Mothers' Darlings of the South Pacific: The Children of Indigenous Women and U.S. Servicemen, World War II 9780824858292

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MOTHERS’ DARLINGS OF THE SOUTH PACIFIC

MOTHERS’ DARLINGS OF THE SOUTH PACIFIC The Children of Indigenous ­Women and U.S. Ser­vicemen, World War II

Edited by

Judith A. Bennett and Angela Wanhalla

University of Hawai‘i Press Honolulu

Kindly supported by the Marsden Fund Council from Government funding, administered by the Royal Society of New Zealand

© 2016 University of Hawai‘i Press All rights reserved Printed in the United States of Amer­i­ca 21 20 19 18 17 16

6 5 4 3 2 1

Library of Congress Cataloging-­in-­Publication Data Names: Bennett, Judith A., editor. | Wanhalla, Angela, editor. Title: Mothers’ darlings of the South Pacific : the children of indigenous ­  women and US ser­vicemen, World War II / editors, Judith A. Bennett and   Angela Wanhalla. Description: Honolulu : University of Hawai‘i Press, 2016. | Includes   bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2015035917 | ISBN 9780824851521 cloth : alk. paper Subjects: LCSH: Pacific Islander Americans—­Oceania. | Children of military   personnel—­Oceania. | Abandoned children—­Oceania. Classification: LCC DU28.1.P25 M68 2016 | DDC 940.53/1610830995—­dc23   LC rec­ord available at http://­lccn​.­loc​.­gov​/­2015035917

University of Hawai‘i Press books are printed on acid-­free paper and meet the guidelines for permanence and durability of the Council on Library Resources.

To all the mothers and their darlings across the South Pacific and beyond

Stories do not explain. They seem to, but all they provide is a starting point. A story never ends at the end. Th ­ ere is always a­ fter. And even within itself, even by saying that this version is the right one, it suggests other versions, versions that exist in parallel. No, a story is not an explanation; it is a net, a net through which the truth flows. The net catches some of the truth, but not all, never all, only enough so that we can live with the extraordinary without it killing us.

Contents

Acknowl­edgments

xi

Abbreviations

xix

Prologue: War Comes to the Pacific

xxi

judith a. bennett

Introduction: A New Net Goes Fishing

1

judith a. bennett and angela wanhalla

1. Bora Bora: “Like a Dream”

31

judith a. bennett

2. “­There Are No Commoners in Samoa”

42

saui‘a louise mataia-­milo

3. New Caledonia: The Experiences of a War Bride and Her Children

83

kathryn creely

4. No Bali Ha‘i: New Hebrides

118

judith a. bennett

5. Wallis (Uvea) Island: A Dif­fer­ent Kind of Love Story

146

judith a. bennett

6. Tonga in the Time of the Americans

165

judith a. bennett

7. Kai Merika! Fijian Children of American Ser­vicemen

183

jacqueline leckie and alumita durutalo

8. “I ­Don’t Like Maori Girls ­Going Out with Yanks”: Māori-­American Encounters in New Zealand

202

angela wanhalla and kate stevens

ix

x  Contents

9. The Solomon Islands: Off the Radar

228

judith a. bennett

1 0. Marike Koe: The American Children of the Cook Islands

243

rosemary anderson

11. On the Atolls: Gilbert Islands

270

judith a. bennett

Epilogue

300

angela wanhalla, judith a. bennett, and rosemary anderson

Appendix 1

309

Appendix 2

311

Notes

315

References

347

Contributors

365

Index

369

Acknowl­e dgments

Above all, we thank our participants for sharing their stories and lives with us. We mention many by name in the accounts, and o ­ thers are t­ here ­under pseudonyms. We felt honored to have had your contributions and hope this book w ­ ill help you and ­others to more fully know that your lives and ­t hose of your families continue to have significance. We also remember with gratitude ­t hose who have passed on during this research and the many dead who can no longer tell their stories. We commend them, the dead and the living, to God. As the “chief investigator” of this Mothers’ Darlings Proj­ect, I would like to thank all the members of the team, including ­those who assisted initially but ­later left the proj­ect for personal reasons. Special thanks go to Marsa Dodson, our first tireless research assistant who early in the proj­ect found and interviewed so many Cook Islands’ participants, as well as a c­ ouple of ­others from other countries. Her work and sensitivity in this regard w ­ ere outstanding. I also thank Phyllis Herda who assisted in several ways with the Tongan aspects of the research. I warmly thank my friend, colleague, and collaborator, Angela Wanhalla, whose even composure I can never hope to duplicate. Kate Stevens and Lucy Mackintosh supplemented Angela’s interviews with research in the New Zealand archives and in U.S. newspaper rec­ords, respectively. Jacqui Leckie and Alumita Durutalo ­were a complementary and productive duo for research in Fiji. Saui‘a Louise Mataia-­Milo’s work among the Samoan participants is a singular and courageous contribution, not without cost to her among her own ­people where such matters are rarely discussed beyond the ­family. Based in San Diego, Kathryn Creely has added par­tic­u ­lar value to this collection through her sensitive case study of a New Caledonian w ­ oman who strug­gled to survive in the United States but whose f­amily t­ here and in New Caledonia have now reconnected through Kathy’s patient research. We are all the richer for this history. I am especially grateful, as we all are, to Rosemary Anderson, who worked initially as a research assistant and, when the need suddenly arose, wrote the chapter on the Cook ­Islands, calling on her own knowledge of war­t ime pressures on ­t hese islands. Her per­sis­tence in tracking down lost connections with U.S. families has been xi

xii  Acknowl­ e dgments

a major strength of this proj­ect and of lasting benefit to the families concerned, some of whom are mentioned in the book. The original plan for this proj­ect was for the designated research team of four plus a research assistant to work among ­people from par­tic­u ­lar islands. One of the designated researchers had to withdraw for personal reasons, so I took her place for one of the island groups. B ­ ecause none of us was fluent in French we had deci­ded to concentrate on islands where En­glish was the main foreign language. Happily, I found a Wallis man, Petelo Tufale in Vanuatu. He agreed to be part of this research while Kathryn Creely, as mentioned earlier, provided a New Caledonian case study. I was able to research Bora Bora and added that as another chapter to cover the bases in the French Pacific. The rest of the team—­Wanhalla, Leckie, and I—­worked on the islands we knew best from earlier research. I had planned to work in Samoa, but soon realized that my former student, Saui‘a Louise Mataia-­Milo, being Samoan, could do this research far more ably, so I left it in her capable hands. In 2010 when I was in Vanuatu ­doing research, by chance I met a former undergraduate student of mine. Discussion over the worst red wine Steve Talley has ever been presented with led to his interest in making a documentary related to this proj­ect. Unfortunately, this discussion occurred a­ fter our funds had already been allocated according to the strict categories of the Marsden Fund, but the University of Otago did provide substantial support. With the subsequent help of Tele­v i­sion New Zealand (TVNZ), one of the stories of the U.S. reunion of the Beren f­ amily was broadcast on 28 August 2011 in an episode titled “Generation GI” of Channel One’s Sunday Program. Steve had to use his personal funds to capture the Michigan reunion on film. He and co-­producer Peggy Holter w ­ ere then contacted by TVNZ who happened to be covering Arthur Beren’s trip from the New Zealand end, and both parties agreed to share their respective footage for the Sunday Program and for the University of Otago proj­ect. A follow-up documentary made by Steve and Peggy about the return of the Willess ­family to American Samoa appeared on 26 April 2012, as the “World War Two Love Story of Homer and Vaofefe Willess” on Māori TV, New Zealand. With some reallocated funds from savings from the Marsden grant, Steve and Peggy have since made a film of the Gaeng sons’ search for both their U.S. ­father and their Māori ­mother. Aspects of ­these stories ­were presented in a fifty-­minute documentary titled “Born of Conflict,” broadcast on 25 April 2014 (Anzac Day) on Māori TV, as well as on YouTube. ­These programs have had a major impact on ­people’s lives and understanding. Even as I write this in June 2014, in the last week we have had two emails and a visit from ­people who believe they have a U.S. ­father. We are

Acknowl­ e dgments  xiii

grateful to TVNZ for the opportunity to bring the fruits of this research proj­ect to the public. We all thank Steve and Peggy for their unique role in d ­ oing history through film and for their patience with book-­oriented historians who have learned so much from them. We are pleased and encouraged to see that research in relation to indigenous ­women and children was taken up in 2014 in Australia by University of Sydney-­ based Victoria Grieves and associates ­under the auspices of the Australian Research Council in the proj­ect, “Children of War: Australia and the War in the Pacific.” In New Zealand when the Mothers’ Darlings proj­ect first received some publicity in late 2009 Angela Wanhalla and I w ­ ere inundated by a torrent of emails and letters, primarily from children of  U.S. ser­v icemen, whose mothers w ­ ere ­either from New Zealand or the Pacific Islands. Th ­ ere was only one email that criticized the awarding of public funds for this research. “A waste of money,” wrote the anonymous person, who went on to say that such funding would be ­better spent ­going to health and education spending in New Zealand. His was a singular negative voice, but we listened. It soon became clear from t­ hese many communications and from what participants ­later told us that most wanted to find out more about their U.S. fathers and families. This had not been the initial aim of this research, but we again listened. We realized that what we intended and what was needed had to be reconciled to reciprocate the trust and generosity of the participants in sharing their experiences, so we did a considerable amount of searching for relatives; often hours spent ­doing research on websites brought nothing, especially when a common surname was all we had. We also knew that the terms of our funding imposed limits on our searches. We could not become full-­time professionals working at reconnecting families, so Angela, with the help of Geoffrey Hughes from Web Ser­v ices at the University of Otago, designed a webpage with information to assist any searchers to find out for themselves about pos­si­ble f­amily links. See http://­w ww​.­otago​.­ac​.­nz​/­usfathers. As this research was drawing to a close, we also received many emails of thanks from t­ hose seeking and sometimes finding relatives, as well as from t­ hose who now know that they ­were not the only ones with such a war­time legacy. From the tone of ­t hese communications and ­t hose participants we got to know personally, we feel that we now can offer a defense to our first critic. The p ­ eople we have assisted (and often had assisted us) seem to have gained health benefits, if the mea­sure is the holistic well-­being of body, soul, and mind. As I mentioned earlier, we continue to receive one or two new email inquiries about  U.S. fathers

xiv  Acknowl­ e dgments

e­ very week or so; thus t­here still seems to be a need among many. In terms of education too, we hope that our small contribution via this book, as well as the film documentaries, ­w ill broaden understanding of the war in the South Pacific, its impact on socie­ties, and how marriage between U.S. ser­v icemen and South Pacific indigenous ­women was virtually impossible. Angela Wanhalla and Erica Buxton have calculated that about only forty such marriages occurred, mostly with part-­indigenous ­women (by descent), with only about fourteen being from the smaller Pacific Islands and the rest from New Zealand. With this understanding of the cruel politics of race, t­ hose socie­ties that in the postwar years so condemned their daughters may now see the wider context and remove any taint of stigma from t­ hese mothers and their children. We all thank the Marsden Fund, Royal Society of New Zealand, for its generous support. Without this funding ­t hese stories of war­time would remain hidden in time’s dark recesses. We hope we have fulfilled its trust in the proj­ect and achieved all the objectives we laid out in the original application for funding. The University of Otago has been constant in its support and advice. Many across the university have contributed a ­great deal. In par­tic­u­lar, we thank the Division of Humanities, the Department of History and Art History, and the Department of Anthropology and Archaeology. Right at the start, Elaine Webster gave brilliant advice regarding the application to the Marsden Fund and was enormously encouraging with requisite form completion! We are also grateful for their map-­making skills to Les O’Neill (Department of Anthropology and Archaeology) and the late Bill Mooney (formerly in the Department of Geography). In the Department of History and Art History, the administrative staff, Sue Lang and Peter Cadogan kept finances straight and IT matters u ­ nder control, respectively. Our former head of department, Barbara Brookes was supportive throughout the proj­ect. Members of the Department of ­Music, particularly won­der worker Stephen Stedman, are all thanked for their support in sound recording of the Samoan song, “Tofa Mai Feleni” for the documentary. The singers gave freely of their time and talents. We thank Christine Anesone of the Pacific Islands Center and m ­ usic students, Metitilani Alo and Joel Amosa, for their golden voices. Joanne Galer and Megan McPherson (Marketing and Communications) w ­ ere very active in assisting with publicity for the aims and outcomes of this proj­ect, which led many now-­adult children of the war years to contact us. Lisa Davis, formerly of the Research and Enterprise Office, gave us useful ­legal advice in regard to contracts. Richard White advised on copyright matters. Helen Nicholson, then-­Acting Deputy Vice Chancellor (Research), was particularly encouraging in her support and effective in finding funds for the film proj­ect.

Acknowl­ e dgments  xv

A very sincere fa‘afetai to the director of the Pacific Islands Center, Tofilau Nina Kirifi-­A lai, whose advice, support, and enthusiasm have helped this proj­ect from the start. We also gratefully acknowledge the cultural advice of the Samoan Head of State, Tui Atua Tupua Efi Tamasese, in regard to the use of the old Samoan song, “Tofa Mai Feleni.” We are both humbled and honored to have had such kindness and alofa bestowed on this work. My personal thanks go to my former supervisor, long-­time friend and mentor, Murray Chapman, Emeritus Professor of Geography, University of Hawai‘i, for sage advice on vari­ous matters from start to finish. All the following have assisted in one way or another with support, advice, hospitality, facilitation, information, photographs, translation, publicity, and kindness. We ask any we have omitted to forgive our fragile memories. To mention specific contributions would almost need another book, but brevity does not signal any lack of sincere appreciation: Marcellin Abong, Latileta Adiseru, Aiono Fanaafi Le Tagaloa, Gary Anderson, Frederic Angleviel, Arimatang, Pula Tavita Asa and Lina Pula Tavita Asa, Petra M. Autio, John Basco Baremes, Graham Boyle, Bwebweniti Brechtefeld, Maria Brown-­Benesh, Terry Brown, Peter Brueggeman, Greg Burnett, Takeua Burnett, congregation of Geddie Presbyterian church in Port Vila, Tess Camacho, Margaret Chung, Tui Clery, Jeanette Jiako Costa, Maurice Costa, Jeanne Coutavas, John Craddock, Joanna Daiwo, Rod Ewins, Fiso Evelini Faamoe, Stewart Firth, Bess Flores, Eleanor Naua Fong, Gabrielle Fortune, Ian and Lala Frazer, Namu Fred, David Galvin, Helen Gardner, Eliki Gaunavou, Wilson George, Jan Giesselink, Theresa Haeo, Lyn Haywood, Richard Hewett, Freddie Higgins, Simon Høgh, Dianne Holmes, Judith Huntsman, Johnson Iavma, Nathan Itonga, Kent Jay, Tarcisius Kabutaulaka, Florence Kalfau, Michel Kalorib, Roy Kasalik, Alai Kavana, Joe Keli, Adi Romera Nasolo Kisi, Maria T. Kerslake, Eleanor Kleiber, Marcelle Lallul Koinde, Ismet Kurtovitch, KVZK TV News Team (American Samoa), Sairusi Lagivala, Arthur Lavine, Rhoda Lavine, Hugh Laracy, Manino Salamo-­Leaupepe, Leaupepe Mulinu’u Leaupepe, Tara Leckie, Nanette Lela’ulu, Christine Liava’a, Frances Ligalevu, Jeanne Lindsay, Naita Michel Lolomai, Robert Lowry, Maria Lucas, Lucy Mackintosh, Sean Mallon, Cyril Manlaewia, Mary’s Motel staff in Tarawa, Ueantabo Mc­Ken­zie, Peter McQuarrie, Melanesian Bro­t h­ers’ Chester House in Honiara, Leasiolagi Malama Meleisea, Noel and Lois Mamau, Rosalie T. Matai’a, Agness Matemotu, Adi Meli, Frank Meriki, Monica Miller, Taiatu Sulutumu Sasa Milo, Matafonua Moa, Vitolia Mo’a, Pearl Montrose, Kate Bernier Morad, Tony Morelli, Adrian Muckle, Kimaere Nabaruru, Gordon Nanau, Martha Naua, Anne Naupa, Ruta Nenetaake, David Norah, Eliane Ouillemon, Isabelle Paillard, Bernardette

xvi  Acknowl­ e dgments

Palaud, Don Paterson, Lachy Paterson, Sylvia Paterson, Bruce Petty, Joel Po, Guy and Maureen Powles, Dorothy Prince, Elaine Pullar, Greg Rawlings, Ralph Rengenvanu, Ruth Richardson, Jean Robet, Margaret Critchlow Rodman, the late John Roughan, Antonina Schmidt, Ruby Schmidt-­R ipley, Penny Schoeffel, John Sexton, Max Shekleton, Ruta Sinclair, Isalei Sioa, Alexandra Brewis Slade, Arthur and Maretta Solomon, John Spurway, Frances Steel, Ewan Stevenson, ­Peter Stone, Sailau Suaalii-­Sauni, Margaret S­ ullivan, Kirata Taano, Taiatu Mose Ta’ei, Alaima Talu, Afioga Masiofo Filifilia Tamasese, Tiam Tanetoa, Lafaitele Fualuga Taupi, Tautolo Charlie Agaoleatu and Meleane Tautolo Agaoleatu, Seiuli Vaifou Temese, Ashlea Terry, Ken Tufunga, Adi Makelesi Tavaiqia, Juiel (Tiura) Tearatoa, Carmen Temata, Margaret Tepui, Marukii (Kii) Tereu, Jenny Bryant Tokalau, Ole Tominiko, Peter and Dorothy Traill, Julian Treadaway, Linda Uan, Willy Uan, John Usuramo, K. Roger Uwate, Howard Van Trease, Vanuatu National Cultural Council, Rey Vuiyasawa, Michael Walsh, Paerau Warbrick, Alan West, Anatasi Wilson, Sandra Winton, Willess ­family, Pascaline Wor Wor, as well as our anonymous readers and the University of Hawai‘i Press. For their assistance and dedication to the rec­ords of so many ancestors, we also thank all archivists and curators of collections at the following institutions: Alexander Turnbull Library, Wellington; Auckland Museum; Archives New Zealand in Auckland, Wellington, and Dunedin; Hocken Collections, Dunedin; Department of Internal Affairs, New Zealand; New Zealand Police Force; ­Western Pacific Archives, University of Auckland; National Archives and Rec­ ords Administration (NARA), College Park, United States; National Archives of Fiji, Suva; National Archives of Solomon Islands, Honiara; Catholic Archdiocese rec­ords, Honiara; National Museum of Samoa, Apia; National University of ­Samoa, Apia; University of the South Pacific, Suva and at Port Vila, Honiara, and Tarawa campuses; Catholic Archdiocese rec­ords, Port Vila; Ser­v ice des Archives de Nouvelle-­Calédonie, Nouméa; the Walter Lord Trust, Gilman School, Baltimore; and the Radio Heritage Foundation. Any errors in this book are my responsibility. We feel privileged to have had so much support. Most of all, we are grateful and humbled to have been able to do this research that, to borrow from Kathryn Creely’s words, took us to places that we never expected to visit. Some ­were physical locations, but many ­were terrains of the heart and spirit. On behalf of all who have worked on this book and the associated documentary film (Born of Conflict), I hope that this contribution to the history of the South Pacific ­will lead to a better understanding of the unforeseen and hidden social and emotional consequences of World War II and militarism in what, to

Acknowl­ e dgments  xvii

all of us, is our part of this small planet, this unique and much beloved “Ocean of Islands.” Judith A. Bennett Dunedin/Ōtepoti, Otago/Ōtākou, South Island/Te Waipounamu, New Zealand/Aotearoa

Abbreviations

AJHR Appendix to the Journals of the House of Representatives ANZ Archives New Zealand, Wellington ASSRON Air Ser­v ice Support Squadron AWOL absent without leave BP Burns Philp Co. Ltd BTC British Consul, Tonga Series CFNH Comptoirs Français des Nouvelles Hébrides GEIC Gilbert and Ellice Islands HMS His Majesty’s Ship HMSO Her/His Majesty’s Stationery Office, London ID identity KNA Kiribati National Archives, Tarawa LMS London Missionary Society M Monsieur MESC Ministry of Education, Sports, and Culture MP minute paper MWEO Māori War Effort Organ­ization NA National Archives of the United States, College Park, Mary­land NAACP National Association for the Advancement of Colored ­People NASB National Archives of the United States, San Bruno, California NHBS New Hebrides British Series NZH New Zealand Herald PC patrol craft PDQ pretty damned quick PMB Pacific Manuscripts Bureau

xix

xx  Abbreviations

PX RG SMSM SOPACBACOM T/5 TNA USAAF USMC USS VKB WPA WPHC

Postal Exchange and Store rec­ord group Missionary Sisters of the Society of Mary South Pacific Base Command U.S. Army rank of technician fifth grade  National Archives of ­Great Britain, Kew, London United States Army Air Forces United States Marine Corps United States ship Vola ni Kawa Bula Western Pacific Archives, University of Auckland Library Western Pacific High Commission

Names of islands during war­time and currently: British Solomon Islands Protectorate Gilbert and Ellice Islands Colony New Hebrides Western Samoa

Solomon Islands States of Kiribati and Tuvalu Vanuatu Samoa

Prologue War Comes to the Pacific Judith A. Bennett

In the Pacific, the war with Japan began on 7/8 December 1941, with the bombing of several ships of the U.S. Pacific fleet at anchor in Pearl Harbor, Honolulu. On the same day, the Japa­nese bombed other U.S. bases on Guam and Wake Island. That day, to the west of the International Date Line, the Japa­nese attacked the British colony of Hong Kong as well as the Philippines, Thailand, and Malaya. Prior to this sudden and well-­executed series of Japa­nese offensives, the United States was beginning to prepare for the strong likelihood that Japan would enter the war on the side of the Axis powers (Germany and Italy). Earlier in 1941 the United States had begun to construct a system of airfields across the Pacific to Australia, in case its access to its colony of the Philippines was blocked in the northern Pacific where the Japa­nese held much of Micronesia as a mandated territory since World War I. The “Ferry Route” plan was to link Hawai‘i, the Line Islands, the Phoenix Islands, Fiji, New Caledonia, and Australia with the Philippines. With mainly a civilian work force, work began in October 1941 on Christmas Island in the Line Islands group and soon a­ fter on Canton Island. A ­ fter negotiations with the British and French, respectively, construction also began on Fiji and New Caledonia. ­These airfields ­were not complete when the Japa­nese attacked Pearl Harbor, but that event certainly led to a redoubling of efforts to allow American heavy aircraft to get to Australia, a key defensive location. By the end of December, American B-17 aircraft w ­ ere making the flight across the South P ­ acific. Despite U.S. involvement in the war, Japan continued its thrust into Southeast Asia and the Pacific. It was already in control of Vichy French Indochina since September 1940. Australia’s small force in Rabaul, New Guinea, fell to the Japa­nese on 23 January 1942, and Britain’s massive naval and army forces in Singapore surrendered to the e­ nemy on 15 February 1942. The Japa­nese bombed Australia’s northern outpost of Darwin four days ­later. The Dutch and their allies in the East Indies and the British in Burma ­were overwhelmed by March 1942. A small unit of Australian troops as well as the administration fled from Tulagi, British Solomon Islands, just before the Japa­nese occupied the area on 3 May xxi

xxii  Prologue

1942. The Americans in the Philippines surrendered in early May, and U.S. Army general MacArthur withdrew to Australia where he became the supreme Allied commander of the Southwest Pacific—­a zone that included much of Southeast Asia, Australia, New Guinea, and the northern Solomon Islands. To the east and south of the equator, the command area was the South Pacific, whose commander was Admiral Ghormley from July 1942 to ­until October when Admiral Halsey took over. Overall control of all the Pacific commands, including also the North Pacific and the Central Pacific, fell to Admiral Nimitz. The princi­ple of unified command, however, ceased in April 1945 when MacArthur assumed control of all U.S. land forces in the Pacific while Nimitz controlled the navy. ­Under the agreed Allied princi­ple of unity of command, all their forces—­t he Dutch, French, British, Australia, and New Zealand—­were ultimately ­under the command of the Americans. This book focuses on the South Pacific command area. Such a rapid ­enemy advance throughout early 1942 struck fear into the isolated Australian and New Zealand inhabitants in the western Pacific and into many of the peoples of the South Pacific Islands. Britain’s “fortress” of Singapore had failed to protect Australia and New Zealand, and the British could not defend their colonial territories in the islands of the Pacific. Australia and New Zealand made no secret of the fact they looked to the United States for assistance, though they understood full well that the United States would only do so to protect its own interests. Despite British pressure on Australia to leave the Australia Infantry Force’s two divisions in the M ­ iddle East to support the Allies, Prime Minister Curtin recalled t­ hese ­battle-­hardened men to fight in Papua (southeast New Guinea) and New Guinea where they proved highly effective. With assurances from the United States that U.S forces would be stationed on New Zealand, Prime Minister Fraser of New Zealand agreed to leave the bulk of the military in north Africa as part of the overall Allied strategy. Nonetheless, New Zealand allocated the Third Division of its army plus air and naval forces to the British Pacific Islands and the defense of New Zealand. ­A fter some negotiations, the Australians in March 1942 helped to install a ­Free French leader in New Caledonia, to the relief of the F ­ ree French and the Americans. Many strategists believed New Caledonia would be a prime target for the Japa­nese ­because of its mineral wealth of nickel and chrome. Though the French w ­ ere allies they, like the British, had their land forces concentrated in the northern hemi­sphere, so its military played no major role in the Pacific conflict. The Australians supported New Caledonia with supplies and markets for much of the war. New Zealand sent most of the Third Division to New Caledonia in late 1942–1943 as a garrison force. ­A fter months of training for jungle fighting it moved up to the Solomon Islands to support the Americans in August 1943. New

Prologue  xxiii

Zealanders had played an impor­tant initial role in garrisoning Fiji in 1940, where they subsequently trained a commando force of the Fijian army. With the Fijians they fought in the Solomon Islands and Bougainville, as well as supporting U.S. units ­t here and in north New Guinea by maintaining airplanes and ­running the sawmills. Australian and New Zealand civilians also made a significant contribution to the Allied cause as suppliers of fresh vegetables, meat, and fish to the U.S. forces in the South Pacific. Meanwhile, the United States intensified war­time production to equip its forces for the Pacific. It soon began to send men to the South Pacific to build and garrison bases to stave off the Japa­nese advance and prepare for the c­ ounter-­offensive. By March 1942, t­ here ­were 80,000 Americans in the region and another 290,000 ­were allocated to that theater to arrive before the end of the year. The order of the chapters in this book largely follows the sequence of U.S. occupation of the South Pacific bases (see Appendix I). Although American Samoa unsurprisingly was fortified first in January 1942, we begin our study with the second base at Bora Bora so that Western Samoa, the fifth to be occupied, can be considered with American Samoa in chapter  2. By October 1942, the Japa­nese had occupied some of the Gilbert Islands. It took a major offensive by the United States to drive them out at Tarawa in November 1943 with ­great loss of life. This last base area is thus discussed in the last chapter in the book. The United States set about isolating Japan and its army. Without shipping, the island nation of Japan would lose the war and the territories it controlled. U.S. victory over the Japa­nese naval force at the ­Battle of the Coral Sea in May 1942 prevented the Japa­nese from taking Port Moresby, Papua (southeast New Guinea) on Australia’s doorstep. Soon ­after, in early June 1942, the ­Battle of Midway confirmed U.S. naval supremacy, which effectively weakened the strength of the overextended Japa­nese forces. Allied submarines, primarily American but also British and Dutch, attacked Japan’s military and merchant shipping in Southeast Asian waters. It became harder for the Japa­nese to resupply their scattered garrisons and maintain their armies in China. A few months a­ fter Midway, the first land ­battle against the Japa­nese in the Southwest Pacific was won by the Australians at Milne Bay, Papua; this was followed by the start of the long but successful American campaign to drive the Japa­nese army out of Guadalcanal, British Solomon Islands, in the South Pacific Command in August 1943. The Japa­nese ­were now on the defensive. With the Australians ­doing much of the fighting in inland Papua and New Guinea, with assistance from the U.S. military along the coasts, the Americans pushed their forces northwest from the Southwest and South Pacific, island hopping and bypassing some strategically unimportant Japanese-­held islands, such

xxiv  Prologue

as Nauru. They defeated the Japa­nese in the north Pacific at bloody battles at Saipan in the Mariana Islands in mid-1944, the Caroline Islands in September–­ November 1944, the Philippines in 1944–1945, and Iwo Jima in February 1945. In March 1945, U.S. planes firebombed Japa­nese cities, resulting in a huge loss of civilian lives. The Americans invaded Okinawa in June. A ­ fter the atomic bombing of Hiroshima and Nagasaki in August 1945, Japan surrendered. At each of ­t hese major island battles and several ­others in between, many of the American men who had spent time on the South Pacific bases or in transit through them lost their lives.1 The role of t­ hese South Pacific bases changed over the course of the war. Some ­were reduced to refueling bases that monitored traffic, particularly ­a fter mid1943. In ­t hose bases that saw ­little action, men tended to become bored and often sought out the com­pany of the local inhabitants to socialize or to just feel part of a ­family for a time. Major bases—­for example, New Caledonia, Viti Levu (Fiji), south Santo, and New Zealand—­housed hospitals for the sick and wounded troops and facilities for the repair of ships and other craft. ­These bases too, as war drew to a close, ­were where the U.S. forces assembled ­great quantities of war equipment for pos­si­ble reclamation, sale, or disposal. So it was not ­until the fighting in the northern Pacific ended that the larger bases w ­ ere closed. To enhance morale and to save money, the U.S. authorities w ­ ere quick to return their men to the United States to be demobilized—­w ith no option to remain anywhere e­ lse. For example, by December 1945, 90 ­percent of U.S. naval personnel in the Pacific w ­ ere back home. A few Americans stayed on into 1946–1947 to ­settle claims by civilians and governments, sell off war surplus, and to sign off U.S. property to the islands’ administrators or destroy it.2 The Americans may have departed, but they left more than discarded equipment ­behind: some literally left a living part of themselves and, often too, lost loves. This book is about t­ hose children of war and their indigenous mothers.

