the discovery of the crash and just weeks after Japan surrendered. The memorial falls into the category of accident, one of an aircraft on its way to the war and not the result of enemy action, yet it was no less a loss of life in service to their country. The plaque simply states, "…gave their lives while on active duty…" and unlike the nameless missing in action, these men's remains were ultimately discovered two years after the crash and their identities established.

The 'American War Dads' also petitioned the US Forest Service, who in turn requested the US Board on Geographical Names, to designate the unnamed area "Bomber Peak" in memory of the incident. In August 1946, a little over a year after locating the crash site, the community received news the mountain peak was officially named "Bomber Mountain." This naming of a prominent geographic feature, rather than the small, remote plaque, was vital in creating and maintaining the event's collective memory in the community today.

The general memory of the crash lives on in the community today. The original bronze plaque is approximately 1.5 miles from the site and accessible only to hikers when weather permits, typically between July and September. The local history museum has a prominent exhibit to the crash, including names and photos of the crew, description of the event, and actual wreckage from the plane. The adjacent former elementary school became repurposed and named "Bomber Mountain Civic Center" with a prominent logo of a B-17 flying between two mountain peaks. And recently, a local brewery has named a new amber ale "Bomber Mountain" with a silhouette of a B-17 on the beer can.

The director of the local history museum has met or spoken to relatives of seven crewmen and noted that most "…had not visited the crash site…" nor memorial plaque. When asked what Bomber Mountain means to her personally, she stated: "…to me: Bomber Mountain is an example of human connection. WWII was a global event and touched the lives of everybody at the time…But the farther away we move from the war, the less these connections are felt by us younger generations. Wyoming doesn't have the kind of visceral locations like Europe… so for many people it has become just a thing of the past. Bomber Mountain happened in our backyard. WWII came calling, and people can still feel that gut-punch of emotion when they see the remains of the plane."

Although the deaths were not from enemy action, the group wished to memorialize the crew by listing their names on a plaque and, on a grander scale, name a mountain peak whose geographic symbolism would perpetuate the memory. A single bomber crash out of hundreds of accidents in the war was insignificant to the country and even less so within the context of the global conflict. To this small western community of northern Wyoming, it was an important historical event in its 20th-century history.

The community, including veterans who likely experienced war, chose to document their actions so that the next-of-kin would know their relatives were not forgotten. Yet, by the early 21st century, the details of the accident continue to fade into the recesses of memory for the community. Still, the geographic name continues to resonate, as illustrated by naming a community center and its marketing value by branding a local artisan ale.

Tangentially the actual crash site, with the major wreckage still on the mountain, reminds us of the USS Arizona Memorial, where visitors can observe the battleship's remains. The aircraft parts, as with the battleship, will eventually erode away. In the B-17's case, as referenced by one observer, no one will remember it was there. With a powerful national narrative and a gravesite, the Arizona is not likely to suffer the same fate.

The fact this was an accident rather than combat-related is a factor to consider. Non-combat death in wartime from disease, training, "friendly fire," accidents, or other causes are common throughout history. The US includes twenty-eight percent of World War II deaths in this category. Aircraft crashes and resultant deaths, whether in training accidents, inclement weather, or mechanical failure, would be included as non-combat. One could frame this accident as simply non-combat deaths. The museum director simply framed it as "they were our boys."

As time passes, memorials sometimes disappear, move, or face destruction. Reinterpretation also ensues as the changing generations of viewers reflect on the history from their perspectives. In the case of Bomber Mountain, one senses a matter of evolution to the memorial. Intended initially to honor the ten airmen specifically, it also expanded to honor all who fell and who flew "great bombers that didn't return." The mountain has evolved from a war memorial to local folklore. The event still resides in the community's collective memory, but less as a war memorial and more as a geographic feature.

