A celebration of American freedom leads to a friendly-fire incident in the wake of French liberation. Decades later, French and American descendants come together to commemorate both the liberation and the loss.

Cruel irony can be exemplified by no event better than the crash of an observation plane on July 4th, 1944. As the 90th Infantry Division completed its push for the capture of Hill 122, a celebration of the Fourth of July led to friendly fire downing and ending the lives of pilot Alfred Howard and observer William Windeler. Though such an incident is rarely expected to contain a silver lining, as a result, collaboration between French and American legacies blossomed, the courage of even more liberating forces was honored, and a measure of healing was found.

Independence Day of 1944 must have been a red-letter day for the men of the 90th Division. On the 3rd of July, the 3rd Battalion of the 90th’s 359th Regiment liberated the village of Prétot. They fought as part of a general US Army push farther south of the Cotentin Peninsula, following the capture of Cherbourg on June 27th . Morale must have been at a rare high, between the turning tides in battle and the celebratory spirit of the holiday. Reportedly, Army headquarters gave permission “to every carbine, rifle, machine gun, or artillery gun” to fire at the sky in celebration (Levaufre). Sometime that day, pilot Captain Alfred Howard, and his observer, 2nd Lieutenant William Windeler, took off from an airfield near the Chateau de Franquetot in a Piper L4 “Grasshopper”.

William George Windeler, a resident of Oakland, California, was twenty-four in July of 1944. He attended Piedmont High, in Piedmont, California, then the University of California, where he earned his undergraduate degree. During his high-school and college years, he was well-known locally for his athletic prowess, as well as his community involvement as a Sea Scout leader. He enlisted in the Army immediately following his graduation from the University of California, and was sent overseas in April of 1943.

Thirty-one-year-old Alfred Ryland Howard, known to friends and family as Ryland, hailed from Houston, Texas. He was an accomplished young man, having graduated from Rice Institute, the University of Texas law school, and Stanford Military academy, and having served the city of Houston as assistant city attorney. He enlisted in the 36th Infantry Division’s field artillery Battalion in 1940. When he was sent overseas in March of 1944, he left behind his new bride, Edith Anson, whom he married in August of 1943. At that time, they were expecting their first child.

By the time Howard and Windeler took off on that fated Independence Day, their 344th Field Artillery Battalion had been temporarily separated from the 36th Infantry Division, and attached to the 90th Infantry Division to support the liberation of the Cotentin Peninsula. That day, they were intended to assist in directing the artillery firing on infamous Hill 122.

They were never able to land. Their Piper L4 was hit, and crash-landed in a farmer’s field near Prétot, tragically ending the lives of both servicemen. Howard was survived by his young widow, Edith, and his parents, Dr. and Mrs. A. Philo Howard. Windeler was survived by his parents, Mr. and Mrs. Robert Windeler.

While no definite cause for the crash is listed in the official records, servicemen present in the area on July 4th testified that the shell which took down Howard and Windeler’s aircraft came from an American gun– likely a 155mm Howitzer. With so many shells in the air, both celebratory and offensive, it was more than likely that an accident would occur. Still, no units claimed responsibility for a friendly fire incident. The wreck remained where it fell, abandoned, for decades, and eventually disappeared, along with the memory of Howard and Windeler. Almost.

That is, until the owner of the field where the Grasshopper crashed met with the French historian of the 90th Infantry Division, Henri Levaufre, to share the story. “I remember one day meeting with a local farmer in a village named Prétot not too far from Hill 122 who told us about the wreck of a US observation plane,” remembers Christian Levaufre, chairman of the Normandy 44-90th Infantry Division Association, and Henri’s son. “He had even kept a piece of the aircraft spar that he gave to us” (2024). The piece of the Grasshopper remained in the senior Levaufre’s possession until his passing in 2019.