Introduction A New Net Goes Fishing judith a. bennett and angela wanhalla

Late in 1999, as one ­century was ending, I (Bennett) sat in the U.S. National Archives at San Bruno, California, reading rec­ords pertaining to U.S. military bases in the war­time South Pacific.1 Outside the quiet public building, some ­people who worked in the storage areas of the archives ­were having their lunch in the sunshine. I could hear them calling and joking across the patio area. ­These ­were ­Samoans speaking the language. In my mind, I was momentarily carried to the very islands I was reading about. Suddenly I experienced an inter-­island relocation of imagination when a Fijian man appeared at the reception ­counter, near where I was working. I overheard him saying that his ­father was an American ser­viceman from the war, and he wanted to know if the archives had rec­ords of ­t hese men. I recall being overwhelmed on his behalf by the difficulty of such a quest b ­ ecause all he could offer the archivist was his f­ ather’s first name. So that is how I began to ask questions about the indigenous ­women of the Pacific and the children they had with U.S. ser­v icemen during World War II. All my research that followed on the war’s impact on the South Pacific environment told me that, by and large, ­t hese ­women and their children ­were absent from the official military rec­ord.2 Was this ­because they ­little concerned the military, or had information about them been omitted or expunged from the rec­ord as being too sensitive a subject? Barely a trace of t­ hese intimacies remained in San Bruno’s dry papers, some still dusted with war­time white DDT powder in old cardboard cartons opened by me, it seemed, for the first time since they had been placed ­there. American military archives elsewhere echoed the same silence. So my questions, along with t­ hose paper archives, w ­ ere reshelved, to be called on sometime in the ­f uture. That f­ uture became the present in early 2010 when, ­under the auspices of the Royal Society of New Zealand Marsden Fund, a group of scholars began a proj­ect to discover the stories of the children, their mothers, and, in some cases, their fathers, most of whom never again saw the small families that they had created in the islands of the South Pacific.3 The central question was why ­t hese histories had been ignored. We wanted to know how ­t hese mothers coped with such 1

2  Introduction

abandonment and what they and often their wider families had expected from ­t hese affective relationships. We sought to uncover the reasons why the men did not marry t­ hese ­women, whom at least some loved very dearly. And we wanted to understand the fate of the children: how did they fit into their respective socie­ ties? Did the mothers suffer shame or rebuffs by their ­people once the Americans left? Did the military and colonial officials care about such relationships? Was ­t here any significant difference among the colonial administrations in the South Pacific—­France, Britain, New Zealand, and the United States—in terms of their reactions to war­time romances and their consequences? What did the U.S. government do to assist the children? To try to answer ­t hese questions, our research team, of course, looked at all the written histories of this period to discover if such questions had been asked before, just as some of us combed the military, colonial government, and church rec­ords to find some clues, as well as to provide a context. But our richest and best sources proved to be the stories of the children of the war and, in some cases, their mothers and other relatives. We thank ­t hese keepers of the past very sincerely, ­because there w ­ ere no pieces of paper filed away in the vaults of archives amid DDT and dust. ­These ­were and continue to be lived stories of real ­people who still carry their past in front of them.

Voices of the Ignored: War Stories of ­Women and Their Children This book rec­ords the lives of some of t­ hese children, which we estimate to be 4,000 in number, their mothers, and occasionally of their fathers, a few of whom, probably about a dozen, returned to the South Pacific to their families to try to eke out a living when the war was over (see chapters 1, 2, and 10 on Bora Bora, Samoa, and the Cook Islands, respectively).4 Moreover, the relationships with ser­v icemen ­were not simply a discrete World War II phenomenon, ­because an enduring militarism dictated that U.S. Coast Guard and Navy personnel w ­ ere still in the waters of the Gilbert and Ellice Islands into the 1950s and 1960s as adjuncts to U.S. nuclear testing. They too left fatherless children, just as did the Americans involved in Operation Deep Freeze based in Christchurch, New Zealand in the 1950s and 1960s. Several of ­these children have contacted us during our research. Among the clamor of war’s myriad narratives, ­t hese ­women and children, the most faint and ignored voices, have stories to tell. Almost all ­t hese ­women lost their Americans, many of whom had been their darlings, and w ­ ere left to raise their own island darlings as best they or their wider f­ amily could. All of ­t hese ­people who shared their stories wanted to be heard but most talked to us in

Introduction  3

the hope of finding the hidden, s­ ilent side of their genealogy, part of their blood and bone—­not for gain, but for love of lost ­family and for peace of mind. Most of ­these accounts are oral histories from the children; some are from the mothers and grandchildren. ­Those mothers who are still living are now well into their eighties and nineties, and many are enfeebled. Some of the participants died during the proj­ect’s three years. For most mothers and children, the stories have not been easy to relate, though grandchildren are less burdened by feelings of betrayal, shame, or loss than their parent. We know that ­t here are hundreds more stories to be told, but not all are ready to tell them. We have used oral history to capture the rich texture, varied experiences and voices of indigenous mothers and their U.S.-­fathered children. Since its first academic appearance in the 1940s, oral history has developed into a popu­lar method for uncovering “hidden histories,” bringing alive the perspectives of ­t hose social groups who do not normally appear in the written rec­ords.5 It has been deployed, with par­tic­u­lar success and sensitivity, to access the ­human experience of ­t hose who lived with the extraordinary, notably during times of stress such as war. In this context oral histories, in the form of testimonies, often have the capacity to help individuals heal from past traumas, with a rich scholarship now dedicated to remembering the survivors (and victims) of twentieth-­century wars. For this reason oral accounts have laid bare the emotional dimensions of war—­a ­matter not always easily accessed through the often dispassionate language of official and military correspondence. Although scholars recognize that oral accounts have their problems, particularly when it comes to the reliability of memory, prac­ti­tion­ers of the method stress that the value of the approach lies in its capacity to push historians to listen to the past, to hear how p ­ eople speak and capture the cadence and tone of the voice. ­Here historians are invited to take account of inflections and patterns in speech, the emotional range expressed through words, and the capacity of oral accounts to reveal continuity and change in a life. As a result, oral accounts help us understand how an event like the Pacific war has marked the lives of individuals and families across the generations and into the present day. For t­ hese reasons we have refrained from intervening in and editing the transcripts that feature in the chapters of this book in order to retain the au­t hen­tic voice of ­t hose who shared their ­family stories and personal experiences. World War II, we are reminded, did not end on VJ day, but s­ haped the fortunes of the children born in its shadows as they grew into adults, married, became parents, and raised their own children. The circumstances of their birth s­ haped their ­f uture lives of t­ hese “war babies,” sometimes in harsh ways. Th ­ ose fathered by American forces in occupied Germany, for instance, ­were cast as the children of the ­enemy; their mothers ­were

4  Introduction

often characterized as collaborators or as prostitutes, while the children’s lives have been marked by a high rate of institutionalization. In the South Pacific theater the Japa­nese only advanced as far as the central Solomon Islands and appear to have left no children (see Map I.1). Children fathered by American ser­v icemen during war in Japan, ­Korea, and Vietnam had the burden of being of mixed ancestry and ­were also often rejected by their ­family and wider society, abandoned on the streets, institutionalized, or a­ dopted out.6 In ­t hese countries the children of Americans ­were ­little tolerated, as reflected in the labels applied to them. In Vietnam they are described as the “children of the dust”: like dust, t­ hese war babies are easily dismissed and ignored by local and U.S. authorities alike.7 Children of American ser­v icemen born to indigenous mothers in the South Pacific do not share the same history of systematic and ongoing social exclusion that defines the experience of “G.I. babies” born out of war in Asia or Germany. Although the oral accounts indicate some mothers used the mechanism of customary adoption, it was rare for them to be ­adopted outside the ­family; institutionalization or complete abandonment was also unusual, though it seems that in New Zealand formal adoptions of Māori children of mixed ancestry sometimes occurred. ­Until 1946, in New Zealand child support grants (­family benefits) ­were awarded at the state’s discretion by need and commonly to married ­women, which usually meant that any ex-­nuptial baby was ­adopted, fostered, or taken in by other ­family members. In the war years the numbers of such children increased, so groups such as the Society for the Protection of W ­ omen and Children agitated for increased state assistance. In 1946 the state provided a universal ­family benefit to mothers, but unfortunately not to deserted mothers or mothers of illegitimate children.8 Shame often meant that most mothers of such war­time children preferred not to be subject to state scrutiny for discretionary consideration and so surrendered the child to f­ amily members or for adoption.

Speaking Silences Each chapter in Mothers’ Darlings focuses on an island story, tracing the impact of the American forces on place, communities, and families. At the center of each island story are personal and emotional accounts of love, loss, and grief. In Polynesia, we saw a divide between the eastern and western islanders: Cook Islanders and the ­people of Bora Bora ­were more open about ­t hese aspects of their heritage including ex-­nuptial births, whereas Samoans and Tongans displayed more shame and w ­ ere less forthcoming. Much of this varying response was based on societal view of the uses of marriage as social mobility. Well before the war, the combined

Introduction  5

Map I.1. The Pacific theater, shaded area indicating extent of the Japa­nese advance, 1941–1943, in relation to the geographic regions of Melanesia, Micronesia, and Polynesia.

effects of severe depopulation in the eigh­teenth and nineteenth centuries and, as significant, the demands and policies of colonial rulers in western Polynesia (including Tahiti, Hawai‘i, and the Cook Islands) eliminated most of the chiefly structures, their authority, and avenues to power. In contrast, in Samoa and certainly in Tonga, major chiefs retained much of their influence, though often moderated, particularly by Chris­tian­ity. Thus dynastic marriages, as before Chris­tian­ity’s advent, meant that female virginity prior to marriage still was highly valued and perhaps more so now that chiefly men could rarely make more than one marriage. In Samoa too, when new avenues opened to advancement and prestige, such as the church or Western education, contenders for local titles, which w ­ ere often not strictly hereditary, could see a path to enhancing their reputation via a strategic marriage to a w ­ oman of a respected f­ amily. Such families likewise wanted their daughters to advance by such auspicious u ­ nions. Perhaps less interested in

6  Introduction

romantic love, many elders knew from experience that with a good marriage a lasting, committed love could follow.9 Researchers’ contact with participants was limited in some areas, particularly on the smaller islands, which meant that some ­women and their children did not know about nor could participate in this research. Some lived on islands that w ­ ere so distant that the researcher might have had to spend a month traveling ­t here or waiting for unreliable ships to appear (see chapter 9 on the Solomon Islands). ­Others declined to contribute their stories for a range of reasons—­a ll originating in the fundamental ­human motivations of love or fear. One man who had much success in life could not talk about his experience b ­ ecause of his love for his ­mother, who suffered so much when her American partner of almost a year who had promised to return was never heard from again. O ­ thers ­were concerned that making their origins public would insult adoptive parents or hurt other members of the larger ­family so stayed ­silent out of love for them. Some feared that they might lose rights to land to opportunistic relatives; o ­ thers simply feared the consequences if the wider society knew the story, even in cases where evidence suggested that, at least among an older generation, it was common knowledge, though discussed in secret. For some, as indeed for many w ­ omen of Eu­ro­pean descent in Australia and New Zealand, it was a case of if they (and their families) did not speak of ­t hese war­time intimate relationships that produced ex-­nuptial children, then they never happened. Thus some children may not know they had an American f­ ather ­because e­ ither fear or love had dictated that their families hide such knowledge. Yet the socie­ties of small islands are not the best places to try to lose a past, as some mothers who had been s­ ilent for years learned when interrogated by their war­time children once they gained hints of their true paternity. Researchers too w ­ ere not immune from love and refrained from approaching ­women whose participation might have caused them shame. ­There is no doubt that ­t here ­were indigenous w ­ omen of easy virtue who sold “sins to the sailors” in all the islands; they ­were well known in their communities, but ­were a minority, along with a few professional inter-­island prostitutes of mixed and Eu­ro­pean ancestry from Fiji and Tahiti.10 Even so, ­after the fevers of war­time, many of ­t hese “easy” ­women turned their lives around. At least one potential Melanesian participant with a most colorful war­time past was not approached ­because shaming in front of o ­ thers would likely occur. She is now an aged and worthy grand­mother and g­ reat-­grand­mother, and in her culture, the wider f­amily and friends would have been privy to any discussions with a researcher. But many wanted to tell their story. Often it was the first time anyone had asked them about it. Some wanted to share their pain, o ­ thers to show how they had made something of their lives in spite of a hard start. Several wanted to show

Introduction  7

how loved and accepted they had been in their wider ­family and that their lives had been good; many simply wanted to say how not having a ­father changed their life trajectory, and almost all wanted to know their f­ ather or at least, given the passage of time, to know his ­family in the United States. This absence of a paternal story was at the heart of their quest. Overall, though t­ here are often common themes among participants’ experiences, their stories are many and complex and as varied as the homelands within their g­ reat ocean of islands. Silence, common among the mothers of some socie­ties, such as Samoa and Fiji, was not theirs alone. We know from this research that most fathers did not reveal to their families in the United States that they had fathered a child. Some ­were already married or engaged, and many feared the reaction to admitting having had a child by a “native,” particularly if they w ­ ere from southern states.11 We found too that a ­couple of American families, who answered our initial inquiries about a male relative having been in a par­tic­u ­lar country, went s­ ilent when presented, no ­matter how ­gently, with the possibility that their deceased brother, ­father, or u ­ ncle might have had a war child. This was a war story they did not want told. For them, it was better that the darkness of ignorance cloak what the light of knowledge could not repair. Yet many of the veterans remembered their South Pacific sojourns. Some, even at the time, ­were certain that their South Pacific children would be ostracized by society (see chapter 10 on the Cook Islands). Many felt shame once they realized they had not always behaved well in the South Pacific in regard to the civilian population and came to understand the consequences of their intimate relationships. During 1963–1964, two retired colleagues formerly of the University of Otago went on an extensive tour across the United States. Everywhere they went, once ­people knew they ­were from New Zealand, ex-­servicemen, with a more sober perspective than in their youth, approached them and apologized for their be­hav­ior during the war—so much so, that the visitors stopped revealing they ­were New Zealanders.12 In addition to the concerns of some of the indigenous socie­ties studied, ­t here are power­ful official forces that still seem to want to maintain the silences evident in the military archives around such affective relationships. Soon ­after this proj­ect began, we met with David Huebner, the U.S. ambassador to New Zealand and Samoa, during a visit to the University of Otago in early April 2010. One of his aides had expressed interest in the proj­ect, and we ­were politely received. However, the ambassador seemed to think that our research was on New Zealand war brides who went off to the United States to join their husbands at war’s end. The U.S. embassy had very recently collaborated with the National Army Museum at Waiouru and Heritage New Zealand (formerly the Historic Places Trust)

8  Introduction

to produce an information kit for schools relating to the U.S. marines in New Zealand, including their war brides. Once the true focus of the Mothers’ Darlings proj­ect emerged, the ambassador lost interest. ­After he told us that such children would “only want compensation” from the U.S. government, we could see that this topic would not gain any traction with the ambassador. As this research draws to a close, we have yet to hear one participant voice any plea for compensation. Among our South Pacific participants, the heart is far more impor­tant than the wallet.

The War as History On anniversaries of impor­tant battles in New Zealand, Americans, led by their ambassador, commemorate their links with this country in an idealized version of the war­time occupation. The United States’ diplomatic ally, New Zealand welcomes this marking of history.13 Yet, for ­people living everywhere in the South Pacific but in New Zealand—­and for many ­t here also—­World War II evokes only fading memories.14 For anyone born a­ fter say, the mid-1960s, the war has limited personal meaning and few, if any, memories. In e­ very in­de­pen­dent South Pacific island state with an elected government, more recent generations are rarely concerned with the barrage of the “memory work” about World War II—­museum displays, commemorative ser­v ices, films and other media, school texts, touring photographic exhibitions, theater per­for­mances, refurbishment of monuments, tourist parks, and trails, as well as a steady output of war history publications—­ that goes on in nations such as New Zealand, Australia, the United States, and vari­ous Eu­ro­pean countries.15 World War II anniversaries and commemorations, so popu­lar in the Western world, come and go with few paying heed: just a tiny group of expatriates, headed by the diplomatic staff, and a few old indigenous soldiers who actually served with the Australian or New Zealand forces lay wreaths amid the bustle of daily urban life, then quietly adjourn to a club or one of the High Commissions for refreshments on days such as Anzac Day on 25 April.16 Younger Pacific Islanders, however, are not given to memorializing other peoples’ wars and are bemused by ­t hese rituals. 17 Written histories of World War II result from historians ­doing their own “memory work,” asking par­tic­u­lar questions that interest them, just as we w ­ ere ­doing. Thus the “answers” in history books are determined by the questions that the historians believe are impor­tant at the time they research and write. Generally, the rec­ords in the archives remain as they always have been (though occasionally other material is discovered), but over time, another group of historians

Introduction  9

probes them to answer a dif­fer­ent set of questions. The history of the histories of this time and place reflects this pro­cess. Historians have produced a multitude of accounts of the war in the South Pacific with Japan, which began with its aerial bombing of the U.S. naval base at Pearl Harbor on 7 December 1941. However, the most read, if not the most memorable account, of this war was written not as a history but as a series of short stories. James Michener, the official U.S. naval historian for the region in 1945, wrote Tales of the South Pacific in 1946, for which he won the Pulitzer Prize two years ­later.18 Few have read his official naval base histories, but every­t hing Michener learned on his visits to Pacific Island bases for data collection provided him the substance for his novel.19 His book made the U.S. term for the command region “South Pacific” (see Map I.2), a byword for succeeding generations. ­People for years have been entertained by the stage show of that name, Rod­gers and Hammerstein’s musical adaptation of some of Michener’s stories and a huge Broadway success when it opened in 1949. Beginning in 1958, a succession of film versions with the same title followed, and the play has been revived many times since. Michener’s book generally rang true to some facet of the experience of almost e­ very one of the two million U.S. ser­v icemen who passed through the South Pacific during the war. Practically all his stories w ­ ere realistic and unsanitized. Some might well have preferred t­ hese unadorned accounts to be forgotten b ­ ecause they revealed a side of war that home folks might have been better off not knowing. The stage version’s gloss of romance and appealing lyr­ics, however, catapulted the book’s sales to the two million mark.20 Some of the book’s action occurs on Espiritu Santo, a large U.S. base in the New Hebrides (Vanuatu), but its softer aspects speak of the Americans’ heady Bora Bora experience. Michener created an effective mélange of Pacific locales: for instance, a nondescript Melanesian hamlet in the western Solomon Islands—­“a truly pitiful place” on Mono in the Shortland Islands21—­gave its name’s musical ring to Bali Ha‘i.22 The most fantasized, mythical place in the Tales, Bali Ha‘i was the site of the tryst between Liat, the beautiful ­daugh­ter of “Bloody” Mary, a Tonkinese sharp trader in souvenirs and whiskey, and an enraptured young Lieutenant Cable.23 In many regards, Michener’s Tales of the South Pacific although a novel, dealt with subjects historians have only recently addressed: the social relations of the Americans among themselves and with the indigenous ­people, immigrant workers, and settlers; their racism and fears; their preparations b ­ ehind the lines, their loneliness; their temptations; and, away from the ­actual battlefield, their ability to enjoy life—­life that might be suddenly cut short.

Map I.2. The South Pacific Command area, Pacific theater.

Introduction

11

Soon after the war, men and a few women who had served among the Allies in the Pacific began publishing personal accounts and memoirs as well as collections of letters. In many cases these are accounts of the “ little” people, warriors who were just regulars doing their bit in the war. These accounts and hundreds of unpublished letters and diaries of the war indicate that most Americans, as well as the rest of the Allied ser vicemen, came to the Pacific with Hollywood-created views of the place and people.24 Hollywood fi lms provided American men with glamorized leading ladies (see Figure I.1). Dorothy Lamour was one, starring in several fi lms set in a fantasized South Seas. Her image became the ser vicemen’s reference for all things Pacific. In  U.S. letters and memoirs written about this theater, Dorothy Lamour abounds as the comparative measure for Pacific women—how much they seemed like or, more commonly in the western Pacific, unlike this alluring dark-haired white American in a sarong.25 These published and unpublished accounts of participants provide glimpses into the range of relationships that were the stuff of Tales of the South Pacific. The vast bulk of war stories, however, are military histories. Hundreds, if not thousands, have been written.26 Analyses of strategy, tactics, logistics, and supply dominate, along with accounts of leadership, inter-service relations, armaments, and equipment. In the diplomatic and political category, several historians have discussed the relationships of the Allies with Japan and with one another. Operational histories are plentiful, many featuring particular units or ser vices and their part in the war effort. The spotlight is commonly on the foreign ser vicemen as fighters.27 The victors may write the histories, but not all the victors or their supporters have had a voice. Until the 1980s the contribution of the Pacific peoples was portrayed primarily as a backdrop, with just a couple of chiefs or highly decorated men getting an occasional mention. Few accounts of sustained campaigns and government-commissioned histories, particularly those of the United States, even conceded that the island residents existed.28 Developments in global politics widened the historical field. By the early 1970s, all the colonial powers in the Pacific, except France and in some cases the United States, acknowledged that political independence for their dependencies was underway or inevitable, following postwar decolonization trends in South Asia and Africa as well as pressure from the United Nations. Historians of the Pacific began to reflect this gathering momentum. Instead of the former imperial histories, the historical lens became more island and islander-centered with the indigenous people portrayed as agents, rather than subjects of history. Much of the early work to about 1980 focused on precolonial encounters, the colonial period, and later, as part of that experience—the penultimate chapter, many would argue—indigenous involvement in World War II.

12  Introduction

Figure I.1. This wall of images shows the power of the Hollywood film at the Tutuila barbering establishment of Sgt. Anton Gardetto USMS (MI) at the marine base in American Samoa. His client is Cpl. Walter F. Knoof (NY), 15 January 1944. Along with Dorothy Lamour, ­t hese portraits include Bette Davis, Ingrid Bergman, Vivien Leigh, Susan Hayward, Bette Grable, Jane Russell, Jeannette MacDonald, and Rita Hayworth. Wall calendar “pin-­ups” on the left, about halfway down the wall, are in the style of works by George Petty and Alberto Vargas that appeared in men’s magazines, such as Esquire. (127 GW 822, no 69830, NA).