(edited by Laura Bailey)

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General George S. Patton was undoubtedly one of the most colorful yet controversial American military leaders of the twentieth century. Appropriately enough, he has been the subject of innumerable profiles, movies, and full-scale biographies during his lifetime and since his death. Many memorials, statues, schools, and museums exist in his honor and dedication to his memory. The name General George Smith Patton Jr. does not necessarily evoke the same memories overseas as in America. While there are many monuments and statues of Patton located throughout the world, only three major locations are 'biographical museums.' Located in Fort Knox, Kentucky, Ettelbruck, Belgium, and Chiriaco, California, each focuses upon the General and his exploits in North Africa, Italy, France, Belgium, and Germany during the Second World War.

The General Patton Memorial Museum in Chiriaco Summit, California, was established in 1988. It is dedicated primarily to honoring Patton and the soldiers who trained there, displaying war items related to the general and the hundreds of thousands of men and women who trained at the facility between 1942-1944. The museum sits within what was once known as 'U.S Army Camp Young,' a swath of desert comprising over eighteen thousand square miles. Even today, it is still considered the world's largest military training installation.

A native of San Marino, California, General Patton returned to his home state in early 1942, shortly after America's entry into World War II, to set up a desert training center for U.S. soldiers heading into combat. The facility's primary purpose was to prepare young men for desert tank warfare before being sent to North Africa and Italy. Although General Patton was only at Camp Young for four months before heading overseas, it continued its heavy-armor tank training until December 1944.

At the camp's creation, history was about to be made in a place where only cactus and scrub survived, where unrelenting heat and sand were the norms of the day. It is here, in the middle of the Mojave Desert in Southeastern California, that this forsaken land would become Patton's "paradise, exactly what he was looking for." Acquiring the land in the desert by the U.S. Army is a tale the locals enjoy relaying to tourists today. The story tells of General Patton personally walking into the Indio office of surveyor Michael Rusche in early 1942, saying, "I hear you've been around here for a while. I hope you can help me out." What soon transpired under the General's direction was the building of eleven separate camps, which comprised the training facility at Camp Young. Patton's headquarters were stationed in the middle and used as the focal point, with the surrounding miles of the desert used to train tank warfare. "We cannot train troops to fight in the desert of North Africa by training them in the swamps of Georgia," Patton was to proclaim. Over the next two years, over one million Americans, both male and female, prepared for battle here under the ghastliest of conditions.

Many first-hand accounts relate, "as the first commanding general of the training facility, Patton certainly stamped his brand on the training center." The hill from which he could observe the wide range of tank exercises was called 'The King's Throne.' It was a lower elevation within the surrounding mountains where he could critically scrutinize the formation of the tanks and motorized units below. Detecting a mistake or way to improve, he would shout instructions into his radio, "many of which were expletives." An official Army historian named Porter B. Williamson wrote, "on a number of occasions, Patton would extoll a particular soldier or unit via his radio communications so everyone could hear." However, more than once, his harsh words would announce something such as, "Colonel Blank, you are removed from command. If you know what is good for you, you will stay away from me for a week," prompting laughter from the men.

The General George Patton Memorial Museum, outside Luxembourg City, in the small town of Hamm, Luxembourg, is also the site of an American cemetery where over five-thousand U.S. servicemen are buried, most of them killed in the Battle of the Bulge. Located among these men is the grave of General Patton. When he died in late 1945, one of his last requests was "to be buried among his men." Luxembourg celebrates General Patton and the American troops that liberated the city every year on the last Sunday in June, calling the holiday 'Remembrance Day.' This holiday was conceived shortly after the war by the townspeople and continues to this day. At the ceremony's close, the city's mayor takes center stage. The concluding remarks remain the same, "Luxembourg will never forget what General Patton and the United States did for us. God bless America, and God bless our little Grand Duchy."

The General George Patton Museum of Leadership in Fort Knox, Kentucky, was once the largest Patton museum in the United States. In the mid-1990s, the outdoor tank exhibits and many statues and monuments transferred to military museums in Fort Benning, Georgia, and West Point, New York. However, the Kentucky museum still garners over 350,000 visitors each year. This complex was developed shortly after World War II and has been "a work in progress ever since." Managed by the U.S. Army Accessions Command in Fort Monroe, Virginia, it contains several of Patton's personal effects, including items from his childhood in California, his revolvers, touring car, and even the 1938 Cadillac in which he took his final ride. Rather than glorifying war, this museum presents Patton's complex, emotional, and intellectual history and armored warfare through the ages. Every July 4, this museum comes alive and celebrates General Patton by hosting a re-enactment based loosely on the type of combat that occurred in Northern Europe in the spring of 1945.