In 2019, Ryland Howard, the baby whom Alfred and Edith had been expecting prior to Alfred’s death, got in touch with Henri. Henri was able to share that he was aware of the incident and knew the location, but he passed away soon afterward. Mr. Howard then got in touch with Christian directly. In order to surprise Mr. Howard upon his arrival, Christian explained that he was planning a visit to Normandy to look for the location of his late father’s crash, and requested Mr. Levaufre’s help. Mr. Levaufre agreed, withholding that he knew exactly the location of the crash, and that he even had a piece of the plane itself.

Surprised Mr. Howard was, and he was thrilled to see not only the site of the crash, but the chateau where his father spent his last night, on July 3rd, 1944. Mr. Levaufre was also able to give Mr. Howard the piece of the spar from his father’s Grasshopper, having recovered it from the depths of the senior Mr. Levaufre’s collection, and felt that Mr. Howard “was happy to bring it back to San Antonio and show it to his children,” these being Cpt. Alfred Ryland Howard’s grandchildren (2024).

Keeping it a secret from their father, these grandchildren soon also contacted Mr. Levaufre with the idea of setting up a memorial to their grandfather and Windeler at the site of the crash. Mr. Levaufre recommended that a place in downtown Prétot would be preferable, with space for parking and more foot-traffic, and offered to begin the process for them.

A small monument dedicated by the children of Lt. Gene Williams, a paratrooper who was killed in an early attempt to liberate Prétot, was already standing in a nice location, so Mr. Levaufre reached out to the mayor of Prétot, Mr. Thierry Renaud, for permission to place a similar memorial for Howard and Windeler nearby. Thus the creation of the monument began.

In the process, it was decided to also remember the other men of the 90th who liberated Prétot the day before Howard and Windeler were killed– those of the 3rd Battalion of the 359th regiment.

The memorial takes the final form of a rectangular marble stele, which bears a bronze plaque honoring Howard and Windeler, an aluminum silhouette of a Piper L4 like the one they flew, the 90th Infantry Division insignia, and a carved message to the men of the 359th. The combination of memorials and materials on one stone brings together the legacy of men who likely never met, yet, who fought with the same heart and the same patch for the same cause.

The inscriptions are all written in French, but translate to the following. First, for Howard and Windeler: “On July 4, 1944, a Piper L4 observation plane responsible for adjusting the fire of an artillery Battalion of the 90th Infantry Division was shot down near here, killing both crew members./ Pilot: Alfred Ryland Howard- Houston Texas/ Observer: William Windeler- Oakland California/ Never forget them, for they died for your freedom.” (Levaufre, 2024). Then, for the men of the 359th: “In memory of the men of the 90th Infantry Division who fell for the liberation of Prétôt on July 3, 1944” (Levaufre, 2024).

The entire process was kept a secret from Mr. Howard by his children, in order to surprise him once more, and the dedication was originally planned for the end of May, 2021. However, Covid-19 restrictions prevented the Howard family from traveling to France. Thus, the monument was pre-dedicated in May of 2021, and a final, official dedication occurred a year later, on May 28th, 2022, with the Howard family in attendance. Ryland Howard was shocked and delighted by the proceedings.

No descendants of William Windeler could be found, and because of this, Mr. Levaufre “brought Ryland with me to celebrate Memorial Day at the US cemetery, and we went to lay a flower on Windeler’s grave” (2024). According to the local American Battle Monument Commission Archives, the pair were the first to ever visit his grave.

The dedication shown by Mr. Howard and Mr. Levaufre is a beautiful exemplification of the silver lining to these events. The collaboration between their families demonstrates how acts of remembrance can bridge generations and cultures, from something as simple as the gift of a forgotten airplane spar, to the erection of an eternal memorial.
The stele at Prétot stands not only as a monument to Howard, Windeler, and the other men of the 90th Infantry Division, but as a physical reminder that, through connection to and respect for the past, pain and loss can be transformed from something that seems senseless and painful, to something that can touch hundreds, if not thousands, of lives. Each visitor to the stele helps preserve the legacy of the fallen, and the legacy of those who stand to remember them. This memorial is a testament to the power of simple remembrance.

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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 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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