Forty years a­ fter the war ended, Pacific Islands’ p ­ eople finally emerged in written history as participants in and contributors to the war effort in their own region. ­After several accounts ­were published in the 1970s, a succession of publications began to appear from 1980 on, almost on a yearly basis and often based on oral interviews as well as contextual archival rec­ords and accounts by foreign ser­v icemen. Their appearance reflected the emergence of oral histories as legitimate sources of the past for professional historians, an insight most recently literate Pacific socie­ties took as a given.29 With a few exceptions, such as anthropologist Lamont Lindstrom, historians focused on the role of South Pacific island men; when w ­ omen appeared, their role in village society as a ­whole was the ­focus.30 ­Until the 2000s, men—as soldiers, as scouts, as coast watchers, as carriers,

Introduction  13

as sufferers, and as supporters or betrayers of the allies and the Japanese—­were the major actors.31 Thus, as agents in history, South Pacific ­women in the war largely remained invisible, as did their U.S.-­fathered children.32 Unlike mainstream war­time social history in other major theaters of war such as Eu­rope, this is largely a neglected field of study for the South Pacific,33 though t­here have been some few mentions of w ­ omen’s role in New Zealand.34 Male voices dominated the historical writings of the South Pacific. Much of this is b ­ ecause of the kinds of questions that interested predominantly male historians, among them indigenous scholars, but some of this lacuna can also be explained by the scant visibility of indigenous w ­ omen in the archives. All the researchers in the Mothers’ Darlings proj­ect have had to work, indeed ­battle, to elude “archival power”—­“the power to define what is and is not a serious object of research and, therefore, of mention.”35 With a few minor exceptions, such as ­women laundering the uniforms of U.S. ser­vicemen, war­time military rec­ords largely discuss ­women ­under two headings: health and crime. Venereal disease and the role of ­women as disease carriers concerned the military to such an extent that, like it or not, nearly ­every U.S. island base forced any ­woman suspected of being infected to undergo medical checks and, if necessary, treatment.36 Most colonial authorities ­were complicit, but a few lone voices defended the dignity of the ­women. As the last of the U.S. forces ­were about to leave Tarawa, one colonial medical officer refused to allow this procedure among all the ­women of Teaoraereke village when a sole soldier was found with a rare case of gonorrhea. Dr. M. Rose insisted, “To compel ­t hese ­women to undergo vaginal examination would amount to a technical assault, which would not be tolerated amongst a Eu­ro­pean community and which I w ­ ill not permit among the natives.”37 Even in New Zealand, ­women whom the police believed to be “idle and disorderly” and who ­were living “promiscuously” ­were checked for disease; ­others, who w ­ ere thought to be infected, had to produce a medical clearance or be sent to the hospital for testing and, if needed, “detained for up to six weeks for treatment.” Of course, although professional prostitutes in New Zealand ­were dealt with in this way, amateur sex workers and first-­time infected ­were not easy to detect and, if aware of the disease dangers, sought out their own doctors.38 ­Under the princi­ple of the unity of command, the U.S. force, with its overwhelming numbers and resources, had supreme authority in all military matters among the Allies. By association, in occupied areas, civilians w ­ ere often a focus of American concern.39 Colonial administrations cooperated, but sought in their own ways to avoid pos­si­ble disorder in public places caused by ser­v icemen seeking distractions in concentrated urban settlements or quiet villages. The French,

14  Introduction

worried about their “wives and daughters,” permitted brothels for ser­v icemen in Nouméa, the best known being the “Pink House”; its French ­women ­were regularly checked for venereal disease. Yet the American public was not to know of the less heroic side of their “boys” at war. The U.S. commander, General Patch, ­after negotiating conditions at the brothel with the French for the protection of the military, told the island’s high officials, the provost-­marshal, and se­nior medical officer A. King, “Remember gentlemen, that no ­matter what happens I am never to know that the h ­ ouse exists or that its activities are connected in any way with the United States forces.” 40And so another silence, partly discreet but highly manipulative in concealing real­ity, was enjoined on the military.41 In addition, the U.S. command ordered that this ­house be solely for the use of military personnel, but be off-­limits to African Americans ­because of its policy of racial separation in the forces; it wanted the French administration to remove a French ­family from a nearby ­house and install Kanak ­women ­t here for the African Americans. The furious French administration declined, pointing out that the Christian missions would undoubtedly disapprove of such a move and suggested that the Americans import their own “Negresses” and set up a tent brothel on the outskirts of Nouméa.42 Clearly, in the view of the U.S. military command, indigenous ­women had their uses and not only as sex objects. Other than concerns about venereal diseases, the odd positive comment in the archives about indigenous females pertained to their hospitable contribution to the ­mental health of ser­v icemen in social interactions.43 Ambivalent ­toward their demanding American ally, the French administration remained critical of U.S. sexual harassment of ­women of all ethnicities, be they French, Indochinese, or indigenous Kanak.44 ­Here and elsewhere, military vio­lence against w ­ omen, especially sexual assault, if reported and its suspects apprehended, usually incurred stern punishment, especially when African Americans ­were the supposed perpetrators; the harsh penalties ­were more a reflection of U.S. racism than of excessive criminality of African American ser­v icemen, who made up less than 10 ­percent of the U.S. forces.45 Military authorities published the punishments imposed.46 In some rape cases though, it seems that the ser­v icemen or their immediate superiors paid forms of compensation to the victims while never informing the higher authorities of such attacks.47 What­ever the case, the military needed to retain the goodwill of civilians to pursue their combat mission and so tried to support the social control of colonial governments. In regard to Western and American Samoa, Tonga, and the Cook Islands, military commanders very occasionally commented briefly on the “romances” and cohabitation, noting that they ­were many but temporary.48 In American

Introduction  15

Samoa, an intelligence officer reporting on the declining morale of the marines and the need to e­ ither send them home or into combat, mentioned that t­here ­were “no prostitutes for money,” but that men gave ­women “all sorts of clothes and knickknacks.” 49 Its new military governor, John Moyer, noted that the intimate relationships of 1942 ­were a natu­ral prelude to “the inevitable biological consequences” of the following year, though this observation remained buried in the draft of a letter that went, without it, to the Secretary of the Navy!50 Some fathers are thought to have provided a single payment of US $50 (­today’s equivalent US $670) for the upkeep of a child when they left Samoa but no official rec­ord confirms t­hese payments.51 A ­ fter the war, a very few fathers arranged maintenance payments for their children in American Samoa.52 We now know from the participants in this research (see chapter 11 on the Gilbert Islands and chapter 10 on the Cook Islands) that U.S. medical personnel sometimes cared for the pregnant ­women and often their babies, but none of this information was found in the military archives. Any war­time popu­lar account of the U.S. occupation came ­under the critical eye of military or civilian authorities. In a society where interracial “miscegenation” was anathema,53 the American girlfriends, fiancées, wives, sisters, and mothers of ser­v icemen serving in the Pacific w ­ ere not to be burdened with details of their men’s sexual or emotional involvements with ­women of color and their “nigger” babies.54 Harry Garo’s crude cartoon (see Figure I.2) reflects not only the longings of men stationed for a long deployment on a far Pacific island but also the fears that they might end up with such children, who would be unacceptable to their home folks. Some white American ­women could not even imagine their men consorting with “native” w ­ omen (see chapter 11 on the Gilbert Islands). The journalist Herbert Priday, an Australian war correspondent attached to the American forces, wrote a book published in 1945, The War from Coconut Square—­the square being a landmark in Nouméa. Well researched, his account was positive regarding the interactions among the Allies and between the Americans and the indigenous p ­ eople in the South Pacific Command. Nonetheless, it had to get past the U.S. censors. The original typescript contains the following passage regarding Aitutaki Island in the Cook Islands: To discourage romances from ­going too far, the US Army in its wisdom made it clear to the administration that marriages between members of the Forces and island w ­ omen would not be approved. However, in the case of children born of American fathers—­I am told t­ hese are not numerous—it was established policy to get the ­father voluntarily and in agreement with

16  Introduction

Figure I.2. Garo’s cartoon in “Snafupper” 1944, a cyclostyled news sheet by Bill Fountain, who was formerly in the U.S. Army in the enlisted reserve. His paper was circulated in New Caledonia u ­ ntil suppressed by U.S. intelligence agents. They w ­ ere concerned by the paper’s anti-­Semitism, anti-­administration tone, appeals to female military personnel for correspondence, and “mildly off-­color jokes.” This cartoon did not warrant any par­t ic­u ­lar censure. (P16–3 Mack, Frank, RG313 Naval Operating Forces C ­ ounter-­Intelligence Files, NA. Thanks to Kate Stevens who located this source.)

the girl and her ­family and the N[ew] Z[ealand] representative, to pay for the support of the child u ­ ntil 12 years of age. To this end a trust fund was opened with the Resident Agent. As $300 was considered sufficient to fulfill this obligation, the GIs paid up like gentlemen, finding that with almost complete lack of opportunity to spend money on the island this sum could be built up quickly.55 All but the first sentence was crossed out. Although the rest of the Aitutaki chapter remained intact and was published, the implication that some relationships ­were affectionate and responsible never went beyond the military archives, the fate of this “fund” unrecorded.56 Similarly, on Bora Bora, most men who fathered children w ­ ere said to have given about US $100 to the mothers when they left the island, but no official military rec­ord of ­t hese gifts has been found.57 Government rec­ords of New Zealand relating to Māori are relatively rich, largely due to the fact that Māori had been subject to state intervention since the ­mid-­n ineteenth c­ entury when a hardline assimilation policy was implemented through the schools (in an attack on the indigenous language and cul-

Introduction  17

tural practices) and the Native Land Court, designed to break up traditional communal owner­ship of land into individualized blocks. ­These colonial institutions produced an enormous amount of paperwork documenting the impact of colonialism on Māori communities, leaving the historian with substantial archives testifying to the power of colonial racial policy that reached into ­every facet of indigenous life. State intervention into Māori lives continued into the twentieth ­century, but the archive created by the government reflects official voices and perspectives, and is rather s­ilent when it comes to Māori w ­ omen’s views, feelings, and emotions. The patchy nature of the archive is even more pronounced regarding the island colonies of New Zealand and of other powers in the Pacific. Colonial archives, however, do offer some details about the lives of young w ­ omen particularly on the smaller islands, such as the Cook Islands, where proximity meant that resident administrators could not help but observe daily life. As the war drew to an end some noted an increase in divorce, b ­ ecause not all the ­women involved with Americans w ­ ere single.58 Although colonial administrations ­were aware of intimate associations, only occasionally, such as in New Zealand’s Cook Islands and briefly in British Fiji, was any official administrative concern expressed for the fate of the children who had been fathered by the Americans—­ and this concern faded from the colonial horizon as quickly as the ships repatriating the troops.59 Christian missionaries and indigenous pastors often deplored what they saw as the excesses of the military occupation, including overt sexual interactions. Yet, they and their churches, like most of the islands’ administrations, benefited from that same excess: an excess of American generosity with goods, donations, and assistance to schools and medical support, as well as cash to supplement fees and tithes.60 The Presbyterian missionaries in the New Hebrides (Vanuatu) reported favorably on the U.S. occupiers, many of whom w ­ ere Christian, though ­were concerned that for their indigenous followers “the dollar has taken the place of Christ in the hearts of many.” 61 In the two Samoas, the London Missionary Society recorded its biggest contributions ever from the ­people who ­were made very well off by American wages—­earned by the men working in construction and the ­women ­doing tons of laundry and ironing.62 Tongan churches also did well.63 In the Ellice Islands (Tuvalu) the pattern was similar.64 Missionaries, of course, condemned rape and prostitution. They tried to protect young p ­ eople, but accepted the h ­ uman condition and hoped that good sense would prevail once war receded. They ­were often the only expatriates who demonstrated sympathetic support for the plight of the mothers and war’s children (see chapter 4 on New Hebrides, chapter 11 on the Gilbert Islands, and chapter 5 on Wallis).65

18  Introduction

The Military, the State, and Marriage The only set of U.S. rec­ords located by this research that addresses in part the fate of some of the w ­ omen who had relationships with the Americans comes not from military or colonial archives, but from consular rec­ords, yet they seem incomplete ­because some cases appear to have been lost or never recorded (see chapter 5, the New Hebrides). For a non-­national to migrate to the United States from the South Pacific, a visa or permit had to be obtained from consular representatives in New Zealand, Fiji, or New Caledonia. Th ­ ese rec­ords of the state’s control of intimate relationships have proven useful in showing clearly the tests that ­were applied for aw ­ oman to be allowed to enter the United States and the precise calculation of her “racial” origin by percentage. In all theaters where U.S. forces ­were stationed military regulations empowered commanders to control the private lives of ser­v icemen, which extended to the right to marry.66 Both the military and the colonial governments had specific instructions from the  U.S. High Command that ser­v icemen could not marry ­women of what­ever ethnicity without their commanders’ permission and that commanders should use “their utmost influence to discourage” any marriage plans.67 Any proposed marriage was then subjected to scrutiny, especially in regard to the non-­American fiancée. Leaving aside the question of race, commanders had to ascertain the good moral character of the ­woman and explore ­whether or not she could be supported in the United States.68 Parental consent was also required where e­ ither party was ­under twenty-­one, and the ­couple needed to have known each other for at least six months. Chaplains ­were required to interview the parties.69 For example, in the 1945 New Caledonian case of American Glen Pope wishing to marry Georgette O’Connor, a ­woman of Irish and French descent living in Nouméa, the Catholic bishop among ­others was asked about her character. O’Connor was a reporter for the local, sometimes anti-­American, French newspaper, La France Australe and the owner of a gift shop frequented by American ser­v icemen; she had also been a candidate in local elections. She was thus in a position to have a ­great deal of information and contacts. In 1943, U.S. intelligence in New Caledonia secretly had her u ­ nder observation for “subversive activities” as a “courier for e­ nemy agents,” and although it found t­ hese charges unsubstantiated, it did gather a good deal of information and so could report in detail on her background.70 All this, of course, took time, which was precisely the purpose of an investigation in many, perhaps most cases: to cool the passions of romance. Such war­time international marriages in any military force ­were a distraction and, should the marriage falter, a likely source of ­legal and social complications, particularly for the ­women and any children unsupported by ­family in a foreign country (see chapter 3 on New Caledonia).71

Introduction  19

As early as 1942, such permission, however, was generally denied for marriages with indigenous Pacific w ­ omen72 ­because the military honored U.S. immigration laws. Consuls and other U.S. officials had to consider not only the national policy on immigration but also the varied state policies on marriage. By 1939 twenty-­nine of the forty-­eight states of the United States had anti-­miscegenation laws.73 As Peggy Pascoe states, In one state or another, all of the following groups w ­ ere prohibited from marrying Whites: Negroes, Mulattoes, Quadroons, Octoroons, Blacks, Persons of African Descent, Ethiopians, Persons of Color, Indians, Mestizos, Half-­Breeds, Mongolians, Chinese, Japa­nese, Malays, Kanakas [Hawaiians], Coreans [Koreans], Asiatic Indians, West Indians, and Hindus.74 Some states banned marriage between African Americans and American Indians, yet not between Whites and Indians. Many states included a definition of race by blood quantum, commonly one-­eighth (usually one ­great-­grandparent). So, if a person had one-­eighth or more “blood” from one of the non-­white racial groups, he or she could not marry a white person. In some states it was an even smaller amount—­one-­sixteenth and, at the extreme in relation to African Americans, “one drop.” 75 On the eve of the Pacific war, as Rose Villazor has shown, for a non-­citizen or potential immigrant who was married or planned to marry an American citizen, federal law—­which was supposedly constituted to not be concerned with domestic arrangements that ­were generally within the sphere of state control—­clearly marked who could or could not enter the United States to form a ­family.76 Thus a double hurdle of federal and state law confronted a potential foreign spouse. The war brought with it the additional hurdle of obtaining the permission of any ser­ viceman’s military commander to marry. Th ­ ese laws and requirements conspired to limit the possibility of U.S. ser­v icemen marrying indigenous ­women of the South Pacific. Although interracial couples in the South Pacific faced a number of barriers to marriage, some ­were able to make their relationship ­legal, but marriage did not guarantee entry to the United States. Any ­woman married to a U.S. ser­v iceman and who wanted to enter the United States also had to meet the requirements of naturalization. This was based on a combination of race categories and geography. In 1940 a revised Nationality Act came into force in the United States. ­Under this law, an American citizen could marry a non-­citizen but eligibility for naturalization extended to only “white persons, persons of African nativity or descent, and descendants of the races indigenous to the Western Hemi­sphere.”77 For months in mid-1944 the U.S. consulate in New Zealand was unsure w ­ hether or

20  Introduction

not New Zealand was in the Western Hemi­sphere ­because ­t here was no definition of its geographic range in the 1940 Nationality Act. By early 1945 both New Zealand and, more surprisingly, the islands in the South Pacific w ­ ere deemed well outside that hemi­sphere. The primary criterion for ability to migrate to the United States and for U.S. nationality, however, was the degree of the applicant’s “whiteness.”78 This was the guide for ­t hose administering U.S. policy at home and in consulates abroad, which held that Polynesians w ­ ere not living within the Western Hemi­sphere and thus ­were ineligible for U.S. naturalization.79 Consuls w ­ ere consulted regarding entry of all prospective wives to the United States. Their documents and the rec­ords of the American Red Cross are very revealing of the ­legal helplessness of the indigenous mothers and their children. Fully indigenous ­women or ­women of less than 51  ­percent “white” blood, as the U.S. consuls made very clear, should not be able to marry ser­v icemen and if they did, they could not enter the United States ­under the current immigration and naturalization restrictions (see chapters 3, 4, and 6). Even the War Brides Act of late 1945, which waived the quota limits on entry to the United States set ­under immigration law, was of ­little use to ­t hose in the Pacific who ­were deemed to reside outside of the Western Hemi­sphere: ­because they w ­ ere not eligible for U.S. nationality they could not enter the United States on a permanent basis.80 In Australia and New Zealand, by 1943, the Roman Catholic bishops ­were formally discouraging all marriages with U.S. ser­v icemen. In New Caledonia, by mid-1943, the Catholic bishop pronounced “against the contraction of war-­time marriages between New Caledonian girls and members of the United States forces,” other than in “exceptional circumstances,” a direction that suited the civil and military authorities.81 The concerns of the clergy ­were allayed somewhat when the number of requests for such marriages declined and marriages between U.S. ser­v icemen and U.S. Army nurses increased.82 The  U.S. limits placed on marriages with indigenous w ­ omen prevailed throughout the war and even a­ fter it ended, u ­ ntil 1947. By then, all but a few accountants and clerks of the  U.S. South Pacific forces ­were back in the United States.83 ­Because of per­sis­tent lobbying by ser­v icemen, families, and the Japa­nese American Citizens League regarding the huge number of American personnel who had formed intimate relationships with w ­ omen during the occupation of ­Japan, the  U.S. government amended the War Brides Act of 1945 for a single month—­July 1947—to suspend the exclusion of t­ hose in Asia and the South Pacific.84 This amendment applied to couples already married, with the “alien” spouse still waiting to enter the United States, and to ­t hose who could get themselves married within thirty days of the amendment’s effect. ­Those who married ­after the thirty-­day win­dow would not be able to normally enter the United States.

Introduction  21

­ ecause of the build-up in demand, another similar amendment in 1950 became B law providing a six-­month period for couples to marry. This was l­ater extended in 1951 to cover marriages and children of such marriages made a year before and a year ­after that amendment.85 Several Pacific Island ­women of mixed ancestry, including Monica Dias (see Tonga chapter 6) managed to get as far as Hawai‘i and, despite being illegal immigrants, ­were permitted to stay with their American husbands ­under the July 1947 legislation.86 In French New Caledonia, if a ­woman of mixed ancestry had been raised as a French person in the Eu­ro­pean manner or was presumed to have a French parent, she was legally a French citizen.87 This meant that if a métis New Caledonian ­woman who was identified as a French citizen w ­ ere judged by the military authorities to be sufficiently “white” by American standards, she could be permitted to marry an American ser­viceman and would qualify for entry into the United States.88 In New Zealand, a small number of Māori ­women managed to marry American ser­v icemen, but few ­were accepted for entry to the United States precisely b ­ ecause of policies based on the 1924 Immigration Act that made it clear “that Maoris could not be considered ‘white persons’ ” and reinforced by a district court ruling in March 1944 that a “full-­blooded” Polynesian could not be an American citizen.89 It was t­ hose Māori ­women of mixed ancestry who looked Eu­ ro­pean who w ­ ere able to gain l­egal entry into the United States during and a­ fter the war. In all the island groups, however, ­those ­women of mixed ancestry almost invariably had close and usually supportive emotional ties with their indigenous community, so leaving home to go to the United States was a major dislocation. On paper at least, the U.S. government did claim responsibility for the illegitimate children of its ser­v icemen. ­Under Public Law 625, passed by the 77th Congress in 1942, the United States made some provisions for dependent children, legitimate or not, to be maintained by a ser­v iceman ­father and by the U.S. government. However, obtaining t­ hose provisions required a court order in the ­mother’s country, and it could not be brought if the ­father had left the country. Practically, the bureaucratic procedures ­were formidable for the mothers of the children. When New Zealand pākehā (Eu­ro­pean) ­women tried to get support for their U.S.-­fathered children they ­were rarely successful ­u nless they could “prove” paternity or have the man admit it; moreover, once the man returned to the United States, the military could hide b ­ ehind the regulation that prevented the forwarding address of discharged military personnel from being given to anyone. Even the New Zealand crown solicitor proved unable to confidently interpret Public Law 625, but made no attempt to get American ­legal advice.90 Postwar, the International Social Ser­v ice (U.S. branch), groaning ­under the weight of paternity claims against U.S. ser­v icemen, summed up the real­ity: “It is almost

22  Introduction

impossible ­under our laws to establish paternity when the ­mother and child are in another country.”91 For American children of ser­v icemen in the United States, Public Law 625 was hailed as the “most liberal war­time provision ever made by any government in the history of the world for its fighting force,” but this was a hollow boast for the South Pacific children, removed from its beneficence by ­legal ignorance, rapid troop deployments, distance, and time.92

Among the Souvenirs The U.S. government and the military demonstrated ­little concern for the thousands of “­little amber-­eyed, half-­white youngsters” left in the islands and evinced scant sympathy for t­ hose fathers who wanted to marry their indigenous sweethearts.93 The common way to undermine the men’s desire to marry was to transfer them to another base or back home (chapters 3 and 4).94 As the war drew to a close, many military fathers tried to return to Western Samoa, but the military and the civilian administration prevented them from landing on the island.95 The postwar delay was so ­great that one man, who never was to know he was a ­father, returned to find that his American Samoan sweetheart had married another.96 The other few who did return ­after the war, such as Homer Willess (chapter 2) and ex-­marine Karl Lippe, had to ­battle the military bureaucracy to enter the American territory to marry legally. Willess wanted to make ­legal his war­time common-­law marriage, blessed by a Samoan pastor, but he had been deployed during the war to the Ca­rib­bean area, and the Navy refused him entry onto American Samoa. As soon as the war ended, he appealed to the U.S. Department of Veterans Affairs for help. The secretary of state intervened and directed all consular officials to assist him. He arrived in American Samoa in early December 1945 and had to surrender his passport. He legally married Vaofefe Manusina, but when he tried to leave American Samoa, the naval attorney, General Bivans, said he needed a new passport. The new one changed his status from a U.S. citizen to a “national,” the ­legal status of the American Samoans. When he entered Hawai‘i the U.S. immigration officials w ­ ere confused, and Willess had to get ­legal assistance to reestablish his citizenship status. ­After a de­ cade of working and living with his ­family in the U.S. territories of Wake Island and Guam, they all settled on the mainland.97 Marine Karl Lippe faced similar difficulties. He had formed a relationship with Malele Auamoeualogo early in the occupation and they had a ­daugh­ter, but then he was sent on to be part of the landing at Tarawa in late 1943. Posted next to Guadalcanal, he became desperate. A l­ ittle crazy, he tried to steal a sailboat to

Introduction  23

get back to Malele. He was court-­martialed and spent time in a military jail. Sent back to the United States at war’s end, he was refused permission to enter American Samoa. An appeal to the Chief of Naval Operations led to a successful petition to the civil administrator to allow Lippe in 1947 to return and marry Malele. Once married, he was unable to legally buy land in American Samoa, so he and his ­family lived in the fale (house) of his ­father-­in-­law Logo.98 Only the most per­ sis­tent of men could persevere despite such official discouragement. Americans trying to return a­ fter the war to other islands in the Pacific encountered less obstruction than from the protectionist American Samoan administration. The New Zealand administration allowed former ser­v icemen, Donald Long and John Harrington, to enter the Cook Islands a­ fter the war, even though they came initially on limited permits of six months. Long was also excused from the requirement to land at the port of entry and went straight to Penrhyn (Tongareva) as a passenger aboard the yacht Nomad.99 Both married and stayed on. Likewise, Fred Giles was permitted by the French authorities to return to his fiancée in Bora Bora. ­These men and many o ­ thers who did not or could not afford to return, such as Arthur Beren’s f­ ather (see chapter 10 on the Cook Islands), Melvin Burke (see chapter 6 on Tonga), and Arthur Warren (chapter 4 on New Hebrides), loved their partners in the islands.100 For a few, such as Lewis Benesh, his war­time love in Fiji waited de­cades to be reaffirmed. Love is something historians rarely speak of. Most who have in any way considered ­t hese intimate war­time relationships with indigenous w ­ omen portray them as simply sexual, status seeking, disreputable, and/or part of a commercial transaction. Moreover, they also have given ­little attention to love not only of a w ­ oman for a man but also of a m ­ other or a ­father for a child, and a child for a parent or caregiver.101 Yet t­ hese va­ri­e­ties of love create and express our humanity. Some in the military who had relationships with indigenous w ­ omen had their own con­ve­nient illusions that made it easier to leave the islands unburdened by guilt. James Michener, a married man who had an involvement with a Samoan ­woman, left no offspring ­because mumps in late childhood had rendered him sterile; yet he knew of the many children fathered by his countrymen. Along with many other Americans, Michener believed or liked to believe, perhaps from what he saw on his own special island of Bora Bora,102 that t­ hese children ­were trea­ sured, supposedly b ­ ecause of their paternity, and that the local chiefs would simply absorb them into their families.103 If Michener is to be believed, at least one Western Samoan chief, the ­father of his lover, gave him that impression: “Many girls ­going to have American babies. Good for Samoa.”104 Yet not all chiefs and

24  Introduction

their orators agreed with that opinion. Several ­were concerned about the increasing number of  U.S. fathered children, but could not easily control the young ­women. A small segment of female society, which before the war had drifted from one avaga or customary marriage to another, became more promiscuous and blatant. Chiefs expelled some of t­ hese ­women from their villages. This was but the extreme of the range of intimate and affective relationships intensified by war. Most chiefs deplored such a general moral decline, but their pride in fa‘a Samoa (the Samoan way or culture) caused them to refrain from complaining to the New Zealand administrator; one chief wrote that “such matters would embarrass him in his official relations with the representatives of the US forces, some of the officers of which are not themselves above reproach.”105 Yet once the Americans departed, Samoan society did not easily forgive t­hese young mothers who ­were with children but without husbands. ­These mothers then had to bear the shame of matters that their leaders ­were too embarrassed or too proud to discuss with the administration (see chapter 2). Some high chiefs of American Samoa, at least in 1945, ­were less judgmental. In the 1930s, pressured by the colonial administration and their own quest for American citizenship, they had generally accepted a 75 ­percent Samoan “blood” quantum for eligibility to lands and po­liti­cal titles.106 ­After the war they recommended a reduced blood quantum of 50 ­percent in light of a rapid spike in the numbers of children of American fathers, revealing an understanding stemming not only from a longer exposure to U.S. intimate relationships but also of how the intense excitement of war­time had affected Samoan society: No effort [from the United States] has been taken to provide support from the fathers of t­ hose [war] children. . . . ​Is this f­ ather an innocent man, or a criminal? No, this ­father was a soldier fighting for the good cause of freedom, but through nature, the child was given birth. Samoa in time to come w ­ ill never, in time to come, be pure Samoan.107 In Western Samoa, American residents, unlike the chiefs, ­were not reticent in condemning the United States for its inaction on behalf of ­these children. Catholic Marist priests, including Joseph Diehl with twenty-­five years of pastoral experience among Samoans, Latter Day Saints missionaries, and American merchants and planters petitioned the U.S. secretary of state in June 1946 for a resident consul to attend to American concerns, particularly “the children of American parentage.” Their firsthand observations speak well of the sincerity of the young parents, revealing a level of compassion that neither the military nor colonial governments displayed:

Introduction  25

Many of the fathers of ­t hese children wished to marry the ­women who became their mothers, but this was not in a single instance permitted by the military officers in command. Now, many of the fathers wish to return, marry the ­women, and support their children, but up to date no single ­father has been allowed to land. Also, many of the ­women, of good ­family and character, have expressed their wish to join their unmarried husbands in America, but without a consul ­here, this so far, has been impractical. No rec­ord has been found to show that this petition received any ac­k nowl­edg­ ment beyond the U.S. consulate in Wellington, New Zealand.108 ­After the U.S. forces departed, colonial governments w ­ ere even less concerned about the children and mothers, even in areas such as Bora Bora and Penrhyn in the Cook Islands where the ­people had become dependent on U.S. food supplies and thus suffered when the occupiers left. A high-­ranking New Zealand official, transferring that country’s unbending social condemnation of its own war­time unwed mothers and their progeny across to its Pacific de­pen­dency, deftly captured his government’s lack of sympathy for such expressions of female in­de­pen­ dence and sexuality: “it is estimated that approximately 800 children remain as ‘souvenirs’ of the American invasion” in Western Samoa.109 The South Pacific that the Americans encountered was a racialized Pacific where such “souvenirs” w ­ ere an embodied reminder of ruptured boundaries of both race and morality. Colonialism is built on power difference, and that difference readily adheres to vis­i­ble physiological markers of race, such as skin color and hair texture. Most white p ­ eople considered their technology, civilization, and morality superior, and thus themselves as well, to the ­people of the Pacific Islands, particularly the Melanesians (see Map I.1). All of the indigenous p ­ eople of the South Pacific had dark skins ranging from black, to brown, to dark olive from west to east across the region. Most white Americans, as James Michener knew, believed, “any person . . . ​who was not white or yellow was a nigger.”110 By early 1942 when colonial administrations ­were informed that the Americans ­were coming to fortify the islands, they did not want their dark-­skinned dependents exposed to the “Negros”—­t he African Americans in the military. Some of their U.S. military commanders felt the same. In the eyes of the U.S. commander, General Price, the Polynesian Samoan ­women ­were “primitively romantic.” Within his own ideas of racial hierarchies, Price ranked African Americans low, so he ordered ethnic pre-­cleansing: no African Americans ­were to be stationed in the Samoan command (including Wallis Island) ­because, although the admixture of Eu­ro­pe­ans with Samoans would produce attractive outcomes, any with African

26  Introduction

Americans would produce undesirables.111 The  U.S. commander of the Bora Bora base was relieved no “colored troops” ­were in his force.112 The New Zealand government sought to have as few African Americans stationed in their country as pos­si­ble. New Zealand’s administrator in the Cook Islands unofficially indicated he did not want African Americans in the islands, regarding them as a bad influence.113 In Tonga, the British consul expressed “misgivings.”114 Although the pro-­American British administration in Fiji acquiesced to the presence of  U.S. troops, the influential Eu­ro­pean community did not want “negro” troops stationed ­there b ­ ecause, as the U.S. consul discerned, according such men “Eu­ro­pean privileges” could cause dissatisfaction among the Fijians, who w ­ ere “not so far along the path of civilization as the negro.”115 And in the Solomon Islands when the war progressed, the British administration objected to the stationing of the 93rd Combat Division of African Americans.116 Indigenous attitudes to African Americans w ­ ere varied. Several historians have commented that Melanesians, who had experienced subservient roles as plantation l­abor, saw that t­ hese Americans w ­ ere “black” like them, yet had the same equipment and food that the military supplied to the white troops, so enjoyed equality (Melanesians seemed not to notice the racial separation of the units where few, if any, African Americans had other than a low rank). 117 This, however, did not mean that the Melanesians uniformly identified with ­these ser­ vicemen. Many w ­ ere, at best, ambivalent or, at worst, fearful of them.118 As Chris Dixon and Sean Brawley have shown, African Americans, for their part, considered themselves superior to the Pacific’s “natives,” identifying with a wider American culture.119 The Polynesians who encountered African Americans w ­ ere Cook Islanders, Tongans, Māori, and Fijians. Civilians generally ­were as accepting of the African Americans as they ­were of white Americans (see chapter 10 on the Cook Islands). Despite the British consul’s misgivings about having African Americans in Tonga, their conduct ­t here was praised.120 The Fijian commandoes attached to the New Zealand army, however, had a low opinion of the African Americans of the 93rd Combat Division on Bougainville. Moreover, the Fijians saw the poorly trained Melanesian Malaitans as “stupid ­little savages.”121 Thus turbulent currents of racist convictions circulated around the South Pacific as the occupation forces became embedded in the islands: of colonials ­toward their subjects and vice versa; of white U.S. ser­v icemen ­toward “niggers,” which for some included islanders and immigrants; of one group of indigenous ­people ­toward another; of African Americans t­ oward the indigenous ­people; of indigenous ­people ­toward African Americans; of colonial administrators ­toward African Americans; and, less recognized at the time, of the indigenous value placed

Introduction  27

on fair skin, common in Polynesia (see Map I.1). The war’s asymmetries would disrupt racial hierarchies and categories, but not destroy them. When peace returned, old habits of racial discrimination faced more per­sis­tent challenges on a widening front as colonial powers confronted imperial vulnerabilities that the war had both prompted and revealed.