The perspectives of memory vary between these three museums in Luxembourg, Fort Knox, and Chiriaco Summit. From yearly ceremonies in Europe, specifically Luxembourg, we know that Patton is still considered a gallant hero and truly celebrated. But what about in America? Could Patton's 'star power' or popularity in the United States be waning or changing somehow? Does the recent movement of 230 large Patton artifacts from the Fort Knox museum in Kentucky to a more secular and less-visited army base at Fort Benning, Georgia, suggest in some way that Americans today feel differently about Patton?

Mirna Flores, Director of the California memorial, has been with the Patton museum for over twenty years. Although she was not aware of what the Fort Knox museum had done, she is confident that "although Patton was a complicated military figure, the museum believes his star has not tarnished in any way." In recent decades, the museum enjoyed record yearly increases in visitors to the facility. When asked how the museum has changed, grown, and evolved during her tenure, she noted she was most proud of two things: securing a very hard-to-find original German Tiger Tank and formatting a school children's tour. Flores added, "Education of the war itself along with Patton's life has always been the focus of the museum," but fashioning the information for young children became a goal and a reality for the museum in just the last few years.

Remembering Camp Young in the California desert historically and through collective memory is equally as important as honoring the countless men and women trained there. The soldiers who initially trained at the camp became the first American forces deployed to combat against the Germans in North Africa.

In 1988, over four decades since the end of World War II, many old soldiers and their families returned and gathered in the hot California desert for the dedication of the Patton Museum at Chiriaco Summit. Two aging veterans, Charles Jeglinski, 74, of Venice, California, and Frank Carroll, 75, of Phoenix, Arizona, pulled aside a couple of journalists covering the event. They both had trained at Camp Young with Patton and followed him into battle in North Africa and Europe. Said Carroll to the journalists, "Here's a picture I bet you fella's don't have." They went on to say General Patton told them he was going to do this when they arrived in Germany, and they both claimed he always kept his word. The photograph showed a smiling General Patton on a small hilltop as he urinated into the Rhine River below.

(edited by Laura Bailey)

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Located in the French Cotentin peninsula, approximately twenty-three and a half miles from the port of Cherbourg lies the small village of Sainte Mère-Église. The town's landscape denotes the traditional architecture and culture known throughout the Normandy region. Setting this community of approximately three thousand apart from others is the significance of one war-torn morning in 1944. Distinguishing itself also is how it has chosen to commemorate this history through a church's stained glass windows.

Situated in the center of the village of Sainte Mère-Église is an 11th-century church that shares the same name. Roads leading in and around the town have a theme in accordance with France's liberation made possible by the Allied D-Day landings in June of 1944. The streets flanking the church find their names after World War II French and American Generals Koenig and Eisenhower. As one approaches the church, it quickly becomes apparent the church itself had a significant role in the Second World War. For all to see, hanging from one of the spires is a mannequin depicting the realities of a vulnerable American paratrooper caught and held prisoner by his parachute.

At approximately 1:30 am on June 6, 1944, the town held captive by German Nazis for nearly four years found hope in a sky filled with American paratroopers of the 82nd Airborne Division. Members of its 505th Parachute Infantry Regiment (PIR) found themselves easy prey for German firepower as they descended through a sky illuminated by fire from a house set ablaze by an incendiary weapon. One thousand two hundred eighty-two members of the 82nd Airborne Division lost their lives during the Normandy invasion. Some of whom perished in this first of the small towns liberated as Allied forces pressed the German military into retreat.

When the war ended, like many other cities and towns across the globe, Sainte Mère-Église began to pick up the pieces in an attempt to reinvent itself. Now free from the looming threat of Nazism, the residents faced the additional challenge of coming to terms with the aftermath of war. As they rebuilt their village, many people incorporated portions of their lived memories into their new normal. American flags flew with pride. Monuments indicated appreciation to the liberators and God. Local women like Simone Renaud tended the graves of foreign sons who died so theirs might live. These traditions continued year after year as others evolved. A progression of memorialization took on varying forms of memory, each based upon differing perspectives.