A Social Tsunami Most island groups had been visited by a range of foreigners long before the war. Whalers, traders, planters, miners, mi­grant laborers, retailers, and colonial administrators, as well as hundreds of Christian missionaries, had come earlier to the islands, some arriving in the late eigh­teenth ­century with an increasing presence by the early twentieth ­century. But they came in ebbs and flows onto the islands’ shores over many de­cades, and their numbers rarely overtook that of the indigenous population. Fiji was the exception. On the eve of war, forty years of Indian l­ abor migration had led to their permanent settlement and a natu­ral population increase that w ­ ere threatening to outnumber the native p ­ eople.122 New Caledonia’s non-­native population was almost as numerous as the indigenous Kanak p ­ eople in the 1930s, but a third of that number w ­ ere mi­grant Asian workers, 123 destined ultimately for repatriation. Even so, ­t here was no pre­ce­dent for the massive, almost simultaneous arrival of the thousands of well-­supplied American occupiers in the early 1940s. This tsunami of young men from a very dif­fer­ ent culture and its beguiling attractions ­were difficult for socie­ties as well as local leaders and colonial administrations to manage. The South Pacific had no mono­poly on war­time’s challenges to the social and moral status quo, however. The world over, the presence of war meant that p ­ eople often acted differently to peacetime. Most socie­ties, ­whether in London, Paris, or Melbourne, exhibited many stresses in common with t­ hose in the Pacific, including the effects of flouting of sexual mores with transient occupation forces, as well as the cutting short of affective relationships.124 For large numbers of ­women in the countries of the Allies, including New Zealand, the absence of men meant new employment opportunities, on-­t he-­job occupational training, and a rise in earnings.125 In the islands of the South Pacific the indigenous men remained at home in all the territories, except New Zealand, Fiji, and, to a much lesser degree, New Caledonia, Tahiti, and the British Gilbert and Ellice Islands.126 Yet like the ­women living in the Allied countries, ­women in the South Pacific benefited from increased earnings. They received American cash for ser­vices such as laundry work and selling curios, fruit, chickens, and crabs. Young ­women, in par­tic­u­lar, earned gifts, goods, and cash by associating in vari­ous capacities with

28  Introduction

the ser­vicemen.127 In Fiji, with so many men and chiefs absent in the military, colonial authorities, including the Fijian leader and advisor on “Native Affairs,” Ratu Lala Sukuna, ordered young ­women living in the towns to go back to their villages ­under threat of fine or imprisonment for three months.128 In Western Samoa, several chiefs imposed village curfews and forbade ser­vicemen to “enter fales [houses].” ­These mea­sures designed to enforce separation of the native ­women from the U.S. military had a limited impact, however. Very few indigenous w ­ omen had been in paid employment before the war, and it is likely t­ hese opportunities and new roles gave many a novel feeling of in­de­pen­dence, which had previously been a gendered preserve of men (see chapter 7 on Fiji). The young men who also found employment among the Americans no longer held a mono­poly as exemplars of providers and hard workers who earned cash and goods. In competition with the attractive Americans, the same young men also lost their mono­poly as suitors. For ­t hose who could profit from the military bases, war­time thus challenged traditional gender roles. Novel moral vices threatened to unravel the social order: Samoans and Tongans made home brew for the Americans, gambling increased, and many developed a taste for cigarettes and alcohol.129 The ser­v icemen too, hungry for life and conditioned by Hollywood’s images of exotic “hula” girls and sarong-­clad beauties, challenged the Christianized values of island socie­ties and raised possibilities of enhanced status for some indigenous w ­ omen and their families. Michener’s Tonkinese “Bloody” Mary was not the only parent with ambitions for a ­daugh­ter’s marriage to a prosperous young American. Ser­v icemen never knew if they would survive the war; they w ­ ere young, lonely, and missed their w ­ omen and home life. Most white w ­ omen had left the islands at the beginning of the war to shelter in New Zealand or Australia, so only indigenous w ­ omen remained. In most island groups, ­women of mixed ancestry particularly appealed to the Americans. Many had a good command of En­glish and could move in both island and foreign society with confidence; some may have looked as if they w ­ ere Eu­ro­pean or white.130 Moreover, t­ here ­were considerable military constraints against socializing with indigenous w ­ omen in Fiji and New Caledonia where t­ here ­were significant urban as well as Asian populations, major American bases, and tight security.131 Yet ser­v icemen still found or created opportunities to engage with the indigenous p ­ eople. With smaller installations and fewer concerns about e­ nemy espionage, the rear bases of Polynesia ­were far less regulated. H ­ ere, the Americans found that the girls ­were “not exactly cut to the pattern of Dorothy Lamour” as some ran “considerably to heft,” but they w ­ ere “clean, and they smelled of flowers, and some of them w ­ ere extremely kind.”132 Natu­ral attraction soon took its course. For their part, most Pacific Island p ­ eople,

Introduction  29

though very familiar with imperialism, had a tenuous grasp of global politics and did not know if the power­f ul United States would come to be their new ruler and ­whether t­ hese ser­v icemen would remain on the islands. Many would have welcomed the change. ­Under their colonial rulers they had never experienced such material largesse as that provided by the generous and power­f ul Americans.133 Near the well-­established rear bases, ­after a de­cade of stagnation during the ­Great Depression, subsistence lives ­were transformed almost overnight by the arrival of the U.S. military. With seemingly l­ ittle effort or cost, suddenly the island peoples w ­ ere able to partake of the modern world of material comforts, improved ser­v ices, and novel entertainment. American ser­v icemen w ­ ere relatively wealthy. Even the least affluent non-­ rated, unmarried enlisted sailors earned US $66 a month (­today’s conservative equivalent US $875), with absolutely no living expenses except toiletries.134 ­These men w ­ ere young and clean, with a jaunty air absent from the colonial settlers ground down by the austere years of the pre-­war Pacific. Even t­ hose fighters hospitalized and recuperating well ­behind the ­battle zone drew sympathy and affection from the indigenous p ­ eople (see chapter  6 on Tonga). In t­hese rear bases, from Bora Bora to New Zealand, local ­people of all ages reveled in two to four years of exhilaration and hopes of bright futures: “Life was kaleidoscopic. . . . ​a soaring balloon.”135 They did not know when it would all end, but it did, almost as fast as it had begun. The Americans left. Neither the military command nor the U.S. government had to confront the consequences of their men’s intimate relationships and their fertility. For them, as indeed for some of the ser­vicemen, the peoples of ­these many South Pacific islands ­behind the battles became a distant memory, captured in the golden amber of war­time, persisting in their carefree hospitable ways, with or without war babies to raise. In such a remembrance vacuum, the stories of the Mothers’ Darlings could have virtually faded like the worn photograph of a lost f­ ather, if not for this proj­ ect and the concerns of the participants. ­Those whose lives ­were touched or indeed w ­ ere created by the war have a deep interest in it, at least as it was waged on their island. For all the participants, this study has provided a vehicle to reveal how a global war ­shaped civilian lives in islands considered by continental foreigners as “remote.” For many, it also revealed for the first time that their mothers’ American darlings could not have possibly married their mothers in war­time ­because of the impenetrable wall erected by U.S. legislation. Thus their loss was less due to a failure on their fathers’ part, but more the result of a U.S. immigration framework steeped in racial discrimination. For a few, this research has emboldened them—­some on their own, ­others with the help of the team—to contact new ­family members to share their love (see Epilogue).

30  Introduction

In Mothers’ Darlings, indigenous mothers and children, almost absent from written histories of military battles and victories, have broken out of the common conspiracy of silence of the military and colonial archives and often their own socie­ties during disturbing yet exciting times. Many young war­time mothers had held expectations of major and positive changes in their lives if their American partners had remained or returned. Yet hardly a dozen or so did, which created for most a legacy of extraordinary loss, as it did for many of the children, with an absent biological f­ather and no knowledge of their paternal ancestry and relations. Full identity longs for the history of blood and the geography of bones. The truths of the stories of t­ hese ­women and their children shared h ­ ere are their truths and what they can live with in their worlds, even when they still have not found all the answers to their questions. Like them, the historians who listened to their stories have learned, “A story never ends at the end. ­There is always ­after.”

C HA P T E R ON E

Bora Bora “Like a Dream” judith a. bennett

Was I dreaming? Never in my life had I seen such awe inspiring beauty. Coming from the war-­shattered island of Tulagi—­“Hell’s Kitchen” as we who ­were stationed ­t here called it, for me it was like entering heaven from the inferno of a living hell. —­Thomas J. Larson and Alex W. du Prel, Bora Bora History and G.I.s in Paradise: The Bobcat Proj­ect1

Thus Thomas Larson of the U.S. Navy, ­after months in the war-­torn Solomon Islands, encountered Polynesian Bora Bora in the Leeward group of French Society Islands in 1943. Captivated by its beauty and its hospitable ­people, he was to return eight times to the island a­ fter the war to conduct anthropological research. Bora Bora seemed a “paradise” to the first American forces when their large naval convoy moved through Teavanui Pass in the reef, anchoring inside the lagoon in February 1942 near Vaitape to establish one of the first war­time U.S. bases on foreign soil in the South Pacific (see Map 1.1).2 Most who came in on t­ hese warships had formed their idyllic preconceptions of this part of Polynesia from the first Hollywood production of Mutiny on the Bounty (1934), and some believed the popu­lar film, Tabu (1931) had been filmed on Bora Bora itself.3 Yet a­ fter the first month or two of disor­ga­nized haste spent building “Bobcat” as a fueling station on Bora Bora, the four thousand men of both the army and navy, but mainly the U.S. Army, ­were soon faced with a daily round of repetitive tasks, drills, and no combat action.4 Seven months on, Ervan Kushner recorded that ­t here was “nothing to indicate that morale was shot, but rather a general air of weariness.”5 For some, “the most beautiful island in the world” was not quite enough6: “[We] ­were down at Landing 5 at twilight. It is amazing how this beauty can enthrall for a moment and then the real­ity of the stagnation sets in and shakes us so badly.”7 Stagnation of the mind could take a heavy toll. During the occupation a few men had m ­ ental breakdowns, and one who had received no

31

Map 1.1. Bora Bora in the Society Islands, French Polynesia.

Bora Bora: “Like a Dream”   33

news from home committed suicide. One murder occurred: Private Windom killed a local man who had protested Windom’s advances t­ oward his wife.8 Except for this single terrible event, relations w ­ ere very cordial with the island’s ­people. Once their regular duties ­were done, the Americans could busy themselves with reading, writing letters home, watching movies, ­going to band practice, attending lectures presented on subjects such as criminal law, studying for promotion, and making gifts for the folks back home out of shells. Even so, most desired social contacts beyond their male compatriots and the amiable French liaison officer, the part-­Polynesian (demi) Francis Sanford, and his wife, Lysa; the Hedges (a stranded civilian American c­ ouple); or the Catholic bishop or Governor Orselli who occasionally visited from Tahiti. ­There was ­little won­der that men sought to engage with the local population of 1,300, attending their “hula” dance competitions and church celebrations, visiting families at home, diving and canoeing with the men, inviting villagers to the movies, and courting their young ­women. Courtship was not all that difficult, but opportunities ­were limited. The Americans found that this was a society where marriage was respected, but ­before marriage, a young ­woman could live with a man of her choice in a small ­house or with her ­family. The suitor was expected to provide personal gifts to ensure she remained his girl, with the arrangement to be ended by mutual consent, although often couples deci­ded to marry. If any children came of the u ­ nion before marriage the relatives on e­ ither side took them in as part of the f­ amily. “­Under the native code, ­t here is no concept of prostitution. The ­simple expedient of living together has not fostered a need for it.”9 Thus, at least for the time he was ­there, an American whom a girl liked could form a stable relationship. With the small number of young ­women, no more than about two to three hundred, most resident ser­v icemen never managed to find a girl. Certainly, in 1943, the 19,100 men on brief shore leave from U.S. ships in transit did not have much opportunity to socialize beyond the “endless hulas” that ­were the staple entertainment of the Bora Bora ­people.10 The Americans soon built up much social credit among the adults and made friends with the children. From the beginning of the occupation, their medical unit conducted health surveys and helped the sick, treating an array of tropical diseases such as yaws, as well as spectacular dental decay in the young. Sanitation units rid the island of mosquitoes to such an extent that between 1942 and 1945 no cases of filariasis occurred among the juvenile population—­although many old ­people carried the disfiguring weight of swollen limbs as a result of earlier infections with the endemic mosquito-­borne parasite.11

34  Chapter One

Occupation’s Po­liti­cal Economies In early 1942, Governor Georges Orselli had proved a canny negotiator with the Americans, using the urgency of their defense needs as diplomatic leverage. He was also aware that the Bora Bora ­people, along with most in the Leeward Islands, had long resented French colonial control. On their side, the Americans did not want to see the pro-­Vichy party return to power in French Polynesia ­because De Gaulle’s F ­ ree French supported the Allies.12 A fervent F ­ ree Frenchman, Orselli obtained a very good deal for the ­people of Bora Bora and of smaller Maupiti, and some of the associated largesse flowed on via visiting troops to Tahiti, all a safeguard against pos­si­ble local re­sis­tance.13 Not only did the French keep control of the island but they also would retain title to all permanent installations built by the Americans a­ fter the conflict ended.14 The U.S. forces early on agreed to supply imported foodstuffs for Bora Bora and Maupiti—­flour, sugar, rice, condensed milk, and sterilized milk—­and to supply kerosene and gasoline to the French government stores much of which would be sold to the ­people ­because non-­military ships ­were unavailable or not allowed to operate. The imported food had unintended consequences. The monthly supply of refined sugar at five tons, even if short U.S. tons, amounted to an astonishing seventy-­five pounds (thirty-­four kilograms) of sugar per head annually among a population of nearly 1,600 (Bora Bora’s 1,300 plus Maupiti’s 250). Add to that a quarter-­ton of sweetened condensed milk and twelve tons of white flour a month, coupled with a declining inclination among the ­people to fish and to work their gardens for taro and greens, and tooth decay was bound to increase among the youthful inhabitants of the islands.15 The military enforced an initial ban on night fishing on all but the east side of the island in case Japa­nese submarines ­were around, protecting the base but also reducing the main protein staple; however, canned goods ­were a sufficient replacement. By the second half of 1942 inshore fishing was allowed, but even the encouragement of the military to supplement the U.S. foodstuffs was not enough to inspire the “indolent” natives.16 The four Chinese traders who had supplied such staples and canned goods before the war suffered ­because they soon had no more stock; their situation worsened ­after the Americans introduced Sears, Roebuck and Co. cata­logs, from which the islanders, especially the young w ­ omen, ordered clothing.17 The United States needed local men as l­abor, mainly to plant camouflage vegetation, but the islanders initially had l­ ittle incentive to work b ­ ecause their earnings could only be used to purchase the standard rations of the government store. The military then allowed them to patronize the  U.S. Base Exchange or PX (postal exchange and store) and its array of goods as enticements to work.18 In the first

Bora Bora: “Like a Dream”   35

weeks of the occupation, the “­simple and kindly” ­people ­were vague as to the value of money, selling their “hula skirts” for two packets of cigarettes that cost the Americans a few cents or for as much as five dollars in cash.19 Soon, with money coming in from the sale of curios and from w ­ omen washing the Americans’ clothes, the ­people largely abandoned their own crop cultivation of taro and breadfruit and lived off imported goods from the government store and the PX. More significantly an unknown amount of luxury foods, such as coffee, cocoa, choco­late, cookies, and canned goods, as well as even more “­free” flour and sugar, found their way to local families, gifted by ser­v icemen.20 Access to ample  U.S. food and goods made Bora Bora the envy of the rest of French Poly­ nesia.21 In the words of Sanford, the French official, the years of the occupation ­were times of “abundance” when all of French Polynesia lived “off Bora Bora for three years.”22 The open-­handed Americans w ­ ere attractive and irresistible, as explained by an island resident ­we’ll call Dorita: I was very young at the time the troops arrived, but I still remember how the soldiers used to whistle at me as I walked about with my sisters or my girlfriends. It was only during the base’s last year—­I had just turned 16—­that I became Mike’s wahine. . . . ​Imagine, he was a handsome young man, with lots of blond hair, almost red, and he had many soldiers, men working u ­ nder his command. Their duty was to maintain all of the armed forces buildings on the island. Best of all, he had a Jeep and seemed to be able to obtain all the goods he wanted. He was kind, soft, always stayed close to me, as much as he could, of course, and took good care of my ­family. We ­were all so happy.23 Much of the population had a history of welcoming power­f ul visitors, which was reflected by their ethnic heritage, as Kushner recorded: [T]­here are very few pure-­blooded Polynesians on Bora Bora except for the three island Chiefs and their families. L ­ ater, I came across a small blue-­eyed boy ­running around stark naked. He was wearing a sailor’s cap which read “H.M.S Achilles.” That cruiser had been ­here about five years ago so it was easy to figure out the kid’s age.24 Not surprisingly, relationships with young ­women soon developed as the “Americans found themselves in high demand with t­ hese Polynesian beauties.”25 Many families “­adopted” a ser­v iceman. Sanford and Lysa tried to look ­after the young ­women of Bora Bora,

36  Chapter One

to see that the girls w ­ ere not abused or taken advantage of. Men who behaved badly or with gross indifference to the girls’ rights ­were noted by Sanford, reported to the island command and quietly shipped back to Texas or Minnesota, a punishment that the o ­ thers tried to avoid.26 The local pastor at first tried to stem the tide of t­ hese burgeoning relationships, but gave up once the first babies w ­ ere born.27 Most men seemed to regard the young ­women with some re­spect. Though more than a few “went in to the bushes with a native girl”28 they did not speak of t­ hese ­women in the same terms they used with ­those encountered when on leave in Tahiti along the Papeete ­waterfront, who w ­ ere “completely amoral. . . . ​eking out an existence by d ­ oing what they knew best.”29 It was in Tahiti and on Raiatea in 1944 that visiting ser­v icemen contracted gonorrhea, bringing the infection back to Bora Bora where the military medical officers had to b ­ attle to control it among the men and their partners.30 The Americans on Bora Bora fathered several children. Most w ­ ere welcomed by their mothers, though a few ­women seem to have tried an abortifacient supplied by a local midwife who used materials from a plant for this purpose. Kushner concluded that her reputedly “very good medicine” was not all that effective or simply not avidly sought b ­ ecause by November 1942, ­t here ­were “unmistakable signs of pregnancy among some of the native girls.”31

Moving On Once the first units posted to Bora Bora learned they w ­ ere to be transferred closer to the front, many forgot their ennui and wanted to stay, but the military had other plans for them. Kushner recalled that the ­people “­were ­really disconsolate over our leaving. For many the feeling is genuine; for ­others the loss of American dollars is the greater tragedy.” When he and his army artillery unit left for the New Hebrides, “many natives ­were ­t here lining both sides of the Landing and the road leading to up to it. Several of the native girls clutching infants ­were weeping piteously. Nobody felt like talking.”32 While some units moved west, ­others came in to replace them as the base consolidated. A ­ fter the Battles of the Coral Sea and Midway in mid-1942 and the reduction in size and firepower of the Japa­nese navy, Bora Bora, other than supplying fuel, became somewhat of a backwater. Steadily from mid-1943 onward, the military command ordered surplus material to be shipped elsewhere while the numbers of U.S. ser­v icemen on the island declined. By late 1944 all army personnel had left; by early 1945 t­ here ­were only six naval officers and eighty-­five enlisted men; that number was soon reduced to fifty-­one.33

Bora Bora: “Like a Dream”   37

Several men who had island partners and who ­were among the last to be stationed on Bora Bora, told James Michener, visiting the island in mid-1945 in his capacity as naval historian, that they wished to stay.34 Yet deeply embedded in many white American ser­v icemen’s consciousness was what they had learned in their own racist society, expressed in a humorous verse written by one of the soldiers while stationed on Bora Bora: Now and then the chief ’s ­daugh­ter passed Gave us the eye—­t he winsome lass. As Kipling wrote in manner neat East and West s­ hall never meet. But day by day in manner strange Their complexion seems to change. And in the proper sort of light I think you’d swear that they w ­ ere white.35 One of the soldiers who was most perplexed about the islanders’ racial status was twenty-­year-­old Gosford, a ser­v iceman from Alabama whose ­mother wanted him home since he had served two years in the Pacific. She had sought the help of a senator from Alabama to get his release, and the senator was successful. But Gosford’s partner, Terua, “from an exemplary island f­ amily,” was about to have his baby. Gosford was worried that his m ­ other and the senator “would find out Terua was a nigger,” about to give birth to “a nigger baby.” Even so, he wanted to stay, but ­because of the senator’s lobbying he was sent home, his secret safe. He left money to help Terua, but he never returned.36 ­There ­were ­others from the southern United States who ­were less torn, as Alex du Prel found in the 1980s when he asked a former naval man, Michael (Mike) Shay, if he ever had a “wahine” (­woman) during the war and the occupation of Japan: Yes, you bet! I had myself one of them ­little island girls over ­t here. A real cutie. Just as I had a ­little Jap girl, ­later on in Nagoya. They ­were nice, real nice, I’d say. . . . ​­You’ve got to understand that even us, Southern men, are sometimes attracted to colored w ­ omen, especially when you a­ in’t got nothing ­else around. . . . ​You see what I mean, ­don’t you?37 In all, the Americans left about 130 children on Bora Bora without fathers. Some provided cash for their care, and a few sent goods back for a short time.38 As Fred Giles, a naval radio operator, commented, “Sadly in the end, none of the

38  Chapter One

guys that had girlfriends and children ever went back. ­There ­were about 6,500 men on Bora Bora. . . . ​I was the only one who returned.” Fred had seen Tetua when he visited the village of Vaitape, but she would have nothing to do with him at first, ­because his commanding officer’s earlier unwelcome attentions had upset her. In time, Fred managed to speak to her, and “we got on ­great and we started dating”—­first meeting in his radio shack at night and eventually in the h ­ ouse of her parents’ cousins. Like many families who set up living arrangements for young ­women and U.S. ser­v icemen,39 Tetua’s f­ amily had no difficulties with Giles, as he recalled: Initially they w ­ ere encouraging her to date me even while she was trying to avoid me. The Bora Bora natives liked their daughters to date us Navy guys b ­ ecause we would bring the families gifts, and get them flour and sugar and coffee and things they found ­really hard to get other­w ise. Plus I was told they like getting anglo blood in the f­ amily, and that this went way back in their culture. The Tahitians [sic] w ­ ere inherently aware of the dangers of inbreeding ­because of the smallness of the islands.40 When Fred Giles was transferred to New Caledonia with his unit he promised to return. However, Tetua was convinced that even though they had a d ­ augh­ter, Turia, her partner had gone forever—­“another bad experience with an American.” As a sign of his commitment he sent back “two 100-­pound sacks of flour and two 100-­pound sacks of sugar” to Tetua and her relatives. This convinced Tetua of Fred’s sincerity. Once the war was over he managed to return to Bora Bora to live with his ­family. ­There ­were no employment opportunities on the island so they went to Tahiti where he set up a small radio repair shop. His second d ­ augh­ter, Maeva, was born ­t here. An old complaint from his naval days required that he return to the United States to resolve it, and Fred wanted to take his ­family with him. However, only his children qualified for entry into the country ­because his wife was considered to be a Polynesian. So his daughters came first to California. Tetua was “completely and totally heartbroken at this separation,” but “wanted the best for her children.” Fred did not give up and, in Tahitian fashion, someone remembered her grand­mother’s maiden name had been “Hamblin,” a good Caucasian-­sounding name, and that her g­ reat-­grand­father had been En­glish. Somehow in Tahiti they cooked the books through vari­ous ­family connections to make the case that Tetua was 51 ­percent white.41

Bora Bora: “Like a Dream”   39

They all re­united in British Columbia, Canada, where Tetua and Giles w ­ ere married. Eventually, they went back to San Francisco and lived in naval housing. They had a son, Fred Jr., and moved to Alleghany, California, in the High Sierras where Fred was a miner for fifteen years; this was a ­great change for Tetua, who was so used to the island environment. The ­family continued to visit Bora Bora “­because of all the relatives down ­there.” 42 Fred subsequently went into the chemical and concrete business in Sacramento where he died in October 2003 with his beloved Tetua d ­ ying two months ­later.43 Some of their children continue to live in the city and actively support its wider Polynesian community.44