It is not uncommon for places of worship to include conflict within their colorful panes of commemoration and glorification. The Washington National Cathedral in Washington, D.C., created its War Memorial Chapel in 1952 and 1953 with the specific purpose of memorializing "its nation's heroes as it seemed necessary and appropriate after World War II." Within three stained glass windows are renderings depicting the D-Day invasion, the Battle of Iwo Jima, the liberation of Europe, and the Battle of Midway. At the centerpiece of this sanctuary, displayed above the altar, is a powerful sculpture of an agonizing Christ. Implied is the comparativeness of the Allied soldiers' suffering as they fought and died for the oppressed, as did Christ as He sought to save the world from evil. Exhibited also is the acknowledgment of a righteous plight and a justification for war against the forces of evil.

In 1969, the first of two stained glass windows combining 'saviors' found its place of homage in the Church of Sainte Mère-Église, located in the town's square. Two years after the liberation, at age sixteen, Paul Renaud designed the window, entitled "Paratroopers," based upon what he witnessed the night the 82nd Airborne fell from the sky. The mayor of Sainte Mère-Église, Renaud's father, worked fervently with the parish to replace the windows destroyed by nearby bombing during the war. The glass details show the Virgin Mary, surrounded by planes and parachutes, holding baby Jesus while looking over the paratroopers as they descend upon a fiery town. Evident is the perception of Christ, the Savior, watching over the saviors of Sainte Mère-Église as they land in the flames of hell and war. A French inscription positioned at the bottom of the window translates, "This stained glass was completed with the participation of Paul Renaud and Sainte Mère, for the memory of those who, with their courage and sacrifice, liberated Sainte Mère-Église and France."

The idea for another window arose at the first window's dedication ceremonies in 1969, coinciding with the twenty-fifth D-Day landings anniversary. Renaud also immortalized the actions of the 82nd Airborne Division in his design for the second window. Appropriately named "82nd Airborne," it received sponsorship from the veterans' group of the 505th Parachute Infantry Regiment (PIR). This stained glass found its position in the same chapel in 1972. Forever enshrined within the glass are emblems representing the 82nd Airborne Division, the lion of Normandy, and the Sainte Mère-Église insignia. Also present are symbols for each of the division's combat jumps during World War II. This French inscription translates: "To the memory of those who through their sacrifice liberated Sainte Mère-Église."

The focal point of this window is Saint Michael, the patron saint of paratroopers, a symbol of a spiritual warrior "who stands ready to fight on behalf of the good." Michael, known as God's archangel (chief messenger), leads a battalion of angels in a victorious war over Satan and his demons in the Book of Revelation, signifying Christ's victory over all evil in the end times. Within this window, it is clear the battalion of angels are the paratroopers descending around and supporting the head spiritual warrior as he stands in victory over the defeated enemy dragon (the Nazis).

To the Christian members of Sainte Mère-Église, the parallels to the apocalypse, as referenced in Revelation, are apparent and serve as an affirmation of the prophesies found in scripture. Noteworthy is the prominent display of violence in a place of sanctity. Finding the intersection of war and peace in a non-secular environment is very telling. Although the act of war is contrary to the teachings of the Gospels, the believer is aware of the battle that awaits. What makes the display justifiable is that battle reflects the necessity of suffering (as did Christ) to obtain a life of freedom and tranquility. The final comparison depicted in the glass is a lone dove. It symbolizes the inevitable peace Michael brings with him to Sainte Mère-Église, bringing to fruition a glimpse of the same peace that will accompany Christ when He returns.

Apparent within each of these commemorative pieces of art is the reverence the natives of Sainte Mère-Église held and continue to have for American paratroopers. The display and placement of mere mortals amidst the sacredness of Mary, Jesus, and Saint Michael speak volumes in terms of gratitude and honor for their liberators.

On the twentieth anniversary of the Normandy invasion, General Dwight D. Eisenhower returned to France to reflect upon its liberation in 1944. While there, he visited Sainte Mère-Église and interviewed Simone Renaud while seated on a bench in the church's square. Considered the "Mother of Normandy," Renaud was also the wife of the village's war-time mayor and mother to the artist who designed the windows. When asked her thoughts on first witnessing the paratroopers' arrival, she responded that "it was a wonderful surprise" and "they dared not hope" for their freedom from the Germans. There was no diminishment of excitement in her voice even after the passing of twenty years. Obvious was her certainty the invasion provided her family a better life.

The memory of the Battle of Normandy is still very close to the hearts of the Norman people, as perceived by local historian and native Pierre-Samuel Natanson. In his thirties, Natanson describes a shift in the perception of the windows by younger generations. "As rural areas tend to be far more religious than larger towns, it made sense the paratrooper memorials found their place in a church rather than a civic building. The locals wanted to thank God for sending their liberators." Gratitude for their liberation remains today, yet how they remember is taking on new forms as those who lived the experience pass away. Although still highly valued, the stained glass artwork now shares equal billing with that of the mannequin paratrooper dangling from the church's spire, made internationally famous by the 1962 film, The Longest Day. For these reasons, memorialization is now more central to the small villages' social and economic security, like Sainte Mère-Église, as tourists make it a "must-see" stop when visiting Normandy.

When reflecting upon the war's history and representations of it for Sainte Mère-Église, one gains a greater understanding of its unique role in remembering the Second World War. The presence of the stained glass windows in the Church of Sainte Mère-Église shares only one facet of the countless experiences of that morning. Collectively, this invasion's memories tell only one element of the complex and seemingly infinite global war. As those pass away who lived this moment in history, we are left only with the tangible reminders found within the monuments and scored into stained glasses like those in this small French village. Nearly eight decades later, scholars continue to dissect and analyze this history, attempting to attain a complete summation of how and why we should remember the Second World War.

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It was a memorial 30 years in the making, commemorating a tragedy 50 years ago. The USS Indianapolis Memorial (CA-35) opened on August 2, 1995, along the east bank of a canal in downtown Indianapolis, the namesake for the ship. The event marked the 50th anniversary of the heavy cruiser's tragic sinking by a Japanese submarine at the end of World War II. The memorial pays tribute to the ship which carried parts of the atomic bomb to the island of Tinian. It also honors the 1,197 men who served as crew aboard the vessel, three-quarters of whom died from sinking in shark-infested waters. Today, only eight survivors remain of the 317 men who survived the tragedy. The memorial is at a crossroads, entering a new era that soon will be without the representation of living memory. Even as the remaining survivors pass, there are favorable signs the memorial will continue keeping alive the story of the USS Indianapolis and the memory of those who served on her in the last days of World War II.

The USS Indianapolis Memorial is the brainchild of the ship's survivors. In 1960, some gathered 15 years after the war's end for their first reunion. A suggestion arose to create a memorial to honor and remember their lost shipmates during their gathering. The idea resonated and then simmered. The subject of a memorial resurfaced at the 1965 reunion. This time the discussion generated momentum. An exploratory committee began to look further into the possibility of building a memorial. Initially, the biggest hurdle was finding a suitable piece of property in Indianapolis for the monument. Good news finally came in 1990 when the Mayor of Indianapolis, William H. Hudnut III, announced his intent to donate to the survivor's organization prime property along the water canal that ran through downtown Indianapolis. It was a perfect location for their memorial. And it was the ideal time to capitalize on the growing publicity for the upcoming 50th anniversary of the war's end.

From the beginning, challenges existed in raising money for the memorial. The first was its growing cost. The projected estimate was initially $500,000. By the time the memorial was completed in 1995 - 3 years later than projected - the total expenses had risen to 1 million dollars. The second challenge, an ignorant public, contributed to the first. "Part of the reason we have been unable to raise the money is that a lot of folks don't remember, or never heard the story of the Indianapolis," said Patrick Finneran, executive director of the USS Indianapolis (CA-35) Survivors Memorial Organization, Inc. "We have had to educate folks about the ship, her crew, her final voyage. When people hear her story, a lot of average citizens want to contribute. But we have to keep telling her story."