­Those Remaining But what of the w ­ omen and their U.S.-­fathered children who remained on Bora Bora? Although the island society accepted such children the novelties that had so attracted the p ­ eople to the Americans w ­ ere to spell death for many. As the U.S. men departed, they took away the PX, their sterilized milk and refined food, their medics, and much of their wealth. Their departure had a tragic unintended consequence: “The sudden return from infant foods to the more primitive nourishment of the island affected many of the infants and the less vigorous and strong of t­ hese died.” About 40 ­percent ­were lost.45 Yet among the survivors ­t here was l­ittle resentment of the Americans. Fred Haley who was stationed on Bora Bora during the war returned some years ­later and told of one incident that reflects the amiable nature of the p ­ eople: One of the ­women who had been a teenager during our [Americans’] ­sojourn . . . ​came up to see me on the after­noon I was leaving. She brought with her a 17-­year-­old girl with suspiciously reddish hair. “Fred,” she said, “this is my ­daugh­ter Tiare, whose ­father was a sergeant at the eighth station hospital.” Since I had been a patient at the l­ ittle hospital for a week or so during an especially severe bout of dengue fever and knew some of the personnel, I queried, “Gertrude, I may have known her f­ ather. What was his name?” Smiling ­gently, she touched my arm and replied, “Oh, Fred, I’ve forgotten his name. You know it was such a long time ago.” 46 Names might slip from memory, but no one of Gertrude’s and Dorita’s generation forgot the occupation. It had been a time of “never ending cele­bration” bringing in a new world: One morning, huge ships suddenly entered the pass. They unloaded trucks, jeeps, ­houses, canons, pipes, bulldozers, machines to make electricity, all

40  Chapter One

Figure 1.1. Airfield built by the U.S. military on Motu Mute. Completed by February 1943, it was used mainly by mail and transport planes. The main island is in the background. (U.S. Department of War and Tahiti-­Pacifique magazine, n.d.)

kinds of things we’d never seen before. And the men who took care of all this ­were almost all young, handsome and spoke the language of our first missionaries. The entire population was dazzled by the spectacle.47 The Americans built significant infrastructure that remained when they left: an airstrip on the small offshore island of Mute (Figure 1.1), good roads, and piped ­water and huge w ­ ater tanks, which w ­ ere particularly welcomed on a island where freshwater was often scarce. Some surplus goods ­were dumped at sea; much of the rest was subsequently removed to Tahiti by the French administration u ­ nder its agreement with the United States and its bargain-­basement purchase of unwanted installations.48 While the French military (the “Valmy legion”), which came to the island to move ­these goods, ­were ­doing so, they also managed to clean out much of the smaller gifted goods that the p ­ eople had as their personal property, including  U.S. currency; unsurprisingly this action only increased resentment ­toward the unpopular French administration in Tahiti.49 To the wider population, when the Americans left it was suddenly “all over . . . ​it was like a dream.”50

Bora Bora: “Like a Dream”   41

And unlike Gertrude, many ­women did remember the names of partners and fathers. Dorita kept polished and oiled the tools in a wooden chest given her by her naval carpenter partner, Mike Shay—­t he ­father of her first child—­for at least forty years a­ fter he left, promising to return. In time, a local man convinced her that her child Porotu needed a f­ ather and married her on the understanding that he would bow out when Mike returned, even though he was the ­father of Dorita’s two other children. Dorita had been sixteen when she met Mike and remained convinced that one fine day he would come back to her. This was not to happen. ­Little troubled by his war­time involvement with a “colored” ­woman, southerner Mike married in the United States and never made any contact with Dorita who is still waiting. Many ­women said to Larson on his postwar visits, “I would love to be able to put my arms around my long-­lost ­father.” ­These adult children wanted no material benefits though most had been relatively poor in their childhood. Many l­ ater married and did well in life in the Society Islands and elsewhere. In the early 2000s, some formed an association to seek U.S. citizenship,51 possibly ­because of economic uncertainty following the cessation of the French nuclear testing. A few American tourists over the years have assisted some in locating their fathers in the United States and have helped them reestablish links. Most ­others still have no information about their American fathers, many of whom, like James ­Michener, believed Bora Bora to be the “very best spot” in the world.52 Just as the Americans when they first encountered Bora Bora’s beauty thought they ­were dreaming, the Bora Bora p ­ eople recalled the occupation as a wonderful dream. The ephemeral quality of the encounter left a tangible ­human embodiment, engendering yet more dreams of what might have been had the Americans stayed or l­ ater returned to their lovers and their children.

C HA P T E R T WO

“­There Are No Commoners in Samoa” Saui‘a Louise Mataia-­Milo

Wartime intimate relationships between Samoan ­women and American ser­ vicemen, as well as the consequences of such relationships, largely remain tapu subjects, discussed only in private, in a Samoa that still finds it painful to acknowledge the implications of this episode in its history. The subject is a delicate one for most Samoans who guard their genealogies. From the outset, I would like to apologize to all ­t hose Samoans whom this proj­ect encountered. It was by no means intended to cause pain. The research journey has not been easy, especially when dealing with a small society where every­one knows every­one’s personal and public business. To a certain extent, t­ hese histories can be part of the healing pro­cess for t­ hose affected. I am reminded of the salvaging mana of Tagaloalagi, the timeless creator of Samoan cosmogony.1 Tagaloalagi incorporated in the foundation of Samoan culture a naturalizing, healing system for ­those whose lineage had been questioned b ­ ecause some parts of it ­were considered inaccessible. Tagaloalagi speaks to us all, “E leai ni tagata noa i Samoa,” meaning “­t here are no commoners in Samoa.” The cultural essence is that all Samoans are connected, have roots, and are heirs or suli2 to families’ paramount chiefly lines, even if they are missing physical pieces of their personal history. Tagaloalagi reminds all who may have some gaps in their ancestry: “E lē o oe o se suli o le fisiga po‘o le fusiga. O oe o le suli o le niusina” 3—­“You are not from the outer layers. You are connected to the core of your ­family’s genealogy.”

Samoan Identity To understand the position of the children fathered by American ser­v icemen left ­behind in the Samoan Islands, one must first take note of the Samoan concepts and cultural practices that constitute identity within the ­family. It is the aiga or extended f­amily—­not simply the nuclear ­family—­t hat has an interest in all its children. Families are made via marriages, so the role of a ­woman is very impor­ tant, ­because she is the path to connecting with the aiga. 42

“No Commoners in Samoa”   43

Samoan identity or fa‘asinomaga is a weave of complex and interrelated elements. By knowing one’s genealogy or gafa, individuals situate themselves as part of the aiga, the extended ­family, the constant pillar of Samoan society. With knowledge of one’s gafa, one would know va fealoaloa‘i, the levels of mutual relationships within and between extended families, and the cultural practices expected. Samoan pedigree is not just a ­matter of bloodline. Lineage is encapsulated in the employment of osi-­aiga and tautua. Osi is a verb, which means to build, to make a covenant or a sacrifice. It connotes sacredness, honor, and reciprocal re­ spect for the ties that bind a Samoan to the aiga. Tautua is taken to mean ser­v ice to the ­family. In the traditional sense, tautua is an individual’s commitment to participate in the practice of osi-­aiga. The true practice is ser­v ice, and cash is no substitute. It is the only way one can fulfill obligations and roles to one’s ­family and society, consolidating the bonds of connectedness. The intricacies of tautua and osi-­aiga are part of what constitute the Samoan understanding of self in a collective unit and one’s identity or fa‘asinomaga. ­These elaborate ties mean that a Samoan is never without an identity. Every­one, ­whether ­adopted or not, belongs to an aiga. In essence, it is the aiga that creates and supports a Samoan’s identity. We practice ­t hese manifestations of our connectedness at fa‘alavelave, ceremonial gatherings such as weddings, births, funerals or to honor the completion of building a fale tele4 or a young man’s tatau.5 At ­t hese ritual gatherings one witnesses the collaborative nature of the wealth exchange of Samoans and the significance of such face-­to-­face relationships or fealoaloa‘i.6 Both maternal and paternal relatives come from the many corners of Samoa and often beyond to make pre­sen­ta­tions of fine mats, siapo,7 and foodstuffs, as their contributions to the fa‘alavelave. All the branches of the ­family acknowledge the presence not only of the living but also the legacies of the ancestors. Marriage is a covenant between two families. Through marriage, one ­family gains access to another ­family’s sources of wealth, which are chiefly titles and land. Kramer observed that “­every increase in the f­ amily, be it through marriage or adoption and particularly through birth, is welcomed joyfully, above all by the more influential families of chiefs who thus attain unto greater power.”8 ­Women connect families by bearing heirs to other chiefly lines. Pre-­European Samoan history shows the po­liti­cal practice of intermarriages with the chiefly lines of Fiji, Tonga, and Uvea (Wallis Island), as well as within the Samoan archipelago.9 Marriage had ­little to do with affection. It was a strategy to secure resources, wealth, and access to a multitude of chiefly lines. ­Women are the creators of tangible wealth, such as the valued fine mats or ia toga10 and are considered to be keepers of the covenant, the feagaiga. A ­woman’s

44  Chapter Two

view is highly respected when decisions are made. A Samoan w ­ oman is also referred to as pae, a seashell commonly used to level uneven parts of the timber of a canoe. In times of war, she ­w ill be the pacifier, who ­w ill be sacrificed to avoid confrontation with an opposing party. In earlier times, Samoan ­women seldom became matai or heads of aiga.11 Instead, ­women of rank ­were normally honored with the bestowal of the taupou title.12 The institution of taupou is as old as Samoan culture. This complex system, especially that relating to sexual conduct in formerly polygamous Samoa, mystified many outsiders and mistakenly gave the Samoan ­women a reputation for being sexually permissive. A taupou’s rank is bestowed by her ­family and village. She plays an active role as the mistress of ceremony in village affairs, ensuring that her f­ amily’s hospitality when entertaining guests is kept at a respectable level in accordance with cultural protocols. Traditionally, a taupou’s ritualized roles and upbringing ­were designed speci­ fically to prepare her for marriage to a chief and to beget high-­ranking children. Therefore value was placed on her virginity.13 From a Christian perspective, many features of this institution ­were considered offensive, particularly the public deflowering of a taupou at marriage, a practice banned by the missionaries immediately ­a fter their arrival. With Chris­tian­ity widely accepted as part of the fa‘a Samoa—­t he Samoan way—­by the late nineteenth ­century, the traditional paths to attain high rank via successive marriages and their connections to several impor­tant lineages dis­appeared. Nonetheless, premarital chastity in the Christian sense was encouraged and monogamous marriage enforced. In Christian Samoa, among families seeking to be respected, the premarital virginity of daughters became an ele­ment and indicator of status. On another social level, t­ here continues the informal marriage arrangement of avaga or elopement that used to be very common, along with premarital sex. In pre-­Christian times, avaga was normally practiced by Samoans of lesser rank, and it was not an elaborate ceremony. Nevertheless, the cultural exchange of wealth still occurred, though small in scale, and it took place a­ fter a man and a ­woman had sexual intercourse. This practice continued despite the colonial and missionaries’ restrictions. Examples w ­ ere the avaga marriages between Samoan ­women and Chinese indentured laborers. As Rowe noted in the 1920s, it was not uncommon for outsiders to be offered the com­pany of a Samoan virgin, which he characterized as an attempt to forge alliances with foreigners.14 From the ­women’s and often their families’ perspective, many war­time relationships ­were characterized as avaga, with hopes for f­ uture marriage.15 James Michener, naval historian, noted in his memoir that a village chief offered him his ­daugh­ter. With her, Michener soon “learned the rule of life within a Samoan fale [house].”16

“No Commoners in Samoa”   45

What Michener did not learn was that, in all levels of interactions in Samoan society, the continued physical presence of parents is very impor­tant. This created an awkward environment for the fatherless children of the American marines in Samoa, upsetting the finely tuned reciprocal roles inherent in the formal relationship of marriage.

Western Samoa and American Samoa: “E tino e tasi ae tulialo ese’ese” —­“Of the Same Body but Dif­fer­ent in Mindset” American Samoa and Western Samoa are two dif­fer­ent countries, but a single society, with one language and ­f ree communication from island to island. They share an integrated identity as all customs, genealogies, and legends are the same.17 Often ­g reat orators at district gatherings address one another as “O taua e tino e tasi ae tulialo eseese,” meaning that “We are of the same body but dif­fer­ent in mindset.”18 In early Samoa, individuals held chiefly titles and ­t hese designated ones’ influence and authority in the ­family, the village, and even the district. Im­por­tant large descent groups or g­ reat families held major titles, which a range of eligible individuals strove to win through alliances for the benefit of their kin groups. Strategic marriages w ­ ere an impor­tant way to achieve titles. Having children with a highborn w ­ oman allied the families to each other, which was usual in pre-­ Christian times for the very purpose of extending relationships. Samoa was almost always in a state of change and sometimes at war when ambition focused on achieving acclaim through competition for titles. Samoans ­were not the only ­people with ambitions. Western powers had their own competing system of northern hemi­sphere agendas that soon resonated in the far Pacific. Their contests for plantation land and control intersected the Samoan quest for titles. Almost brought to the brink of war, the powers settled the “Samoan question” diplomatically in 1899. The west went to Germany, the British accepted disputed German holdings elsewhere, and the United States took over eastern Samoa. Ideal for tropical crops, Western Samoan lands ­were turned into plantations for the dominant German com­pany, Deutche Handels und Plantagen Gesellschaft (DHPG). ­A fter World War I, Germany lost control of Western Samoa, which became a League of Nations mandate ­u nder New Zealand. On the eastern side of the archipelago, most Samoan chiefs signed the Treaty of Cession of Tutuila in 1900. Recognizing the strategic potential of Tutuila’s deep harbor, the  U.S. Navy transformed Pago Pago Bay into a coaling station for the U.S. Pacific squadron. When oil replaced coal as a source of fuel, the coaling

46  Chapter Two

station became semi-­deserted. Nonetheless, as an American naval base it proved to be strategically useful during the two world wars.19 Tensions against the New Zealand and the U.S. Naval administrations had surfaced in the 1920s. New Zealand’s neglect in allowing its ship Talune infected with the Spanish influenza in 1918 to enter Western Samoa had already provoked enduring resentment ­because between 20 and 25 ­percent of Samoans perished as a result. This and New Zealand’s severe repression of the Mau movement saw Western Samoans seek in­de­pen­dence.20 In American Samoa ­t here ­were complaints about the preferential treatment given to Eu­ro­pe­ans and ­t hose of Eu­ro­pean ancestry at the expense of the Samoans. However, unlike the draconian New Zealand administration, the U.S. Navy administration gave the chiefs the opportunity to voice their grievances, and it set up inquiries to investigate them; the Mau movement became inactive as a result.21 Both administrations disliked the idea of miscegenation and “mixed blood” afakasi who sprung from such u ­ nions. Such ­people made administering the indigenous populations complicated b ­ ecause colonial regulations and rights addressed one ethnicity or the other, not t­ hose who could meld into both. The German administration was the most extreme in its racist views, banning marriage in Western Samoa between Samoans and Chinese or Melanesians and, eventually in 1912, between Samoans and Eu­ro­pe­ans.22 Subsequently, New Zealand administrators, though they did not ban such marriages, encouraged New Zealand public servants to marry outside the country or face social rejection. Like its German pre­de­ces­sor, the New Zealand administration feared that such marriages would lead to the moral decay of the white man, a colonial worry in tropical territories.23 In American Samoa, the naval administration tried to discourage inter-­ethnic relationships, mainly to prevent the alienation of land and protect American Samoans from suffering the same fate as the landless part-­Hawaiians.24 The Samoa islands have had their share of inter-­ethnic encounters with Eu­ ro­pean visitors, long before colonial partition, beginning in the whaling era of the early nineteenth c­ entury. By the start of World War I, ­t here was already a growing population of afakasi or toto lua—­people of two bloodlines—in both Samoas. ­There was never a question about where such children belonged, b ­ ecause it was with their Samoan families that they identified even when t­ here was no ac­k nowl­ edg­ment of the offspring by the paternal side. In recognized u ­ nions, many such children ­rose to prominence in Western Samoa, supported by their ­mother’s aiga and often by the wealth of their Eu­ro­pean fathers; this was the case with Olaf Nelson, a successful businessman and a po­liti­cal leader of the Mau from the 1920s ­until his death in 1944. Before World War II, the largest influx of foreigners to Western Samoa began in the late nineteenth ­century when the Germans imported more than seven

“No Commoners in Samoa”

47

thousand Melanesians and nearly four thousand Chinese males as indentured laborers to work their plantations.25 However, although some inter-ethnic relationships occurred, the Melanesians and the Chinese largely were confined to the German (later New Zealand) plantations. By World War II, successive administrations had repatriated almost all these men in spite of some having Samoan families. On the eve of war, in 1940, the Western Samoa population was 57,122 “natives” and  3,003 “part-Europeans” along with 398 Eu ropeans, 34 Chinese, and  78 Melanesians; American Samoa had a population of only 12,908, mostly indigenous.26 Among those identified as Samoans in both jurisdictions were those of mixed ancestry who had been absorbed by their aiga. Inter-ethnic relationships and children were no novelty to the Samoans, but had come gradually to be accepted over the decades. That slow process of social absorption was about to receive its biggest shock ever.

The Maligi Invasion: The Arrival of the American Ser vicemen In the two years before the United States entered World War II, Washington strategists were not blind to the military activities of the Japanese imperial army in Asia.27 American anticipation of a Japanese entry in the Pacific animated urgent expansions in the U.S. Pacific territories to be war ready. In American Samoa, this began at Pago Pago in 1940 to “ handle war time logistical problems,” creating a “Pacific Air Base” in a matter of months.28 After the declaration of war on Japan, the 2nd Marine Brigade was the first American expeditionary force to leave the United States. It was deployed to American Samoa in January 1942. Many thousands of troops soon followed. The proximity of Western Samoa made American Samoa vulnerable. The solution was to provide defense for Western Samoa before the Japanese could get to it.29 Americans were granted “ free and full use of all land and facilities needed” in Western Samoa.30 On 27 March 1942, some three thousand American marines landed in Apia. By October 1942, about 14,371 American ser vicemen were on Tutuila and Upolu, but no African American troops were among those deployed. The numbers fluctuated and then declined toward 1944 when the naval commandant had to “roll up” or move out to the northwestern Pacific.31 The Americans negotiated with the New Zealand administrator in Western Samoa to secure more than five thousand acres of land for the period of the war (see Map 2.1).32 North Upolu was ideal for a base. The flat coastal area near the village of Satapuala was a favorable site for airfields, whereas the port of Apia offered ample anchorages for larger ships. Savai‘i did not see similar defense

Map 2.1. Western Samoa, showing the U.S. trans-­insular road, and American Samoa, c. 1943. The central inset indicates the current po­liti­cal status.

“No Commoners in Samoa”   49

construction ­because of its rough and mountainous topography, though the American marines patrolled the island. From 1940 and throughout the duration of the war, Pago Pago harbor in American Samoa was servicing at least fifty ships a month instead of the prewar number of three to five ­every two months. The occupation created new opportunities for the local populations to be eco­nom­ically active beyond working on their own plantations. Many gained wage ­labor opportunities as ­drivers and in road building. The American troops taught them mechanical skills in transportation, communication, and supply-related activities.33 On Tutuila, to promote “good relations with the Samoan ­people” the Americans ran monthly “smokers” or boxing matches, whereas a monthly dance open to all “proved very popu­lar with the enlisted men.”34 In Western Samoa, the village of Magia, next to Satapuala, became the headquarters for the newcomers and, overnight, a lively American town. The base was near the site for the new airstrip and close to the new trans-­insular road. Like Pago Pago and Utulei in American Samoa (see Map 2.1), the population in Magia and its surrounding villages expanded with the American troops and the Samoans who managed to find work ­t here. Many Samoan ­women washed the ser­v icemen’s clothes, and men did vari­ous chores to earn good wages (see Figure 2.1).35 The military command built an entertainment center, the Pearl of the Pacific near Satapuala, for the enlisted men to encourage them not to drink in public and share alcohol with Samoans (see Figure 2.2). The officers frequented their own club in Apia. The Pearl of the Pacific began a new vogue. Young ­women’s dance groups from the villages w ­ ere invited to entertain at the Pearl where they could make money (see Figure 2.3). With newfound freedom t­ hese ­women befriended American soldiers, enjoyed alcohol, and smoked freely. Soon, the older ­people who had encouraged the dance groups to go to the Pearl discovered that many of t­ hese young ­women ­were pregnant. And so they cursed the Pearl and called it hell. In fact the soldiers put up a sign at the gate of the Satapuala camp declaring, “le faitoto‘a o le agasala,”—­“the gate of sin.” Other sins ­were occurring as well. Certain families w ­ ere suspected of r­ unning brothels in the town of Apia and around the west coast of Upolu. Historian Featunai Liua‘ana cited an incident of a Methodist minister who was banned from the church ­because he was operating a brothel.36 Such happenings w ­ ere a rude awakening for Samoa, challenging its ­people’s f­ amily and Christian values. Yet, the ­people could see the power and wealth of the Americans, and the islands benefited from the development of infrastructure. The airstrip built at

50  Chapter Two

Figure 2.1. Samoan w ­ omen selling handcrafts at Pago Pago, American Samoa, to naval personnel of the USS Steamer Bay, 4 June 1944. (RG 80-­G, 240393, NA)

Faleolo was handed over to the New Zealand administration when the Americans rolled out in 1944 and is now the site of the Samoa International Airport. American marines also built the first cross-­island road (see Figure  2.4) from Leulumoega through to Lefaga on Upolu so they could patrol the southern side of the island. On Tutuila, the American marines developed the port of Pago Pago and the Tafuna airstrip; upgraded health facilities, the ­water supply, and telecommunications; and built an underground access tunnel system. And in some instances as shown in Figures 2.5 and 2.6, the Americans worked together with the leaders of Samoa and exchanged ideas. Between 1942 and  1945, about twelve thousand American marines ­were in Apia at dif­fer­ent times.37 At the end of the war, the New Zealand administration reported that 22,000 American ser­v icemen ­were stationed in transiting Western Samoa in the same period. The U.S. marines for a time outnumbered the indigenous population in American Samoa. For example, of the 12,908 total population of American Samoa in 1940, only 2,900 w ­ ere civilians living on the

Figure  2.2. Pearl of the Pacific, Apia: the enlisted men’s nightclub that changed the lives of many Samoan w ­ omen. (MESC/Samoa Museum)

Figure 2.3. In full swing: Samoan dancing groups provided entertainment at the Pearl of the Pacific ­every Saturday night. (MESC/Samoa Museum)

Figure 2.4. War­time development: American marines and some Samoan laborers working on the cross-­island road from Leulumoega to Lefaga, 1942. (MESC/Samoa Museum)

Figure 2.5. Mata‘afa Faumuina Mulinu‘u I, at his residence at Lepea, meeting with se­nior officers regarding work contracts for Samoans at the U.S. marines’ quarters and other projects while in Samoa, 1942. (MESC/Samoa Museum)

“No Commoners in Samoa”   53

Figure  2.6. (Left to right): Tuiletufuga Taualai (Apia); Te‘o Fa‘avaivai (Apia); in white jacket, wearing the Mau lavalava, Tupua Tamasese Mea’ole; and a se­nior officer of the U.S. Marines in Samoa. (MESC/Samoa Museum)

island of Tutuila.38 A similar number of civilians lived on Manu‘a. So the local population in 1943 was heavily outnumbered by almost eight thousand American ser­v icemen. Upolu saw a similar pattern.39 To cater to t­ hese numbers of marines, Samoans established small businesses. The famous Aggie Grey, who was of mixed ancestry, opened a hamburger stand and then lodgings in Apia, which is now the Aggie Grey’s ­Hotel.40 Economic prosperity and personal wealth enjoyed by the Samoans during the war years threatened several aspects of the social order. The taulele‘a (untitled men) whose traditional role is to serve the matai, the heads of the aiga, began to gain a sense of prestige and wealth that was “vastly out of proportion to their traditional status” and that gave them a feeling of in­de­pen­dence b ­ ecause they ­were making money and ­were no longer dependent on the matai’s distributions.41 Direct payments to ­t hese individuals ­were a ­great change from the old way, challenging the authority of the matai over their extended families.42 The New Zealand administration’s attempts to discourage inter-­ethnic mixing buckled once the marines arrived. Socializing became common, given the high number of marines deployed to the Samoan Islands. A young person’s observations at Vaiala reflect this:

54  Chapter Two

­ ere ­were so many of them. In the afternoons you see some of them Th lying out in the front of the fale in the eve­ning sun waiting for the truck to come and they all run ­a fter it to get on. We ­were next door to Apia Park and I saw them come to the fence and whistle to my older sister and girl cousins while they ­were ­doing their chores. Our parents ­were not impressed. I was not allowed to play outside or get too close to the fence.43 Samoa, despite its own seemingly solid lines of defense, ranging from indigenous cultural and Christian norms to colonial administrators’ disfavor of race mixing, proved susceptible to this massive assault.

Children of War The white American troops brought with them their own racial perceptions and unpacked them in the Pacific. Freed from hometown scrutiny, many set their racial prejudices aside when confronted with the confidence of the fa‘a Samoa—­t he Samoan way. Moreover, they came with Hollywood-­induced notions and expectations of a freer sexuality.44 The young brown to olive-­skinned Samoan and ­women of mixed ancestry ­were physically attractive and appealed to the Americans. Many could speak some En­glish and ­were used to seeing Westerners. ­Women had a relatively high degree of social freedom, and Samoan hospitality charmed the troops. The islands ­were a world away from the frontline in the western Pacific, so t­ here was ­little threat of ­actual fighting. Apart from fulfilling the military obligations for security, most of ­t hese young men had time and opportunity to explore the social landscape of Samoa. Meeting p ­ eople was not difficult. Most Samoan villages in the 1940s w ­ ere 45 situated along the coast. Apia developed into an impor­tant port providing a ser­v iceable anchorage for ships. All this meant that, for more than three years, Samoans constantly interacted with the foreigners based along their coasts. ­These interactions ­were often intimate, and children ­were born of them. ­There is no register of the Samoan children fathered by American marines during World War II, although the Americans estimated that 1,600 babies w ­ ere born.46 In the Western Samoan census of 1945, which enumerated illegitimate “half-­castes” for the first time, the count of “American G. I.” children was 252, but the local enumerators knew that the pulenu‘u (mayors) of “bush” villages classified many more of t­ hese afakasi children with Samoan names as “natives.” 47 In American Samoa, “approximately a thousand children of mixed ethnicity w ­ ere conceived during the height of the war years.” 48 Island narratives suggest that

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nearly two thousand children w ­ ere born out of wedlock from relationships with Americans during the period between 1942 and 1946. In mid-1946 with the troops gone, several Samoan-­based clergymen, as well as several Americans who had settled in Western Samoa before the war, complained to the U.S. secretary of state that t­ here ­were at least eight hundred fatherless American war children in Western Samoa. They petitioned for support for the children and that the United States take some responsibility for them.49 ­These men understood the predicament of fatherless children amid a society beginning to wake up from the exhilarating but reckless distractions of war­time occupation.