It might seem strange that the city of Indianapolis had forgotten or never heard of the ship that shared the city's name. The sinking of the Indianapolis occurred 45 years earlier, at the very end of the war. The Navy had initially delayed reporting on the loss of the Indianapolis until after the exuberant announcement of Japan's surrender. The ship's tragedy – representing the Navy's worst sea disaster and costing almost 900 lives - was strategically 'lost' between the euphoria of the war's end and the Navy's efforts to blame the sinking on the commanding officer of the ship, Captain Charles Butler McVay. He later faced court-martial as the scapegoat for the tragedy. In the relentless drive to get on with life after the war, most people forgot the USS Indianapolis's role in ending the Pacific War. The Enola Gay, a B-29 Superfortress, received the primary attention for dropping the atomic bomb over Hiroshima. Few recalled that the Indianapolis delivered the bomb as top-secret cargo to Tinian Island just days before her sinking.

The dedication for the USS Indianapolis Memorial on July 30, 1995, drew approximately 3,500 people, including 107 survivors, who came to witness the unveiling. Before the spectators were black and gray granite pieces from California used to fashion the 21-ton structure in the general shape of a Navy ship. The ship's bow pointed westward toward the Pacific Ocean to honor the ships' crew who died in the middle of the Philippine Sea. Indiana limestone acted as the base of the structure of the vessel. Adorning the black granite face of the memorial was a detailed silhouette of the USS Indianapolis. Listed on the memorial's reverse side were the names of the entire 1,197 member crew aboard the ship at the time of her sinking. Each engraved name had 1-inch letters. The survivors noted by the placement of a star beside their names.

The designer, architect Joseph Fischer, wrapped the text of the USS Indianapolis story around the 28 feet long base of the memorial. He used the north side of the base to present general information on the ship: construction details, physical dimensions, engine type, armament description, and her honorable resume of service in the Navy from 1932-45. The text written on the base's south side, beneath the crew member's names, summarized the tragic events of her sinking on July 30, 1945. Also explained was the long ordeal for the survivors and their attempts to survive in the water. He cut into the base of the memorial ten stars to represent the ten battle stars the Indianapolis received for her war service. Directly behind the granite ship, Fischer placed a high, curved wall to represent the ship's bridge serving as an overlook for the memorial.

One feature of the memorial was not visible to the crowd of on-lookers. Buried beneath it was a piece of the superstructure of the USS Arizona. As the last Navy ship sunk before the war's end, the USS Indianapolis became forever linked to the first sunken ship of the conflict during the attack at Pearl Harbor, the USS Arizona. The two ships became timeline bookends for the American experience in the Second World War. Both ships also became underwater tombs for some of their crew. In the case of the Arizona, 1,102 men became entrapped in the sunken ship. For the Indianapolis, approximately 300 men sank with their ship, while another 580 died on the open water by dehydration, salt-poisoning, and shark attacks.

While the memorial does an impressive job in remembering the crew and summarizing the ship's distinguished career, it is silent on some other essential details that paint a broader foreground to the evolving story of the war's end. In December of 1990, Miles McCoy, President of the USS Indianapolis Survivors' Association, was at Pearl Harbor attending the commemoration for the 49th Anniversary of the Attack on Pearl Harbor. Former Japanese Submarine Commander Machitsura Hashimoto, who had sunk the Indianapolis 49 years earlier, was also in attendance. McCoy planned to confront the man indirectly responsible for the USS Indianapolis Memorial. He planned initially to tell Hashimoto that he and the surviving crew did not forgive the commander for sinking their ship. After a couple of days, however, McCoy changed his mind. When he met Hashimoto at the end of the commemoration, he said to him through an interpreter, "Sir, I am the representative of all those that were aboard the Indianapolis on that fateful night, and I feel that you were doing your duty just as we were, and I forgive you." Hashimoto responded, "I forgive you too." When translated, McCoy asked for what he was receiving forgiveness. Hashimoto explained, "The bomb you delivered to Tinian was dropped on my hometown, Hiroshima, and it killed my entire family." McCoy was dumbfounded and responded, "I never knew. I'm sorry." For McCoy, the brief dialogue with Hashimoto acknowledged mutual loss, regret, and reconciliation.

Although the forgiveness dialogue between McCoy and Hashimoto is not mentioned anywhere on the monument, the memorial's dedication likely helped some survivors experience a form of self-forgiveness. Retired Navy Captain James Hold, president of the USS Indianapolis Survivors Memorial Organization, explained at the 1992 site dedication, "Those men who lived have carried a terrible load of unworthy emotion. They felt guilty and ashamed - ashamed they lost their ship, and guilt because they lived and so many of their shipmates died. When the memorial is finished, they will, I believe, feel at last the ship and crew are worthy of remembering, and the building of the memorial will take a larger load off their conscience." Survivor Jimmy O'Donnell put it more simply, "Building the monument… was also an opportunity for me to come to grips with that tragic event that happened so long ago."

For some survivors, the memorial's dedication facilitated an expression of forgiveness toward the Navy, who failed to notice and quickly rescue the ship's crew 50 years earlier. The same Navy that denied for so long any exoneration for Captain McVay, who ended up committing suicide in 1968. Survivor Clarence Hershberger of Elkhart, Indiana, shared, "For 45 years, I had kind of a negative attitude about the whole thing because of the way the Navy treated it. Finally, when I saw the memorial taking shape, and something positive coming out of this tragedy, I changed my attitude a bit."

If prime location indicates a memorial's survival, the USS Indianapolis memorials look quite secure. Hundreds of people pass by it every day on foot while walking along the popular canal. And, since 2018, many more children have been in the proximity of the memorial. The Indianapolis Colts Foundation built a large playground on a grassy area north and east of the monument. The playground has brought many young feet closer to the memorial, ensuring a chance that curious minds might stop and take a peek. The story of the USS Indianapolis remains accessible to all who pass by. Hopefully, people will take time to look and learn from the impressive memorial in front of them. And while they will not understand the "whole story" from viewing it, they will know enough about the contribution and tragedy of a ship and her crew to prompt them perhaps to look deeper into the broader narrative of the war's end.

(edited by Laura Bailey)

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The forcible transfer of 60,000 to 80,000 Filipinos and Americans began on April 9, 1942. At the hands of the Imperial Japanese Army, these prisoners-of-war marched the length of the Bataan peninsula - approximately 60-70 miles. Thousands would not survive.

Near the southern tip of the remote and rugged Bataan peninsula on the Philippine Island of Luzon lies an unassuming little park displaying Filipino and American flags. Facing the picturesque Manila Bay but wedged between fast-food restaurants and a parking lot, the park also contains a four-foot-high, whitewashed concrete obelisk that identifies this as the starting point of the infamous Bataan Death March. Notorious as one of the "great Japanese atrocities" of World War II, over 75,000 exhausted, sick, and malnourished Filipino and American prisoners of war were force-marched the length of the Bataan peninsula by their Japanese captors, who subjected them to terrible abuse.

The obelisk in the park at Mariveles is one of 138 such markers placed along the route of the Death March. Each sits at approximately one-kilometer intervals from its beginning at the southern tip of the Bataan peninsula to its end at the former site of the prison camp, Camp O'Donnell. A small medallion embedded near the obelisk's tip identifies it as being placed by the Filipino-American Memorial Endowment (FAME) foundation. FAME's website states that its mission is to establish "tangible reminders of the shared values for which Americans, Filipinos, and their allies fought side-by-side in World War II."

For Americans, the collective memory of World War II is triumphalist. Predominant themes tell of "The Good War" when "the Greatest Generation" liberated the world from the fascist grip of Nazi Germany and Japan. For Filipinos, however, Joel Steinberg and others have
noted the "complicated and ambiguous" legacy of World War II.
The Philippines, at that time a colony of the United States, suffered through a brutal Japanese occupation and years of guerrilla warfare against the Japanese and collaboration by many among the Filipino elite, followed by a costly American-led liberation. By the war's end, out of a pre-war population of only 17 million, over 1 million Filipinos, including many women and children, died. For context, that is over double the American (predominantly male combatant) war deaths.