Romances of War Given war­time urgencies, intimate encounters between American marines (maligi) and Samoan w ­ omen w ­ ere rarely prefaced by proper courting rituals. Promises ­were taken at face value. Perhaps both entered the relationship with the very real understanding that it could be short, or perhaps some Western Samoans believed that the relationships could continue, given the cyclical nature of colonial administration: the Germans came to stay and then went, the New Zealanders might also go, and then the power­f ul U.S. marines would stay to take their place. What­ever the motivational mix, ­there was considerable intimacy between the Americans and Samoan w ­ omen, with children born as a result. Masina remembered that at a very young age she was told of her ­mother’s affections for her American ­father.50 She grew up with her maternal grandparents. Her m ­ other was around, but her heart was always with them: My grandparents raised me and they spoiled me rotten. It was (from) them that I get stories about my f­ather. My grand­father always told me that my ­father who was in the Military Police always comes home to see my ­mother. He was stationed out at Satapuala where they ­were building the airport. He comes in his motorbike and they would sit in the h ­ ouse and talk for hours. He said that the two of them ­were very affectionate. My ­mother was an educated w ­ oman so I guess he enjoyed her conversation and intellect. She was a fluent En­glish speaker even though we stayed out in the village. I think that was the attraction. Plus she was an attractive ­woman. He also said that my ­mother also goes and visits him at the camp. The romance ended as abruptly as it started. Some troops involved in such relationships ­were deployed to the front without notice. For some, the end came suddenly:

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My f­ ather died before I was born in November 1943. He had to go immediately to the Solomon Islands where the frontline was. She ­didn’t know when he was taken. Someone from the marines informed her that he was killed in action when they landed. Mum was pregnant with me. She was heartbroken. My grand­father said that she was never the same since. Apparently they had plans for me but ­after he was killed, that was it. She became ­silent about every­t hing to do with my ­father. So I never got to hear anything about their relationship. The only remnant she had of him was a ­little photo. We lost it when our h ­ ouse burnt down. A love story with a dif­fer­ent ending blossomed in Pago Pago in 1941. Vaofefe Manusina of Satui, on the west coast of Upolu, moved to American Samoa to live with her maternal grand­mother at a very young age. She attended the Catholic schools t­ here. When she was nineteen years old she met Navy communications and radio operator, Homer Willess, stationed in American Samoa since January 1941. Homer fell in love with Vaofefe, but faced opposition to their l­ egal ­union from the U.S. authorities. No ­matter ­whether she was considered a Western Samoan or a U.S. subject, the laws ­were the same during the war for all Samoan ­women. Homer, however, returned and legally married Vaofefe ­after the war when the U.S. immigration laws w ­ ere slowly liberalized. Now in his nineties, Homer still remembered what attracted him to his partner in life: It was her demeanor. She was a lovely ­woman with ­great deportment and a g­ reat sense of humor. She was looking ­after her grand­mother and at the same time she was a ­great companion to me from the first time I got to know her. Knowing that the military did not allow marriages between American ser­vicemen and indigenous Pacific w ­ omen in war­time, Homer, simply penned a declaration of love in the Bible he gave to Vaofefe. Willess f­ amily narratives suggest that this vow of love was a symbol of their u ­ nion in 1942, blessed by a Samoan pastor. Homer and Vaofefe lived a happy life together. The ­family lived outside of the American mainland b ­ ecause of Homer’s c­ areer. They spent many years in Wake Island and in Guam before they settled in California. Homer and Vaofefe continued their romance ­until September 2010 when Vaofefe passed away. In other cases, like the case of Tunamanaia’s m ­ other, sympathizing with the young lovers, some elder relatives consented to having the young couples live out of wedlock.

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And so my m ­ other and my ­father went to stay with my m ­ other’s ­uncle. And he said, “Oh seeing they ­won’t marry you, just live together,” ­because he was a very open-­minded sort of a person. So my ­mother and my ­father, they stayed together in Western Samoa for a l­ittle while. I think at that time he was on leave. That’s [why] he got to go to Western Samoa. And ­after a while, he had to go back and so they got back on the boat and went to Pago Pago.51 Although some w ­ omen ­were eventually able to marry, ­others ­were not so fortunate. Mana’s ­mother was twice unlucky in love.52 Mana’s sister was eight years older than her, and her sister’s ­father was an American stationed in American Samoa before the war: I was born in the village of Satala in American Samoa in 1943. My m ­ other and he [Mana’s f­ ather] w ­ ere very much in love. They tried to get married in Pago Pago, but at the time the marines had a directive that no marines ­were allowed to marry the local p ­ eople. So they ­couldn’t marry in American Samoa. ­After a while they deci­ded to try their luck in Western Samoa so they travelled across in the ferry boat to Western Samoa and went to the local Catholic Church ­because they are both Catholics and asked the local parish priest w ­ hether he’d marry them. And he said to them, ­“Regrettably, ­we’ve had a directive from the military that w ­ e’re not allowed to marry any civilians with any of the military ­people.” So they failed t­ here again. The happiness that Mana’s parents shared, despite being forbidden to marry, was short-­lived: It w ­ asn’t long ­a fter that when his unit got shipped out. It was all hush, hush. Nobody knew that the unit had even gone and it was about two weeks before she heard. . . . ​he got shipped out and ­didn’t have time to even notify my ­mother that he was g­ oing. Well we think that’s the case. And he left Samoa on a troop ship and we ­don’t even know where he got shipped to. Mana’s m ­ other went to ­great lengths to find her ­father: My m ­ other had a girlfriend who worked for a l­awyer in Pago Pago and she made inquiries with her to see ­whether they could find where [he] dis­ appeared to but they came up blank; they could not find out where he

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was. And this went on for years. My ­mother tried to find where he was but she just w ­ asn’t able to. So we eventually left Pago Pago and went to New Zealand ­because at the time, my ­mother tried to get a permit to travel to the United States to stay with her sister who was married to an American Naval Commander at the time. She was refused permission. . . . ​We think it’s b ­ ecause she ­wasn’t an American citizen; she was a Western Samoan citizen. . . . ​[In] New Zealand . . . ​we stayed with my ­mother’s sister and her husband who was an American marine. He was not based in the ­Islands. Another love story involves Kenneth, a marine.53 For a long time ­after he returned home, he did not become attached to any w ­ oman ­because he hoped to ­return to his Samoan fiancée, rekindle their relationship, and be a ­father to his child, Aniva Moana, who was born ­a fter he was transferred from Samoa. He wrote letters to his fiancée and sent them to the Immigration office in Samoa ­after the war with the hope that someone would know Aniva’s ­mother. He got no response. Even ­after he married in the United States he continued his pursuit to find out what had happened to his Samoan f­amily. A ­ fter years of getting “return to sender” letters, his prayers w ­ ere finally answered, and he was able to convey to his ­daugh­ter, Aniva Moana his love for her ­mother. My f­ ather was in the Military Police. During the war he was stationed out at Lauli‘i. That is where my grand­mother is from. He told me that during ­t hose days, their usual meeting place was at the Lauli‘i Bridge. In one of his [unread] letters, he even drew a map of the village and marked the place where they used to meet from my ­family’s ­house. Kenneth did not want to part with Aniva’s ­mother but being in the military, his duty as a soldier dictated his life. He told Aniva about the last time he saw her ­mother, who did not know then that he was leaving Samoa for good: My American Dad was moved from Lauli‘i to Faleolo. At that time he knew that mum was pregnant. So e­ very chance he gets he would try and meet up with her. One day they w ­ ere all loaded onto the truck to be taken to Apia. They w ­ ere on their way out to Guadalcanal. When they went past Afega, our other ­family’s side is from the village of Afega, my dad said he saw my mum walking on the side of the road and her big stomach. She was heavily pregnant with me. He tried calling out to her, but she ­didn’t hear him. She just looked away from the truck. That was the image that stayed with him all the time.54

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Many ­women had relationships with Americans during World War II. ­People g­ amble with their feelings all the time. Perhaps they ­were all prepared to accept the good times as well as the betrayal and disappointments of broken promises in the end. Reports of Samoan ­women committing suicide over such relationships surfaced during the war years.55 Ending such relationships was often deeply felt.

Fathers Revealed Delayed revelations about one’s identity can bring grief and confusion. This was an experience shared by Aniva and Lae‘i at a time when they w ­ ere ­going through changes in their lives as young wives. The shock of finding out about their American fathers was difficult to accept, and each dealt with the revelation differently. Aniva Moana was born in the village of Lauli‘i in December 1943. She lived a happy life with her ten bro­t h­ers and sisters in the village of Vaimoso, near Apia, and with her large extended f­ amily. Growing up, Aniva knew she was loved; she enjoyed her years at St. Mary’s school in Savalalo, the new St. Mary’s College in Vaimoso, and at the Teachers Training College in Malifa. Aniva did not have any clue that she had an American ­father ­until she was twenty-­five years old and was already married. Aniva’s ­mother had married a man whom Aniva always thought was her ­father. ­These ­were her parents that she loved. Her extended ­family too had kept their secret well hidden from her. All changed when her maternal cousin revealed that Aniva was not her f­ather’s ­daugh­ter. The revelations about her American ­father came as a shock: I first found out about it in 1967. It was a funny story about what happened. Dawn, my first cousin, was an airhostess at the time.56 She had a lot of friends and one of them was an immigration guy. Dawn came and told me that the guy asked her, “Is ­t here someone in your ­family with this name?” Dawn then said, “That’s my aunty!” Dawn’s friend also knows who I am and she told him, “That is Aniva’s m ­ other.” She went on to say that apparently ­there was a letter at the immigration office from somebody in Amer­i­ca, who was looking for this ­woman about his child, ­whether it was a boy or a girl. I waited and I thought, oh that is in­ter­est­ing and then I was surprised! It was the first time I got to know about it, about having a dif­fer­ent ­father. I was already married too and was two months pregnant. I never knew that I was somebody ­else’s child! It was a well-­kept secret! Aniva strug­gled to understand why her ­mother never said anything about her past:

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My mum was so s­ ilent about it. She must have had her own reasons for not talking about it. She never told me anything. I think she ­really respected the Samoan man she married, ­because I was just like his own. I was the special d ­ augh­ter in his life, as he always checked to ensure I have what I needed in school and at home. I am his eldest, and of course all the children have to re­spect the eldest. He was so good to me, and when I first heard about this, I began to won­der, if this late discovery is ­really true? And then I went and I saw my ­mother and then I asked her and she apologized to me about it. And then she said, “Yes it’s true.” Of course, I did not want to believe it, but I just ­can’t wipe off the truth. I continued questioning my ­mother about my biological ­father and why she had kept this fact hidden. She answered, “He looks like you! You look very much like him! Your hair, your ears are just like his ears.” Aniva feared the revelation could break up her f­ amily: I was r­ eally sad when news of my real f­ ather was revealed, ­because all my heart was with this man—my Samoan f­ ather. And I said to myself, “What’s ­going to happen now? Was ­t here ­going to be a separation between ­t hese two at this time of their lives?” I was ­really careful about this, and I ­didn’t want to show any emotions even though I felt as if I was been chopped and divided between my Samoan parents and a foreign f­ather I had never known. Although Aniva was excited about finding out about her biological ­father, she was more concerned about how to convey this information to her Samoan ­father. She had to tell him about her intention to collect her biological ­father’s letter, but she was worried about his reaction. What her Samoan ­father told her touched her heart: He said, “I knew all the time. Even though I knew that your mum had a big stomach, she was pregnant, but I loved her and I took her as my wife.” That’s how I honor my ­father very much. He loved my ­mother and loved me. He said he was okay with it. With the knowledge that her Samoan f­ ather supported her, Aniva went to collect the letter from the immigration office. “They finally gave the letter and I took it and I read it and at the same time scribbled down the address on my side of the desk.” She then deci­ded to write to her American f­ather, who “was so happy to

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receive a letter from me.” He told Aniva that this letter was not the first one he had written: My [American] dad said that he has been sending letters to my mum and no one collected the letters so they all came back to him. So he sort of gave up. You know, ­t hose ­were the days when you have to go and ask the Post Office if t­ here is a letter for you or not. We did not know ­t here was someone wanting to communicate. But just this one time he thought “I w ­ ill try once more.” And he put the letter through the immigration (office). He thought that the immigration might have the name of this person as she must have traveled somewhere and that they would have her immigration cards and then from t­ here they would find out her details and address to contact her and her ­family. Well apparently they never made an effort to contact anybody about it. It was just that guy asking questions about it. ­After an exchange of letters across the Pacific, Aniva met her biological ­father for the first time in 1968. She was already married and was pregnant with her first child: My husband and I went to the airport and we stood ­t here waiting for him. Of course you can see every­one as they got off the plane and I saw him. He came out with a lot of luggage and stuff for my baby. I went to meet him and he hugged me for a long, long time. We went home and I invited my ­mother and my Samoan Dad to come to this welcoming dinner that we prepared. I was watching my American Dad and my mum to see how they would react given that this is their first meeting ­after 25 years. Kenneth never took his eyes off her. My mum kept to herself and was always talking to my Samoan Dad . . . ​strange. ­There was obviously something ­going on ­here. The reunion started out well for Aniva and her newfound f­ ather, who told her of the love and affection he had for her mum and his heartache the last time he saw her. He told her of his new ­family back in Nebraska and his ­daugh­ter, Aniva’s half-­sister, a­ fter whom Aniva l­ater named her newborn baby. Her American sister visited the f­amily a few days a­ fter her f­ather arrived. In time, despite her ­mother’s misgivings and her own, Aniva and her husband and baby visited their American relatives who told them that they had long known about Kenneth’s ­Samoan partner and child. Following the reunion in 1968, Kenneth made several visits to Samoa and always stayed with Aniva and her young f­amily. It was not long before Aniva

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noticed that Kenneth was taking a liking to Samoan w ­ omen he met in the ­nightclubs he was frequenting. What broke Aniva’s trustful heart was when Kenneth deci­ded to take another Samoan ­woman as a wife. In the end Aniva told him to go: I was angry at him for d ­ oing this. He had a loving wife in Amer­i­ca and he comes over h ­ ere and does t­ hese things. I told him about how I felt and that he was a bad man. I told him that I wish I had not met him and that he was not my f­ ather. I was terrible to him. I had to call my m ­ other to come and speak some sense to him. He ended up g­ oing back to Amer­i­ca and took the Samoan wife with him and her children. Over the years I learned to forgive him and we ­were okay again. As in Aniva’s case, Lae‘i Faleata did not discover her American parent, nor that the ­woman who raised her was not her biological ­mother, ­until she was an adult and just starting a f­amily.57 Her biological m ­ other’s relatives raised her in the village of Vailoa, Faleata, where she had a happy childhood. A ­ fter she finished her schooling, Lae‘i worked at Emelio’s store in Apia. She married and then moved to Savai‘i where her husband’s ­family lived. What she found out became a double trauma for her as an individual: It was not u ­ ntil 1965 that I found out that my parents w ­ ere not my parents, but ­were ­really my maternal ­grand ­uncle and his wife. I got a message in Savai‘i from my f­ather to say that I have to come back to Upolu immediately. That ­t here was something he wanted to talk to me about. So I caught the ferry across. I had my eldest son with me. When I got to Vailoa, my ­father then said that I have to go to Lepea to see my real ­mother who has come back from Amer­i­ca. I said, “No I ­w ill not go! I do not know them.” But my cousin and my biological ­mother came over to our ­house and we met for the first time—­the ­woman who gave birth to me. My ­father introduced me to my biological ­mother and for the first time, he told the story of how I got to be his d ­ augh­ter. “Lae‘i, this is your ­mother. She is my niece, my sister’s d ­ augh­ter. You ­were brought to me straight ­after you ­were born.” I just sat t­ here and started to feel angry. I thought to myself, “I have two kids already and now I have to find out about this?” My ­father was trying to get me to go with them but I refused. The next day my cousin came again to get me. I was confused and I asked my ­mother who she was then and especially, “Who am I?” The first time I talked to my American f­ather was in 1965 when my ­mother came back for the first time since she left in 1944. He called my

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Figure 2.7. Lae‘i’s f­amily in the United States. Her f­ather at this time appears to have been a chief petty officer who had served for at least eigh­teen years in the navy, probably in one of the building trades. (­Family ­a lbum)

­ other and she gave me the phone. He asked, “Do you know who I am?” m and I said “NO, I do not know who you are.” And he said, “I am your dad!” I replied, “My ­father is ­here.” He then asked me whom I call my ­father and I told him his name. He then said, “That is your f­ ather t­ here but I am your real f­ather!” I answered him, “No, that is not right.” He went on to say, “Have you met your m ­ other?” And I said, “Yes, she is now h ­ ere in Samoa. But she is not my m ­ other.” He said to me, “That is your real m ­ other and me too; I am your real ­father.” I could hear his voice break. He was crying on the phone. I heard he was very upset. I quickly gave the phone back to my biological m ­ other and she had to explain what I meant. My ­father is a German-­A merican from Corpus Christi, Texas. My ­mother never talked about what my American f­ather did in the war or what his occupation was. Maybe he was a gunner, maybe he helped load bullets. I d ­ on’t know (see Figure 2.7). Lae‘i refused to accept her biological parents: Just before my m ­ other went back my American f­ ather called and asked her that he would like it very much if she returns home to Amer­i­ca with an answer that I have acknowledged him as my ­father. She left without an

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answer and she knew exactly what that meant. . . . ​She wanted me to have a good ­future and therefore wanted to do my papers to go with her to Amer­i­ca. I said to her I d ­ idn’t want to. I wanted to stay and take care of my parents ­here in Samoa. Up til now I have never been to Amer­i­ca. I said to her when she was alive, “I am not ­going away from ­here. I am contented to be ­here. This is where I belong. If you think of me and send me something, well thank you for that. Thank you for thinking of me. But I am not ­going to follow you. God ­w ill give me what I need ­here in Samoa.” Lae‘i’s ­mother returned three times, but Lae‘i’s answer never changed. On one of her trips, she brought three of Lae‘i’s American-­born siblings to meet her: I learned that I am the eldest of six kids. I have three other sisters and two bro­t h­ers, ­t here in Amer­i­ca. One of my sisters when they came in the early 70s got out of the car and started crying. She said that I look so much like my dad. My m ­ other gave me pictures of their f­ amily in Amer­i­ca. My sister was right. I looked so much like ­father. Lae‘i’s discovery of her biological parents took some time to get used to. Although she acknowledged them as her biological parents, her heart was always with her Samoan parents. She considered it a blessing to have such ­people who loved and took care of her. Over time she learned to understand her biological ­mother’s reasoning for leaving. But for other Samoan children of the marines, such as Vaea, t­ here ­were other circumstances that barred the pathway to such significant revelations: Id ­ on’t know where to start? Where do you start? How do you start? Say, I ­don’t even know the name. Where he’s from [in] Amer­i­ca? I did ask my [biological] ­mother, she said, “You’ll see it all”—­she was ­doing a genealogy t­ hing for my ­family. And then she passed away in the ­middle of the night and I never get to find out. My [biological] ­mother remarried a Dutch guy and he ­didn’t like me. No, he never liked me. He pretended he liked me. I know he ­didn’t like me. And I had a half-­brother. They had a son. And he passed away on me. [We] w ­ ere getting to know each other, as my l­ ittle brother b ­ ecause I never had a brother or sister. And when I did find out about him, you know, l­ater on, and I came to New Zealand and when I got to know him so well, but he passed, he was a sick boy, he passed away, he was an asthmatic boy. Yes, ­isn’t it strange? And that’s what happened. But when my ­mother passed away, my stepfather, the husband burned every­thing she had. Like I said, I’m lucky I’ve got one picture

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of my ­mother. Maybe two or three ­little photos that was taken. He just went and burned the ­whole lot. I asked him and he said, “Oh, ­you’re not ­going to have any. It’s already burned.” I said, “­There was some paper. He said, “Too late. Burned it!” Yeah, that was bad, eh? In the case of Sulimoni Matagofie, both his biological ­mother and ­father ­were absent from his life.58 ­There was ­really no one but the aiga, ­because his ­mother died “when I was only a teeny tiny baby.” According to Sulimoni, the only reference to his f­ather was on his birth certificate, which recorded him “as ‘maligi vaega au amelika’ [American marine].” In contrast to Sulimoni’s experience, all the other Samoan children of American marines who shared their stories with us lived with their natu­ral or foster mothers while growing up. Dinah and her bro­t h­ers w ­ ere fortunate to also live with their f­ ather Homer Willess (see Figure 2.8) and so did not have to face the stigma of illegitimacy.

Figure 2.8. Homer Willess and ­daugh­ter Dinah on their last visit to American Samoa in 2012. (Photographer: Saui‘a Louise Mataia-­Milo)

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Maligi Kaea!—­The Love Child Stigmatized Most Samoan war children ­were not as fortunate as the Willess children and could not escape the stigma of illegitimacy. Their arrival was the physical embodiment of the f­ ather who left. They become a perpetual reminder of the heartbreak, the neglect, and, perhaps, society’s scorn for the mothers for bearing a child out of wedlock. Generational guilt was transferred to the child. Children’s experiences growing up depended on how embittered their ­family was. Samoa’s euphoria brought about by economic prosperity deflated ­toward the end of 1944. Mundane realities, put aside during the war, resurfaced. Returning to the plantation a­ fter years earning good wages ­either as a mechanic, driver, stevedore, or laundry lady for the American marines in Apia or Pago Pago became unenthusiastic for some. It was natu­ral, as humans do, to find a scapegoat for the problems of readjusting to the old tune of tradition ­after that same tradition had been flouted, and not only by young ­women. The w ­ omen who had intimate relationships with the American marines who rolled out of the Samoan islands in early 1945, together with their children born out of such ­unions, ­were a tangible reminder of when society’s values weakened; it was a time when w ­ omen of marriageable age made their own decisions to enter into relationships instead of conforming to traditional expectations. ­There was an attempt to transfer to the postwar context the Samoan conceptualization of intricate genealogies and the reciprocating of cultural wealth to strengthen the bonds of connectedness. However, the paternal links w ­ ere absent, and therefore that side of the ­family could not fulfill its traditional obligation to participate in cultural exchange. The aiga was faced with two difficult situations: ­t here was no marriage exchange, and only one side of the ­family celebrated the child’s birth. The traditional obligations of contributory links for genealogical purposes remained incomplete and partially fulfilled. Such negligent be­hav­ior was frowned on, so Samoans, in moral panic and shame, began to stigmatize the scapegoats thought to be the cause of societal disappointments. ­After the war, the following labels ­were commonly used to refer to the children of American marines: Maligi sē—­Lost or strange marine; connotes the physical absence of the ­father Maligi ‘elo—­Stinky marine Maligi kaea—­Shitty marine, a reference to uselessness Ulu elaelā—­Hair that is thin and brownish color, suggesting a weak Samoan link

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Palagi toi—­a toy, a ­t hing, or a ­matter of ­little or no value or importance; a knick-­k nack Palagi pepelo—­a fake Eu­ro­pean or “wannabe” palagi; someone with brownish hair, blue/green eyes, and light skin but who does not know how to speak En­glish Tama a le pō—­“child of the night”—an old Samoan term that refers to a child born out of wedlock; it makes reference to the “po” or traditional night activities, such as the po-­ula, that the Christian missionaries banned tainoino e, e leiloa po‘o ai sona tamā?—­a question asked in disgust about who is the f­ ather if the child does something that irritates anyone Oloa o le PX—­product or commodity of the PX, the marines’ Postal Exchange and supplies shop Maligi sulu i1e—­marine in a lavalava; ­because marines always wear pants, it was unusual to see a marine in this casual Samoan attire; normally this term referred to children from Upolu and Savai‘i Such a large vocabulary of scorn expressed Samoan attitudes. The participants who shared their stories reflected on the extent of this labeling as they grew up. Some w ­ ere luckier than o ­ thers, having grandparents and a m ­ other present all the time, providing a sense of security and stability. Mana, for example, grew up in Auckland, thereby avoiding the enmity and stigmatism experienced by other children of the American marines in Samoa. For some, the secrets ­were kept so well that they succeeded in wiping out the memory of such American men. For ­others, they ­were left to grow up virtually by themselves with distant maternal relatives. Sulimoni Matagofie, whose ­mother died when he was a baby, was one who felt the brunt of social ostracism from early childhood: Well that was the unfortunate ­t hing. I was born I never got to know, understandably, my ­father ­because they got sent away, I suppose. This was the story I was told in my own search for my roots. I was also told that, and this was the early stage of my life. In fact I grew up and I know of also when I was young ­t here was a court case on who was ­going to take me. You know, a ­legal custody—­a custodian of this person [pointing to himself] . . . ​to take me as their ­little child. Well in the end, you know it was then deci­ded, or the court deci­ded that the ­people that ­w ill take over me ­were the p ­ eople from Savai‘i.

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In Samoa, despite its being illegal, swimming in the lagoons was a ritual for children ­after to‘ona‘i (Sunday lunch). It was where all the young boys would congregate a­ fter they stole away from parents. As Sulimoni recalled, One of the things I can never forget was my chore on Sundays. A ­ fter the to‘ona‘i, Hakai and Ula [my guardians] would come home and would lie down to sleep.59 And I would take turns for them—­e fuki le siga.60 This is picking the sina, grey hair from their hair. Especially her hair while they are sleeping. And out t­ here on the beach, ­because we had a beautiful white sandy matafaga, the beach, the kids would be swimming, h ­ orse racing and all that. And this kid, their kid, his name is Ata, would be out t­here, enjoying that. And ­here am I, fuki le siga. I was a boy—­Of course! I was like any other kid. I wish I was t­ here but no I had to do this. Yeah, ­because this was my job! I cannot leave. I had to do this. That was my job for Sundays. Growing up was a constant ­battle for Sulimoni. Only social pressure forced his guardians to take Sulimoni to school: I grew up ­t here in Savai‘i. I can trace back the year when I started ­going to school. And I remember you know in 1954 I was in standard one (Standard 1) at Tutagaoleva‘aloa, our school district area of Matautu. And 1954, 1953, I was in Primer three. I skipped Primer Four b ­ ecause of perhaps my age; perhaps I had something in the head. But then, the first class I ever had was Primer 2. Primer 2 and that would have been 1952 when I trace it back. In 1952 I was about 9 years old. I remember my teacher—­Ita Peters. So that was my first time to attend formal schooling. And I know I was old already. I could hear and understand what was g­ oing on around me and I often hear ­people say, ‘Talofa e! Talofa e i si mea melomelo.61 Kalofa e i si maligi e le aoga!’ [Poor fair child, poor child of the marines that ­doesn’t go to school]. And I think it was the community pressure that ­really caused my f­ amily to put me in school. Even more hurtful ­were the spiteful words, uttered to explain the reasons why Sulimoni did not deserve a formal education: And I heard right ­t here and then words from my ­family such as, “Ia a iloa a kusi le igoa ua lava lena ina ne‘i te‘i ua aoga, poto ona alu lea ae lē alofa mai, lē toe manatu mai ma lē tausia taua. Once he knows how to write his name that’s enough, in case he gets something in his head and then he ­will leave us forever and never come back to serve you know and w ­ ill not

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do our . . .” You know. That I have always remembered and it is fresh in my mind, and the life I lived is a life that nobody should ever live and nobody should ever go through. ­ ere ­were times where Sulimoni felt he could no longer endure the cruelty inTh flicted by this segment of his aiga: Back at Lelepa village, you know with a small body I had at the time, I remember, oh it was a hard life! It was a hard life t­here. I often go to the taufusi, the swamp area inland from the village and pray to God to take me. Let me awwh! [a sigh of despair], to finish me! ­Because I ­can’t, I ­couldn’t live anymore! Life was hard! It was slavery. It was terrible! He went on to explain an incident in his childhood that remains vivid in his mind as branding him as an outcast. Looking back to this dark part of his life, Sulimoni found some of the treatment he received to be very extreme: Well I guess it is h ­ uman nature, e faitama fa‘apito lava le matua i lana tama [a parent always favors their own]. And that I was an outcast. That was it! I had all sorts of names. It was more than that. They had a son of the same age as me. The son would be playing cricket at the other end of the village and I would be d ­ oing the saka62 and collecting firewood, tae ‘alala and d ­ oing all the work at home. And if the son is beaten by somebody from that end, I get a beating. [sigh, and laugh] I get a whack ­because the son was crying from that end and I should have minded him. That’s all fresh in my mind. As a young person, Sulimoni was called bad names, mainly b ­ ecause he was fair skinned and a product of the war: And I had all sorts of names. You know I was called, “Maligi se, maligi elo, maligi kaea” [lost marine, stinky marine, shitty marine]. I had a belly like that. (Hands out in front of the stomach to show the size of his swollen belly as a child). Like an African malnourished child. I was even called “manava i‘i, manava o‘o” (having a stomach that was making a lot of sounds) b ­ ecause I got a belly that was out like that with nothing e­ lse on the body (bare chest). And they called me “muli miki,” ­because I have a flat ­behind and all that. And the life was tough! But I learned a lot! I learned a lot. Well I suppose God had something for me, which was why I was not sunk in the

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swamp. If t­ here was quicksand t­ here, I would have been a goner! I would have been gone then, ­because I d ­ idn’t know any means of killing myself. But I wanted to! For some, the stigma of shame continued beyond childhood. Va‘aulimasao related that, even as an adult, his being a product of the war was still being raised: Very much so, like when they call me like dif­fer­ent names, like a Palagi [white person] or a marine, or maligi se, the strange marine, all kinds of names, and I used to have fights with children ­because I get ­really angry, ­because you know, I was being discriminated [against]. Even though I become a Matai, but the joke is still ­t here, it’s still ­t here. Vaea, in contrast, could not have cared less. He got used to the name calling at a very young age and deci­ded to ignore it: “It ­didn’t worry me at all. I just take it, what­ever they call me, I ­don’t care. It ­didn’t worry me one bit.” 63 Another cross ­these children had to bear was the continual harassment by the boys of their own age group. Sulimoni and another child of a marine in the village w ­ ere used as objects of entertainment: Okay in the village, this is the village of Lelepa, another bad experience I went through in life. At the other end of the village, t­here was a maligi [kid] too. He had his ­mother ­there. His ­mother was t­here. And I ­don’t have a m ­ other. We are talking about biological mothers. Often, it became a village t­hing for the taulele‘a and young ­people, as an eve­ning event. They brought that guy from the other end of the village and me from this end of the village and we fight in the ­middle of the village almost ­every night. We fight ­until we bleed. And that was the way it was for us. I remember that. The other guy, his name was Tolo. He was the one that I had the fights with. Okay one night I win; he wins another. For entertainment! It was entertainment to them. Well yeah. Well I suppose, well the cockfights ha-ha. Well that was how it was for us anyway. It was part of the life I lived! ­Others w ­ ere also at the receiving end of such shaming. As Fatu in Pago Pago remembered, “Over ­here it is the same ­t hing. Mainly maligi kaea! maligi or palagi toi toy or palagi pepelo. But funny enough, I [also] got it when I was in the elementary schools. So obviously the children get it from the adults.” 64 The “cockfight” episodes and the name calling ­were symptomatic expressions of the resentment caused by frustrations when real­ity falls short of expected out-

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comes. ­These can easily infect young minds to the point where they become instruments to normalize loathing and inflict physical and verbal pain. Such was the extent of the initial strug­gle of Samoan society to accept the multiple transgressions embodied in the war’s ­human legacy. Most children of the American marines battled such societal wrath during the early stages of their lives.

Stigmatization of the ­Mother Most mothers have taken their stories with them to the grave, refusing to tell their children about their fathers. Th ­ ese ­women had not conformed to the expectations of what a Samoan/Christian ­woman should be. The stigmatization began during the war, and it continues to ­today, as seen in the following song lyr­ics: Outou Teine o le Atunu‘u Outou teine o le atunu‘u You girls of the country [Samoa] Na ou fa‘apea e le valea lou ulu I thought you w ­ ere not foolish Tama mai Meleke ua taunu‘u The boys from Amer­i­ca have arrived Ae tavali ai fua lava ou laugutu And you begin to paint your lips Su‘e vai se‘evae ma fa‘amaulu You find shoes and put them on Ae le masani talu o na e tupu But you never used to do this since  birth E te iu lava i le togaulu You just go early to the breadfruit  trees E toli mai ni ulu e fai se umu. To get breadfruit for a umu. Sosola uma o seila i Meleke Tia‘ioe i le alatele Nofonofo solo i le aualatele Ma si ou foga ua tau malepe Ua uma fo‘i aso o le fa‘apepepepe I talane o le tama mai Meleke Ua uma na ou fai atu Aua e te matele tele E te i‘u lava i le tu sameme.

Sailors have all run away to Amer­i­ca Abandoning you on the road You sit by the roadside With your face falling apart (crying) Days of romance are gone when You sit next to the boy from Amer­i­ca I have already told you Do not be arrogant You w ­ ill end up with nothing.

Tia‘i lou aiga ae e sola You abandoned your f­ amily Sola nofo i Satapuala To live at Satapuala Leai se ma‘a e faalatalata i le No one ­will try to get closer to the faitoto‘a o le agasala   Gate of Sin Savalivali solo i le ala, pei o se You roam the road like a town girl. teine mai le taulaga

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Ae latou te leiloaina lava But they do not know, your village is   very far [from Apia]65 E mamao lou nu‘u ma lou alalafaga. The song demonizes the Samoan ­women who had relationships with the American soldiers. Yet some Samoan w ­ omen actually welcomed the arrival of the new men and the good social relationships they had with them. Masina revealed that this well-­k nown song about the Samoan ­women was directed against her ­mother: The song was about my ­mother. That much she told me. My ­mother was a beautiful ­woman and spoke her mind. ­There w ­ ere so many of t­ hose afakasi [half caste] boys who wanted to be with her. Mind you, my grand­ father was part German and although we live h ­ ere in the village we still had a strong connection with some of the German-­Samoan families in town. But my m ­ other got pregnant with the marine and t­ hose guys ­were angry and disappointed with my m ­ other. They mocked my m ­ other, an educated Samoan who lost her head over an American soldier. If you listen to the lyr­ics, the lady it is referring to is an educated lady. My own ­mother told me that they ­were jealous of her and the soldier. That was why they went and did a song up to spite her. So e­ very time I hear the song I always think about my ­mother and what she went through. For all t­ hese w ­ omen, and especially t­ hose like Masina’s m ­ other, the public shaming was hurtful ­because so much of it stemmed from the racist policies of the Americans that prevented an honorable marriage. ­Family narratives suggest that some American fathers insisted that their Samoan companion give birth in American Samoa. The hope was to enable the child to gain citizenship through paternity. In Western Samoa, the American mission clergy and the resident businessmen who petitioned the U.S. secretary of state w ­ ere well aware that not all Samoan w ­ omen and their American partners w ­ ere debauched opportunists. They had lived through the occupation and had seen t­ hese relationships firsthand. As one such petition pointed out in 1946, Many of the fathers of ­t hese children wished to marry the ­women who became their mothers, but this was not in a single instance permitted by the military officers in command. Now, many of the fathers wish to return, marry the ­women, and support their children, but up to date no single ­father has been permitted to land. Also many of the ­women, of good

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f­amily and character, have expressed their wish to join their unmarried husbands in Amer­i­ca.66 In contrast to Masina’s ­mother, who faced society’s wrath for not conforming to its expectations, Lae‘i’s m ­ other deci­ded to go with her American lover back to the United States. She already had a Samoan husband and d ­ augh­ter when the war started. When she became pregnant with Lae‘i, she took her young ­daugh­ter to stay with the f­ ather in his home village of Leauva‘a. U ­ nder instructions by Lae‘i’s grand­mother, Lae’i was given to her ­grand-­uncle who raised her. This was a scandalous way of living in Samoa at this time; not only did Lae‘i’s ­mother consort with an American but she also she did so as a married ­woman with a ­family. She stayed at Aggie Grey’s establishment and worked ­t here, even before she became pregnant with the American. She was very close to Aggie during the war. But when the rollout came, Lae‘i’s ­mother had already made her choice: she was determined go with her American. Lae‘i remembered how her ­mother shared the story of how she left Samoa with her ­father: I asked her [­mother] how she went to Amer­i­ca for the first time. And she told me how. It was terrible. She said that when the soldiers ­were starting to rally up to go, her American f­ ather wanted to take her [­mother]. He approached a c­ ouple of se­nior officers. She went as a stowaway. Of course it was illegal for her to go. But they had it all planned. My ­mother said she went up the boat and was placed in one of ­t hose huge tires at the bow of the ship. Th ­ ese ­were used as weights and wave breakers for the ship. “I was placed t­ here and I held on to it for my life, all the way to Tutuila.” At night when it was too rough she felt the tire being pulled up a bit. That was my ­father pulling her up. She said that it was only when the boat was close to Tutuila that the captain and her f­ ather threw over a rope for her to be pulled up on to deck. She was taken inside to change her clothes and eat before the boat arrived. That is how she got to American Samoa. They stayed t­ here for a while, got married and had another d ­ augh­ter before they went to Amer­i­ca. Lae‘i’s ­mother was willing to risk her life just to be with the man that she loved. Lae‘i remembered her m ­ other’s explanation why she took this chance to go with her ­father, “ ‘I had to go. I had to go away and make something of myself. That is why I wanted to go. And your ­father gave me that opportunity.’ This is what she said when I asked her why she had to go and leave me.” From her ­mother’s perspective she never abandoned Lae‘i. She knew all along that she

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would come back and see her b ­ ecause Lae‘i was with her ­family. She did return in 1968, but a­ fter almost twenty-­five years.

Adoption In the Samoan culture, every­one is connected to a ­family. This guarantees that every­one has a place to be looked a­ fter and a f­amily to belong to. Most of the Samoan children who w ­ ere fathered by the Americans w ­ ere integrated into their mothers’ families. Th ­ ese customary adoptions ­were considered binding in the Samoan worldview, but Samoan law was changing. As Lae‘i ­later found out, the increasingly restrictive bureaucracy ­a fter the war deemed some Samoan forms of adoption to be illegal: I was threatened by an officer at the registration of births, marriages and deaths when I went to get a new birth certificate ­after I realized I lost my old one. They told me that the information on my previous birth certificate was false and that my f­ amily can be charged for giving false information to the registry. I was told that the adoption was illegal. I told them it was not illegal; it was just done the Samoan way which did not require any papers. I apologized that I was not aware of the information ­because I always thought that my parents ­were my parents then. Well the birth certificate, it was t­ here when I grew up. The guy calmed down and said that he ­will not use the information on the old birth certificate ­because it was illegal. Instead he ­will use my biological parents to do my new birth certificate. Again I was apol­o­getic. I gave him $20 for his lunch and that was that. Fatu’s adoption in American Samoa was totally dif­fer­ ent from Lae‘i’s e­ xperience: When my grand­mother died, I was a­ dopted by my aunt, my m ­ other’s sister who married a palagi. I took his name from when I was l­ ittle. ­Because my ­family members ­were fair, that kind of made it easy for me. . . . ​I know about what and who I am. I had no problems growing up t­ here. I did all my schooling h ­ ere and then went to university in the mainland. I joined the [U.S.] Air Force and had my tour of duty in ­Korea. But all that time, I was always thinking about it. About what could have happened if I knew who he was? ­Because I know absolutely nothing about who he was. Vaea’s adoption was legalized six months ­after his birth. He was ­adopted by his ­mother’s second cousin who lived with his grand­mother. Despite having

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moved to New Zealand, Vaea’s m ­ other helped out whenever she could. Vaea’s earliest memory is of being teased at school for his looks: In Apia, Western Samoa where I grew up in a village right in Apia called Savalalo. I went to Saint Mary’s School and as I grew up, grew older and ­people start calling names, start making remarks about me being white, [with] blue eyes. I started realizing that you know, ­t here is something, something ­really strange ­because [when] I look at my parents, ­t here’s no way ­t hey’re my parents. No way at all, you know? I d ­ on’t know how old I was, maybe I was 10, 12 or what­ever when I started realizing and then ­people start saying things, neighbors and ­people that I know and all that and they keep saying, “Oh, where’s your ­mother at? Have you met your real m ­ other?” And I thought, “Well, why do they keep saying that? I think this is my ­mother.” And I thought, “Nah, that’s not my ­mother. How can I be? How can I say that that’s my parents” when I know for sure, well I know, I just know, I just d ­ idn’t know. And strange, I was swimming one Sunday at the beach, turn around and one of the kids said, “I think your mum’s waving you in.” And I said, “Ay, what’s she want now?” And I walk up the beach and she was standing ­t here and ­t here was a lady standing ­t here next to her. I took one look at her and said, “Now that’s my mum.” That w ­ oman was introduced to him as his aunty, “but I knew straight away that was my ­mother.” When Vaea moved to New Zealand he lived with this ­woman, who revealed the truth to him. For Sulimoni, Salafai (a w ­ oman on his m ­ other’s maternal line) suggested the idea of adoption not long ­after Sulimoni began staying with her at Lalovaea, near Apia on Upolu:67 Well they wanted to adopt me and I was all for it. They wanted to keep me and so forth, against the thinking of the p ­ eople in Savai‘i. Well a lot was said about what they did was wrong and that they should never have done it but, schooling in Savai‘i, you know from primary school up, I took Hakai’s name. I must have put down my name as Tauma’oe Hakai. Remember Tauma’oe was my calling name at that time. You know I never knew it was Sulimoni. I mean ­t here was Sulimoni but then I thought it was just another name. But Tauma’oe, I was known as. But ­there was never an issue to adopt me u ­ ntil I came to Lalovaea and they a­ dopted me, you know it was to legalize my being as the son of so, so and so. I was blessed that they took me in and deci­ded to adopt me. I was old enough by law to make my own decision. It was Geoffrey Jackson, the l­awyer who did the

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adoption. . . . ​I made my own decision to be a­ dopted. Th ­ ere was no need for an approval from my non­ex­is­tent natu­ral parents. Vaea’s ­adopted ­father cared for him. It was from him that he learned and valued the importance of parenthood. “He was a lovely man; I adored him, and he made me laugh, you know, he was just a lovely man. If I’d asked him for the world and if he had it he would have given it to me.”

Life Lessons Undoubtedly many Samoan children with American marine fathers have had fulfilling happy lives and knew they ­were loved. A New Zealand schoolteacher in Samoa in the 1950s testified to this when he recalled the malini children in his class: They ­were known as Malinis. . . . ​In a class of chubby, full-­blooded youngsters their pale bodies looked strangely naked, but they ­were as lovingly cared for as the o ­ thers. Often they received special treatment. Bill Smith was a Malini. He had a Samoan name for his first five years, but, when the time came for school, his Samoan stepfather who worked for a Eu­ro­pean merchant soon found a Eu­ro­pean name for him—­the merchant’s. Bill lived among his brown bro­t h­ers and sisters, but he wore a shirt and pants, and went, at some expense, to a Eu­ro­pean school. Now Bill is a man, he, at some expense, looks a­ fter his ­family.68 It should be acknowledged, however, many Samoan children from war­time intimate relationships suffered a rough upbringing. Sulimoni’s experiences ­were difficult, but he believed that he was meant for something greater than just being another war child in the village. He loved to learn and won a scholarship to study in New Zealand. He married at a very young age. ­After university he returned to Samoa and taught at vari­ous government ju­nior secondary schools and then at Samoa College. From t­ here he embarked on a successful c­ areer in the public ser­ vice, where his passion for h ­ uman rights and integrity brought him to the forefront of Samoan politics. Sulimoni became a po­liti­cal activist and was one of Samoa’s prominent po­liti­cal forces of change in the early 1980s. But at day’s end, when all is quiet, the darkness sets in, and the mind reflects about what could have been his life experience had his m ­ other lived: Many times I have cried my heart out, you know, wishing that she was alive. She would have been somebody that I can consult and confide in.

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She would have been someone that can be my mentor. Somebody that I can go to, my blood, my bones! You know, but somehow it w ­ asn’t to be. Sulimoni acknowledged that his childhood experiences and t­ hose as a young man made him more determined to succeed in life. It built his character and how he sees the world. He felt that he was guided through all his experiences by a force beyond his control: Somehow I was blessed. I was special in a way, you know. I was blessed with the gift of God e ta‘itai‘ina a‘u—to guide me through. I firmly believe in God. I ­don’t attend church but I believe in God and I believe in the Bible. I wish I had my ­mother with me to share some things. ­ ese Samoan children of the American marines refused to hold themselves Th hostage to hate or to be mired in already lived experiences. Being ever the optimists, they learned the value of perseverance, determination, and forgiveness. All the Samoan individuals participating in this research claimed that the constant pillar in their lives has been their ­family: both the ones they grew up with and the new families they have created for themselves. Above all, when they became mothers and fathers themselves, they became accessible role models for their children just by living their normal lives.

Searching for Fathers, Finding Selves Many children of marines have tried to contact their fathers since the war. Seventy years since the war, some children are still searching, and grandchildren have joined them in the search. The media have reported on some happy endings in which children w ­ ere re­united with their fathers. But for the likes of Masina, Fatu, and Sulimoni, their search for their fathers caused them to confront the question of what makes a person who they are, as Fatu explained: You know ­t here was a time where I ­really tried to dig into the roots of my ­father. I did. I was given a chance to tour Amer­i­ca. [While in the United States] I contacted some ­people ­t here. They ­were Samoans, I think from American Samoa. They know where the rec­ords ­were. I spoke to them and they w ­ eren’t much help. You know I think they thought, “O ai lea? [Who is this?] E ma‘i mau ai fua le taimi!” [It is a waste of time]. That’s how I found them. This was very unfortunate. And you know ­every means I tried cannot be continued b ­ ecause what they said was that, they need more information. The name was in Samoan. ­There was no number [ser­

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viceman’s registration number], no rank, no nothing whatsoever to go on. But I wanted to do it, not ­because I wanted anything. I was given the story that most of the marines h ­ ere ­were taken to the Solomons to the B ­ attle of the Coral Sea and that they arrived to their deaths. The Japa­nese ­were waiting for them, hiding with their machine guns, you know. They arrived at the beach and ­were ambushed. Even at sea. He could have been one of ­those! But all I wanted was to know ­whether he had a f­ amily and that. He was young so I presume he d ­ idn’t have any other child. You know I wanted to know if he had ­family or any sisters and any of that. That is all I wanted. Nothing ­else. Fatu served in the U.S. Air Force a­ fter a successful college education. He did tours of duty in K ­ orea and other places before he retired from the Air Force in the mid-1980s. When he was in the Air Force he tried to look up the rec­ords of his biological ­father, but found nothing: And then I thought to myself. Why am I looking for a guy who did not spend one cent or at least any time of his life to be a f­ ather to me? He has not even seen me. When ­here in Samoa, I have had someone who gave his name to me. I have the privilege of being accepted into my m ­ other’s ­family and I hold paramount chiefly titles of my f­ amily in Fagatogo and Leone? What more am I looking for? Nothing! I am alright. Va‘aulimasao69 taught in American Samoa for a while. As a child of an American, he took it on himself to join the U.S. Armed Forces. He resigned from teaching and went to join the army. Unfortunately, it did not go as planned: The American Army, b ­ ecause of that background, something drove me to go ­t here, to take that opportunity but I kept on thinking that my ­father was an Army person or was a marine person, I have to go ­there and maybe I can find and meet, so I sat for the Army test and got accepted and I was ­really, ­really happy. I topped the class, the examination, and said to take the clearance and go to Hawai‘i for a physical examination, but then I went to Immigration (office) and I got declined ­because I ­wasn’t an American Samoan. I was an alien. [Chuckle] I was strongly linked to Samoa and I came back to teaching. They ­wouldn’t look at [the claim that his ­father was a marine], so I got ­really angry, so I thought, well I had better come to New Zealand. But my purpose too was to get to the Army and get educated, you know, further my education, which was one reason why I

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wanted to get to the Army ­there so I can have the opportunities, you know, so when that door closed, I thought well, New Zealand is another place of opportunity. Va‘aulimasao’s failure to join the U.S. military ­because he was not from American Samoa did not end his quest to get into the army. The military seemed to be a surrogate for his f­ ather’s ­family, and his quest was a sign that war children and their be­hav­ior ­were affected by the absence of a fatherly role model. He has transferred the absent American f­ather to certain military memorabilia, the nearest tangible ­t hing he could find to fill this gap in his life: When I came ­here, when I arrived ­here [New Zealand], that background still on me, you know, wanting to go to Amer­i­ca. I have been to Amer­i­ca, and just a visit, never been back, so I bought an Army, old Army uniform, I still keep it, maybe just a remembrance of this is my ­father’s background, somewhere in Amer­i­ca or somewhere, so I still keep that uniform. It ­doesn’t fit me anymore ­because I was slim at the time, but I still keep it, I ­don’t want to give it away, I ­don’t want to throw it away, but it’s a reminder that maybe sometime, somewhere, somehow it has some connection. The code of silence a­ dopted by most Samoan mothers of war children limited the chances of their children pursuing a search for f­amily links in the United States. Masina was the pride and joy of her grandparents. She knew from a young age that her ­father died in the Solomon Islands at the war front. While a child, she learned her f­ ather’s name from her grand­mother: I always asked her about my ­father and she would say, “Why do you ask ­those sorts of questions? You know what happened!” But I would be cheeky and say something back: “Yes, his parents are in Amer­i­ca and his bro­t h­ers and sisters too.” Well she never said it anyway. She ­didn’t even tell me the state where he was from. But I am adamant that I want to find it in this lifetime, for me and for my children. It is impor­tant to me. Mana’s attempts to find his ­father ended with disappointment. He made his first attempt when he traveled to the United States. He phoned a U.S. marine base, but they would not give him any information without required identification and personal information, and obtaining that was a time-­consuming pro­cess he had not anticipated. A second attempt to find his ­father was more successful, and his hopes began to rise:

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And it ­wasn’t ­until I got back to New Zealand that I sort of got on the Internet and started looking in the Internet and trying to find out things and you know. I found some information . . . ​about the social security numbers and the death index and all that sort of t­ hing and then I got onto a site called Ancestry​.­com and I started piecing together a lot of information and then I found out that my dad died in 1987, which was the year that I went to the States. He died in 1987 at a place called Orange County and he was buried in Orange County. . . . ​And while I was looking at the Internet one day, I discovered he had children. . . . ​Apparently he must have got married years a­ fter he got back to the States. W ­ hether he tried to find Mum and I, maybe he lost us b ­ ecause we’d moved from Samoa and come to New Zealand, you see? Anything like that could have happened, you see. But anyway, I posted a message on Ancestry​.­com, asking for anyone who had any war buddies or anyone who had information about him, who was a marine in Pago Pago during 1942–43 and I just left it at that. I got an email from somebody one day, saying, “We saw your posting on Ancestry​ .­com. Uh what do you want to know? I was his son.” So anyway, this person’s name [the son’s name] was apparently living at the same address, living in the dad’s old ­house. I sent him an email, I said, “I’m interested in finding out a ­little about [the f­ather] who was in Pago Pago in the war,” and I sent a ­whole lot of photos that I had. I never got a reply back to that. I think they ­were in shock when they got the photos to find out that his dad had another ­family in Samoa, you know? But he never replied. . . . ​I said in my original email, I told him that he’d probably get a shock ­because we have the same f­ ather. And I said, I d ­ on’t want anything from you. I’m ­doing this totally out of wanting some information on my ­father for my health purposes. Many war children, like Mana and Masina, wanted to know more about their American fathers. They ­were curious about them and what they looked like, but most knew or at least had seen their mothers. Yet a few even suffered this loss too. They sought the image of their parents’ physical beings. Having no living natu­ral parents, Sulimoni said, I never set eyes on the ­woman that, you know, gave birth to me. I can only imagine her. In my wildest imagination I even saw a palagi soldier in brown khaki, sitting on a flat rock. Th ­ ere’s a rock that is still ­there in Savai‘i. My m ­ other’s grave is styled like that, you know, stones like that, and ­t here’s a niu le‘a [a type of coconut] ­here with a rock, which is ­t here which is as big as this sort of t­ hing [pointing to a sculpture that is roughly

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about 3 ft in height]. And I saw a maligi soldier sitting ­there. We never exchanged words. But in my mind I saw him. I d ­ on’t know ­whether I ­really did or not! I d ­ on’t think I did but I suppose it was one of t­ hose wishes. I was wishing that I could see my ­father while growing up. But it is still fresh in my mind that I saw him. Traditions tell of spiritual bonds between ­mother and child. They say that images of our parents in our minds are a reminder that we are never alone in our journeys through life. Th ­ ere are t­ hose who love us from beyond and wish only the best for us. Sulimoni has no recollection of what his real ­mother looked like. But for years he carried with him not only the image of the American, his ­father whom he could never have seen, but also a vivid image of a dead ­woman with a ban­daged face on a mat who could have been his m ­ other: “You know, it is a part of all this inner longing-­ness to belong, to be a part of, to share with what­ever or whoever.” Without a photo­graph ­t here ­really was nothing firm for Sulimoni to go on, yet before him, in plain sight, it was ­t here. His adoptive ­mother pointed out that one of his daughters was the spitting image of his ­mother. The revelation of his ­mother’s features in his two daughters and granddaughter has eased his longing. He now knows what his m ­ other looked like. Sulimoni also made his aiga his priority. He never shied away from acknowledging the ­whole ­family in spite of the ordeal he went through: When they [guardians, Hakai and Ula] got sick I brought them ­here at Moto‘otua and looked ­after them. When they died, it was me that made the coffin and made the lau’ava70 when they ­were buried. . . . ​­there was never ever any ill feeling in me to ever avenge what they did. It never, never occurred to me. I am happy for that. I want to share it with p ­ eople. . . . ​ ­Don’t ever give up! D ­ on’t ever, ever give up. I went to the swamp and I prayed to God to take me but I was not taken away and so ­t here must have been something for me. Sulimoni turned to the enduring foundations of Samoan values, the aiga and Chris­tian­ity: It was through ­t hese that he sought his identity. Though such institutions are rarely perfect, they did not fail him in his darkest times.

Concluding and Beginning World War II brought thousands of American soldiers in and out of Samoa. In ­great numbers, they invaded the Samoan social landscape and affected the lives

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of many individuals. For a few, their relationships ­were lifelong and had fairy­tale endings. For most Samoan w ­ omen, however, the intimate relationships with American soldiers ­were brief romances, with promises withered in the sun. But their painful legacies of shame and ­bitter emotions ­were, to some, everlasting, affecting the war children who ­were the innocent victims of such affairs. Like any encounter, both parties in t­ hese relationships w ­ ere aware that each was g­ oing to affect the other in many ways. But the extent of this connection only surfaced at the end of the war. Samoans had welcomed the economic boom, new infrastructure, and the new skills brought by the Americans. Yet the price they paid was considerably higher than t­ hese material gains. Samoan society was left with a bittersweet dilemma of having to deal with a legacy of painful shame. So ashamed did some families feel that they often managed to conceal the secret from the children for de­cades, if not permanently. Was societal shame so intense ­because the sudden and huge infusion of fatherless children upset the aspirations of many families for the advancement of their matai and aiga through a good marriage and its reciprocal relationships? Th ­ ere was always the question of who was at fault: society for letting down its guard and setting aside its espoused values, the young Samoan ­women who made their own decisions, the American soldiers for being in Samoa, the racist policies of the U.S. government that barred ­legal marriages, or the war children who ­were their ­mothers’ darlings. We must admit that it was wrong to transfer the generational guilt onto the war child and to the m ­ other. Society panicked in trying to make sense of the social shock and became entangled in the consequences. But the solution was t­ here all along. As experienced by all t­ hese participants, it was the aiga that they clung to, despite the hardships they had experienced. For war children, they found new beginnings in their own children and in the families. The feeling of needing to find their missing ­father gradually became secondary as they themselves created and strengthened the aiga. Many suffered, but demonstrated more compassion for t­ hose who hurt them than the wider Samoan society has shown them as a group. Many have become chiefs of their families and make decisions together with their children. They have taken their rightful place in their Samoan families. All of which justifies Tagaloalagi’s notion that “E leai ni tagata noa i Samoa.”