Given the overall scale of wartime suffering experienced by Filipinos, it is perhaps surprising that the Bataan Death March became a part of post-war Filipino collective memory, but it did. Of the troops on Bataan that fought on Bataan and then participated in the Death March, the vast majority were Filipinos. Despite overall "complicated and ambiguous" Filipino collective memory, the dogged resistance and brave sacrifice of the defenders of Bataan was a source of great national pride to generations of Filipinos with direct knowledge of the war. However, even though Filipinos did most of the fighting and dying on Bataan and the Death March, published historiography considers it an American tragedy. This is likely because, during the 1980s and 1990s, the United States experienced a "memory boom," with a succession of memoirs published by American Death March participants. Contrarily in the Philippines, with its "ambiguous legacy" and a much smaller book publishing industry, the accounts of Filipino participants were not widely distributed.

Around this time, FAME volunteers were wrapping up restoration work of World War II sites on the nearby island of Corregidor. They were beginning to consider what other projects the Foundation could take on. FAME is a small, private foundation that, per its website, seeks to establish "tangible reminders of the shared values for which Americans, Filipinos, and their allies fought side-by-side in World War II." The Foundation was formed in the 1980s by the Public Relations Committee of the American Chamber of Commerce, which assembled a group of interested Filipino and American veterans and businesspeople. The group sought to achieve the Foundation's objectives on a strictly limited budget, electing to raise funds only from private sources to retain its independence from any government (Filipino or American) influence. An essential site in the collective memory of both Filipinos and Americans, the Bataan peninsula was accessible to Foundation members, being relatively close to the capital city Manila. Critically for a Foundation operating with limited funds, it was preferable to make the Markers out of cheap materials so they likely would not be stolen. They decided to put a marker at every kilometer point of the Death March along the entire length of the Bataan Peninsula's mountainous terrain, meaning 138 Markers in total. By 2008, almost ten years later, they had achieved their objective.

Each Marker is a simple, unassuming four feet tall concrete obelisk. Relatively cheap to produce and not comprised of any valuable materials, some of the Markers are whitewashed while others are plain concrete. In addition to the small FAME medallion noted above, they display a kilometer number indicating the location on the Death March route and a small image of two obviously distressed soldiers participating in the march.

As a commemoration site, the contrast between the pristinely manicured 152-acre American Battlefields Monuments Commission (ABMC) cemetery in downtown Manila, just a few miles away from Bataan, is stark. A peaceful green oasis in the middle of a bustling capital city, the U.S. government-funded ABMC cemetery is surrounded by a fence guarded by soldiers. As with all ABMC cemeteries, it is tended by a team of gardeners to maintain its immaculate appearance. It is replete with statuary, battle maps, and a visitor center, providing an American-centric perspective on World War II. By contrast, FAME's simple roadside Markers rest mere paces from busy roads, with trucks and scooters regularly speeding by. Meanwhile, the small brick and stone boundaries around the Markers frequently snag roadside litter, challenging the FAME volunteers who attempt to keep the sites tidy.

Having noted the place of Bataan in post-war Filipino collective memory but also reviewed World War II's "ambiguous legacy" for Filipinos, the question arises as to whether Bataan represents a "symbol of freedom and democracy" to today's younger generations of Filipinos as the Bataan Provincial Tourism Office would have one believe? Three FAME Trustees responded to this question to assist in drawing a conclusion. Noting the lack of World War II history in the Filipino high school curriculum, each of them, in turn, responded that, unfortunately, it does not. Given their responses, which are unsurprising given the circumstances, why does FAME go to so much effort to commemorate Bataan by maintaining the Death March Markers after all these years? To quote FAME Trustee Leslie Ann Murray, who was herself a wartime internee of the Japanese, "because if we don't, people will forget about it."

(edited by Laura Bailey)

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