C HA P T E R T H R E E

New Caledonia The Experiences of a War Bride and Her Children kathryn creely

On 11 April 1946, the USS Rutland sailed ­u nder the Golden Gate Bridge and arrived in San Francisco. The ship carried “1538 veterans from the Southwest  Pacific and  37 French war brides and children from New Caledonia.”1 Among the passengers ­were an American soldier, Robert Melina; his New Caledonian wife, Isabelle; and their infant d ­ augh­ter, Roberta. A newspaper story published the next day gives an indication of what Isabelle was expecting as she stepped ashore in her new home—­a nd how she felt about her island of origin: This country looms as a delightful world packed full of sophisticated entertainment to the French girls who married Yank soldiers in Noumea, New Caledonia. . . . ​Most rigorous sentiments on the subject w ­ ere expressed by Mrs. Robert A. Melina who made the trip with her T/5 husband and baby Roberta. “New Caledonia is no good,” she declared flatly. “It is not interessante [sic], the villes (towns) are small, t­ here is nothing to do. For me, New Caledonia is finis. But Amer­i­ca, it must be wonderful, n’est-­ce-­pas? ­Here ­t here is dancing, ­music—­every­t hing! I never go back to New Caledonia.”2 Isabelle never went back to New Caledonia, but her experiences in the United States ­were certainly not all that she had expected when she arrived in 1946. Instead of a “delightful world packed full of sophisticated entertainment,” she shared a tragic life of poverty with her husband and American children in the northern state of Minnesota. This chapter pre­sents what ­little is known about that life, drawing on interviews with Isabelle’s surviving children and other ­family members, augmented with information from historical source materials. A ­ fter a brief review of the war­time circumstances of New Caledonia, I explore the topic of gender relations during the American presence ­there (1942–1946) as background to this par­tic­u ­lar ­family’s experiences.

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New Caledonia’s War­time Context Although never a battleground, New Caledonia played a small but impor­tant role in the first phase of the Pacific War.3 By 19 September 1940, the ­people of New Caledonia (then a French colony)4 had ejected Vichy-­a ligned government leaders, and the colony was allied with the ­Free French movement led by Charles de Gaulle. Australia played a supportive role in bringing about this change of regime and remained involved with the defense of New Caledonia.5 Japan’s alignment with the Axis powers; its capture of locations in New Guinea, Papua (southeast New Guinea), and the Solomon Islands; and the likelihood of a Japa­nese attack on Australia brought New Caledonia’s risk and importance to the fore in the Allies’ war planning. The Allied Forces needed a major base from which counterattacks on Japa­nese forces in the region could be launched: New Caledonia, just across the Coral Sea from Australia, was chosen. New Caledonia became a strategic base for the allied war effort, a staging point for ships and aircraft, and a training ground for troops bound for Guadalcanal and other major battles. As one representative of the F ­ ree French in the Pacific commented, When, on Dec. 9 [1941], two days ­after Pearl Harbor, the French National Committee declared war on Japan, it was fully aware that New Caledonia was a tempting prize, with its strategic position on the route between the United States and Australia, its excellent harbor of Nouméa, its good airport and its rich nickel and chromium mines. A few days l­ ater General de Gaulle offered to the United States Government the use of New Caledonia’s land, air and naval bases, which led to the agreement of March 2 [1942] between the United States Government and the French National Committee.6 As this writer noted, in addition to New Caledonia’s proximity to the Japa­nese frontlines in the Pacific islands and to major urban targets in Australia, its nickel and other mineral resources figured into the Allies’ decision to protect the island. New Caledonia had long been a supplier of nickel in the world market, and by 1940, as the war-­driven demand brought nickel consumption to an all-­time high, its production was second only to that of Canada. Before the war, New Caledonia’s nickel “ore was exported chiefly to France, Germany, and Japan.”7 In early 1941, the export of New Caledonian nickel and chrome to Japan was stopped, ending what was by then Japan’s only source of nickel.8 Keeping New Caledonia in the Allied sphere ensured that its nickel and chrome would not be used in the

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manufacture of Axis weapons, but instead would be sold for use in the U.S. rearmament efforts.9 Three months a­ fter the Japa­nese attack on Pearl Harbor, American military forces began to arrive en masse in New Caledonia. Unannounced to the general public, the arrival took most New Caledonians by surprise. The sight of the first big flotilla approaching Nouméa’s harbor was well remembered by local witnesses, such as Sylvain Dev­illers: March 12, upon seeing through the telemeter, in the first lights of dawn, twenty masts beside the Dumbéa Pass, beyond the reef, I realized it was an invasion. The event that was not expected anytime soon and that we feared: the ­enemy revealed itself. I soon gave the alarm and telephoned my superiors. But what intense emotion followed some minutes ­later with real relief when we learned that it was an Allied flotilla.10 This first contingent included about 18,000 Americans and impressive amounts of equipment and other cargo. A merchant, Auguste Ménard, recalled, The disembarkation made a sensation. This deployment of extraordinary forces, at such a critical moment, profoundly marked all the townsmen. In eight days’ time, thousands of men, with weaponry, on foot, in cars and trucks, scoured our l­ ittle island. This hustle and bustle, so sudden and so exceptional, would alter our existence.11 By August 1942, the number of Americans in New Caledonia had grown to about 22,000. New Zealand forces also arrived in late 1942, staying for about nine months before departing for Guadalcanal.12 In addition to the Allied troops based in New Caledonia, hundreds of thousands more passed through the main island, Grande Terre, on the way to and from bases in the New Hebrides (Vanuatu), battlefields in the Solomon Islands, and beyond. Many critically injured Americans ­were evacuated to New Caledonia’s military hospitals for treatment and rehabilitation. U.S. Navy ships passed through Nouméa’s harbor repeatedly, transporting troops and equipment or hobbling in for repairs to damage sustained in ­battle. No exact figures are available for how many American military passed through New Caledonia during the war, but estimates range from 1,000,00013 up to 1,500,000.14 At the height of the Allied presence in December 1942, an estimated 100,000 to 130,000 Americans15 (and smaller numbers of New Zealanders and Australians) ­were on the main island, including ­t hose concentrated in the area of Nouméa, living in military encampments throughout the island, and waiting to board the many ships in Nouméa harbor.

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The number of Americans in New Caledonia was huge in comparison to the local population and had an im­mense effect on the economic and social life of the colony. A 1936 census gives the total population of New Caledonia as 53,245; by 1946 the population had increased to between 61,250 and 62,700.16 The mostly French population of Nouméa numbered around 10,000 before the arrival of the Americans. New Caledonia was, and is, an ethnically diverse place. In 1946 the population included about 30,000 indigenous ­people, 18,500 persons of French (or other Eu­ro­pean) ethnicity, and between 12,700 and 13,600 persons of Asian ethnicities.17 Not reflected in t­hese subcategories are t­hose whose parentage drew on two or more ethnicities; they are well represented in New Caledonia but not separately counted. Before the war, the indigenous Melanesian p ­ eople of New Caledonia (­today collectively known as Kanaks) w ­ ere largely confined to native reserves and w ­ ere considered to be subjects but not citizens of France. The majority of Kanaks lived on the main island of New Caledonia, known as the Grande Terre, but a large percentage lived on the nearby Loyalty Islands and Isle of Pines. The Asian population consisted principally of contract laborers (who since the 1890s had come to the Grande Terre to work in the mines, on coffee and other plantations, and as domestic servants), their families, and descendants. The Asian community originated mostly from Vietnam (and other parts of what was then French Indochina), Java, and other regions of the then-­Dutch East Indies (Indonesia). In 1940 it is estimated that the Javanese population was 8,200 and the Indochinese population numbered 3,412, about half of whom ­were contract workers.18 The small Japa­nese community in New Caledonia had been greatly reduced by the forced war­time internment (in Australia) of about 1,100 ­people, including some who had been granted French citizenship.

Local ­Women, American Men American military men arrived with their own preconceptions of New Caledonian ­women. Perhaps their ideas about local white ­women would have been informed by the Army’s Pocket Guide to New Caledonia, which gives a brief introduction to the peoples and cultures of the territory—­and this advice about local French culture: Most of the French in the island are devout and quite conservative in their personal lives. They are f­amily ­people and you w ­ ill find that they have a rather strict moral code. In some families it would not be considered

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Figure  3.1. Cover of an informal telephone directory for the  U.S. Army Signal Corps. (Courtesy of Arthur Lavine, who served in the Signal Corps in New Caledonia during the war)

proper for a girl to go out on a date ­unless accompanied by her parents or a chaperone. Our troops understand ­these customs and re­spect them. They are not molesters of w ­ omen.19 Ideas about indigenous Pacific ­women would likely have been influenced by the ste­reo­t ypical images of beautiful, exotic, and available islanders, popu­lar­ized by films of the era, such as t­ hose starring “sarong queen” Dorothy Lamour.20 The flirtatious grass-­skirted beauty distracting the hapless switchboard operator, depicted on an unofficial U.S. Army directory, is drawn from this ste­reo­t ype (see Figure 3.1). Other misrepre­sen­ta­tions of indigenous ­people of New Caledonia persisted even a­ fter Americans interacted with them. One African American soldier who had spent a year in New Caledonia described the local p ­ eople thusly: “Then ­t here are the native Tokinese [sic], who ­were formerly headhunters and are still very much in a primitive pagan condition, although many of them have been

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Christianized through the untiring efforts of the missionaries ­t here.”21 Another American wrote this home to his wife: Went to a native village last night; in­ter­est­ing, but Hollywood lied. I suspected the native ­women ­didn’t look like Dorothy Lamour—­now I’m sure. The kids run around half naked like so many piccaninnies in the South. They live with their many relatives in huts with thatched roofs. They have a clearing in the jungle and live amidst many beautiful flowers.22 Racial ste­reo­t ypes w ­ ere also applied by the local French to African American soldiers and sailors, who ­were much more likely to be accused of sexual assault than their white counter­parts.23 This came to a head in late 1943, when the ­governor of New Caledonia, Christian Laigret, issued a statement condemning American troops’ be­hav­ior: [Laigret] . . . ​said in reply to questions that “one situation that has become quite intolerable is the American colored troops: we have many proofs of lack of discipline among them.” M. Laigret said that he had asked that the City of Noumea be designated as “out of bounds” for Negro soldiers and that they be restricted to camps outside Noumea. “The colored troops are the terror of the white ­women of New Caledonia,” he charged. “They have attacked them even in the com­pany of their husbands and bro­t h­ers. Our ­women are afraid to go out of the ­house of nightfall, though recently General Lincoln [the American commander] took action and the situation is a bit better.”24 An editorial in the Chicago Defender, an impor­tant African American newspaper, responded to Laigret’s statements by pointing out how at odds they ­were with the prevailing image of the French: ­ ere are t­ hose among us who ­w ill be shockingly surprised to learn that Th a Frenchman—­a ­free Frenchman—­would voice such deep-­seated feelings of race hate. American Negroes have come to think of France as a ­great liberal nation whose ­people know no color line. Basically this is the French tradition. But racial prejudice, like any other filthy virus, flits across national boundaries, smiting individuals in the most liberal countries.25 A few months l­ ater another editorial in the Chicago Defender cast a dif­fer­ent light on the New Caledonian situation as reported in the mainstream press and, rare for this period, raised the topic of mixed-­race children:

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White war correspondents and censors are strangely blind when white US soldiers violate native ­women in ­England, Italy, Africa and Pacific. But, oh, how they plug it when it’s alleged Negro soldiers rape a white w ­ oman or native. . . . ​A ll lurid details came in PDQ by dollar a word cable. Meanwhile, new generations in the Pacific Islands, Africa and West Indies w ­ ill be much lighter, as white U.S. soldiers have their way with native w ­ omen, but this a­ in’t news like the New Caledonia . . . ​cases. And down in Mississippi where Bilbo says: “any white man or ­woman who crosses the color line should be ostracized.” ­There ­were 37,000 mulattos in 1860. By 1910 t­ here ­were 171,000.26

Sex Work Sex work was another context in which ethnicity and gender played out. Local white (and perhaps other races of) w ­ omen ­were employed as prostitutes in licensed brothels (maisons de tolérance), such as Nouméa’s well-­k nown Pink House (Maison Rose). One marine described such an establishment as “an in­ter­est­ing sidelight in this womanless world out h ­ ere.”27 The American military allowed white soldiers and sailors to visit the established premises for prostitution, but placed the licensed brothels off-­limits to African American troops. Prostitution also occurred outside of licensed establishments. The following is a typical complaint recorded in an official American military document of the time: A reliable in­for­mant notified this office on 17 January 1944 that on several occasions he had noticed Javanese men in the park near the ­Hotel de France soliciting American soldiers and sailors as prospective customers for sexual relationships with Javanese ­women. The price is 50 cents. The location where ­these Javanese are engaging in this activity is very near the bar owned by Mrs. CONSTANS in the ­Hotel de France building. Frequently ­t here have been large numbers of American military personnel who have been drinking in the vicinity where ­these ­Javanese are operating. The Javanese themselves appeared to have been drinking.28 One hill close to town “was commonly known among the Negro soldiers, for whom all ­houses of prostitution had been declared ‘off limits,’ as ‘Prostitute Hill.’ ”29 Yet even t­ here, African American clients could be viewed with suspicion. In one well-­publicized case, two young African American soldiers ­were accused and convicted of raping a seventeen-­year-­old Melanesian ­woman, although their

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interactions with her w ­ ere likely instances of prostitution, b ­ ecause she solicited and accepted money for the encounters. Sentenced by a military court-­martial to life imprisonment, the soldiers’ terms in military prison ­were eventually reduced to eight and ten years.30

Marriages and Children No estimates have been found for the number of children born to American (and New Zealander and Australian) military fathers and New Caledonian ­women as the result of sexual assault or prostitution, but of course many more children would have been born in the context of consensual relationships. This is not surprising, given the numbers of soldiers and sailors who arrived. As New Caledonian historian Frederic Angleviel notes, “The Second World War brought the arrival of 200 Australians, 18,000 New Zealanders and an unceasingly renewed group of about 60,000 Americans. . . . ​If one considers that the New Caledonian population was about 60,000 ­people, it is obvious that more or less vis­i­ble births took place in all communities.”31 During the war years, 102 marriages took place between New Caledonian ­women and American ser­v icemen,32 and most of t­ hese couples eventually moved to the United States. A majority of the couples married in Nouméa, but a few brides traveled to the United States to marry t­ here. As early as September 1944, the Pacific Islands Monthly noted, “Since the arrival of the US Forces in New Caledonia, 27 local girls have married American soldiers and sailors. Four of them recently left to make their homes in the United States.”33 Opposition to ­t hese marriages came from several sources. Local parents ­were likely to oppose such matches, which would take their daughters far away from home and ­family ties. For Catholics desiring a religious ser­v ice, the Catholic Church set up another barrier: Monseigneur Edourd [sic: Édouard] Bresson, Vicar Apostolic of New Caledonia, has formally pronounced against the contraction of war­time marriages between New Caledonian girls and members of the American forces. The three reasons he puts forward are the difficulty in the way of obtaining exact information as to the baptism and freedom to contract marriage of prospective bridegrooms; the fear of the break-up of u ­ nions of this nature during periods of separation which war makes inevitable and which might be in­def­initely prolonged; and b ­ ecause of the lack of guarantee of entry into the United States of the foreign wife of an American ser­v iceman.

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The bishop therefore formally forbids his missionaries in the colony to celebrate weddings of this nature without his special authorization and the production of certificates of baptism and freedom to contract marriage. He adds that such authorization ­w ill only be given “in absolutely exceptional circumstances.” The bishop’s interdict follows a recent announcement of the same general purport by the U.S. island military command.34 Marriages between military men and local w ­ omen w ­ ere subject to close scrutiny by the U.S. military and could be (and sometimes ­were) disallowed. Permission for a marriage could be denied if the bride-­to-be was considered to be of questionable character. Ethnicity was also an impor­tant ­factor, and generally marriages to New Caledonian ­women who appeared to be of non-­white heritage would not have been allowed, ­because U.S. immigration laws of the time would have prohibited their immigration. However, the war years w ­ ere a time when such policies, particularly in the context of military marriages, ­were challenged, and by 1945 new legislation began to be enacted that changed conditions ­under which war brides and their children could immigrate to the United States: Congress took impor­tant action in the immediate postwar era to affirm the overseas marriages of U.S. military personnel. . . . ​The rights that they endowed ­were framed by Congress as rights for veterans, and only incidentally for their spouses and children. . . . ​The legislation accepted only white brides from overseas; in the original bills, Asian w ­ omen ­were categorically excluded as “racially non-­admissible aliens,” reinscribing in immigration policy the racist immigration laws in effect since the end of the nineteenth ­century.35 One case from New Caledonia is emblematic of the policies then in place. In September 1945, an American soldier, his New Caledonian fiancée, and the fiancée’s ­mother called at the U.S. consulate in Nouméa: T/5 Mayo desires to sponsor the admission of Odette Trigalleau into the United States for the purpose of marrying her. Similarly, the ­mother of Odette wishes to go along too, having T/5 Mayo sponsor her too. The Army refused permission for Mayo to marry Miss Trigalleau, according to the soldier during an interview at the U.S. consulate: T/5 Mayo claims his parents w ­ ill act as sponsors, also his married sister. His parents are now in Pleasanton, Texas, and he claimed they had two

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homes t­here (a residence and a ranch). T/5  Mayo was a pre-­war truck driver in San Antonio, Texas. . . . ​T/5 Mayo estimated that his funds in the U.S. (at home and in the bank) come to about $1,500. Odette Trigalleau is quite dark; it is believed that her f­ ather was a half-­ caste or matisse [sic]; she has an illegitimate son, presumably by a New Zealand soldier (since the New Zealander recognized the child). The applicants—­mother and ­daugh­ter—­are of questionable character and financial means. The ­mother claims to have sold a ­house belonging to her recently, and aside from this income, lives entirely on proceeds from taking in washing. On the basis of the questionable background and financial status of the two visa applicants, and on the basis of the questionable ability of T/5 C.C. Mayo to support his fiancée, her illegitimate [sic] d ­ augh­ter, and his fiancee’s [sic] ­mother in the United States, THIS CASE SHOULD BE GIVEN ­SPECIAL CONSIDERATON FROM ‘LIKELY TO BECOME A PUBLIC CHARGE’ VIEWPOINT should they follow-up the inquiry with visa applications. It is believed that the Adjutant General, SOPACBACOM . . . ​may issue ­orders transferring this soldier out of New Caledonia for the best interests of the ser­vice. The mention of the w ­ oman’s skin color in this case is in­ter­est­ing, ­because it highlights a difference between official French colonial and American practices of the time. In the United States, by the 1940s all but nineteen of the states (including Texas, where Mayo’s f­ amily lived) had anti-­miscegenation laws in place, and so skin color or ethnicity could and did preclude marriages between Americans of Eu­ro­pean descent and Americans of African, Native American, Asian, and other non-­European backgrounds. In some states, particularly in the South, “one-­drop” laws w ­ ere established in the 1920s (along with Jim Crow segregation laws) that relegated mixed-­race persons to non-­white categories, which ­were also affected by anti-­miscegenation laws. The U.S. military commanders would have taken ­t hese discriminatory state-­level laws into consideration in reviewing proposed marriages between Americans and non-­European New Caledonian ­women, ­because in most cases the ­women would have been expecting to migrate to the United States. If the ­couple ­were proposing to live in a state with anti-­miscegenation laws, then their marriage would have been considered invalid in that state. Skin color or ethnicity would not have been a l­egal barrier to marriage between New Caledonians, w ­ hether of Eu­ro­pean or other descent, although, as in the United States, racial prejudice would certainly have posed social barriers to formalized marriages between Kanak and non-­ Kanak ­ people. Indigenous

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Kanak p ­ eople (and Asian immigrants and their children) ­were officially classified as indigènes and, with rare exceptions, ­were ineligible for French citizenship.36 The soldier in the previous case, T/5 Mayo, persisted in seeking permission to marry his New Caledonian fiancée, despite being transferred to the Solomon Islands. Another action is noted in November 1945: Chaplain Leslie of SOPACBACOM pay [sic] a visit to the Consulate and stated C.C. Mayo had made another application for marriage from Guadalcanal. The only ­factor in the case which has been changed since the first application is that Miss Trigalleau is preganent [sic]. The Chaplain stated that he was recommending the second refusal on the case. He also stated that the French Police had informed him that Miss Trigalleau was only 50% white. He feels that the girl is immoral and that it is in the best interests of the ser­v ice to refuse the application for marriage. The final amendment to this document is dated 8 February 1946 and details this soldier’s last effort to obtain permission to marry his New Caledonian partner: Mr. Mayo stated that he was g­ oing to be married shortly. Wanted to make inquiry about the possibility of getting Miss Trigalleau into the U.S. Considered the case on face value, he was told to come in with fiance [sic] for an interview. Chaplain Leslie called and stated that he and the army had definitely refused permission for him to marry and was sure that as far as Army was concerned it was closed and permission would not be granted.37 Despite Mayo’s assertion, Mayo and Trigalleau did not marry. The soldier likely returned home to Texas at the end of the war; Miss Trigalleau and her children remained in New Caledonia, where she married a local man and established a ­family. A similar case, in which a white American soldier, Robert Melina, and a métis New Caledonian ­woman, Isabelle Pezron, sought to marry, was resolved differently by the U.S. military. Isabelle married her soldier with the permission of the U.S. government, and they moved to the United States. Sadly, Isabelle and her children did eventually “become a public charge.”

Isabelle Pezron, A New Caledonian ­Woman Isabelle Louise Pezron was a métisse ­woman, with Kanak and Eu­ro­pean ancestry on both sides of her ­family.38 Isabelle’s m ­ other was Agnès Marie Mazzoni (1886–1944),

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who was born in the village of Saint-­Louis, a few kilometers from Nouméa. No birth certificate exists for Agnès, but her marriage certificate lists her f­ather as inconnu (unknown) and also states that she is a fille naturelle (child born out of wedlock). ­Family oral history holds that Agnés and her ­mother, Élise (also born in Saint-­Louis), ­were métisse: Kanak and Eu­ro­pean. The name Mazzoni is of Eu­ ro­pean origin, so it is pos­si­ble that Isabelle’s grand­mother, Élise Mazzoni (also born in Saint-­Louis), had a Eu­ro­pean f­ather who recognized her, although no documentation for this has been found. Isabelle’s m ­ other Agnès may have been métisse by birth, but she was socially Kanak and connected with her extended Melanesian ­family, having spent much of her life in Saint-­Louis, which has been described as ­follows: Saint-­Louis, like many other villages scattered throughout Melanesia, is in fact a Eu­ro­pean ‘artefact’, a village which came into being through the activities of the Marist mission. . . . ​Within a few years [of its founding in 1856], the Mission establishment included the church, boarding-­schools for young Melanesians of both sexes, a saw-­mill, rice paddies, cane-­fields, gardens . . . ​By 1868, ­t here ­were approximately two hundred ­people living in or near the village. Even at this early date, the initial concept of a reduction [a village for converts] to train new Christians for missionary work among their home tribes was only very partially successful, most pupils settling in the village a­ fter leaving the Mission school. . . . ​In 1868, the French Penal Administration set up a small camp near Saint-­Louis: contact of prisoners with the local population appears to have been slight. Between 1864 and  1868, sugar planters from Reunion (in the Indian Ocean) came to New Caledonia along with 376 Indian labourers; . . . ​a few came to the Mission to work in its cane-­fields. . . . ​Again, contact with the local population was slight. . . . ​By 1923, the earlier pattern of the vari­ous Melanesian groups living in the general vicinity of the Mission had changed. . . . ​The geography of the village reflected the tribal origins of its inhabitants, with four distinct quarters.39 Interestingly, Saint-­Louis, the village of Isabelle’s m ­ other and grand­mother, was to become familiar to many members of the American military during the war: The presence of large numbers of American troops during World War II was a major event in the history of the relatively closed world of Saint-­ Louis. The largest military in the South Pacific at Dumbéa (a pleasant stroll’s distance away in Melanesian terms), a transit camp at Plum, a field hospital on Saint-­Louis Mission land, and a camp just north of the village,

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all provided a larger “win­dow” than had previously been available on the white man’s world. Most of the villagers had extensive contact with the troops, both in the workplace and socially. The impact of the troops was both material and h ­ uman: they introduced the Saint-­Louis ­people to canned goods, which ultimately provoked a shift from subsistence agriculture to a monetary economy; they took part in the village’s ceremonial and religious life; a very few of them married Saint-­Louis girls.40 [emphasis added] Many villagers learnt some En­glish and the speech of older ­people t­ oday has a number of words of (American) En­glish origin.41 Isabelle also had both French and Kanak heritage through her f­ ather. Her paternal grand­father, Yves Marie Pezron, may have come to New Caledonia with the sandalwood trade.42 By the 1880s he was a merchant and landowner in Ponérihouen,43 a small settlement on the east coast of the Grande Terre located about 280 kilometers from Nouméa (see Map 3.1). Isabelle’s paternal grand­mother, Isabelle Ouenghey (b. ca. 1847, died before 1922),44 was a Kanak w ­ oman, originally from Mou, Lifou. From this u ­ nion ­were born several children, including Isabelle’s ­father, Charles Paul August Pezron (born in Ponérihouen in 1885).

Map 3.1. New Caledonia (Grande Terre) and Loyalty Islands.

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Figure  3.2. First communion portrait of Isabelle Pezron. (Private collection)

Isabelle’s parents, Charles Pezron and Agnès Mazzoni, had two daughters before formalizing their marriage in February 1922. ­These children ­were Jeanne-­ Marie Andrée (1913–1934) and Alexandrine Elise (1920–1923). Following their marriage two more children ­were born: Yves Joseph Marie (1923–1995) and ­finally Isabelle (born 3 January 1925) (see Figures 3.2 and 3.3).45 All of t­ hese children w ­ ere born in Nouméa. According to f­amily documents (such as birth and marriage certificates), ­Isabelle’s ­father, Charles, was employed by the Société des Hauts Fourneaux de Nouméa, a nickel ore refinery, eventually rising to the post of foreman (contremaître). Charles was killed in an accident on 9 August 1934, while riding his bicycle to work. He was forty-­nine years old. The ­family signature on Charles’s death certificate is that of his oldest d ­ augh­ter, Jeanne-­Marie. A few months l­ater, the ­little Pezron ­family suffered another loss when Jeanne-­Marie herself died while giving birth; she was only twenty-­one. In about 1936 Isabelle and her brother

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Figure  3.3. First communion ­portrait of Yves Pezron. (Private collection)

Yves went to live with their f­ather’s oldest sister, Marie (née Pezron) Bouthaux (b. 1874), where they spent the rest of their childhood and where their m ­ other Agnès died in 1944 at the age of fifty-­eight ­after spending several years in a hospice run by nuns of the ­Little Sisters of the Poor (Petites Sœurs des Pauvres).

Isabelle’s New Caledonian Children: Jacqueline and Lionel Although this chapter is primarily about the American aspects of Isabelle’s life, this background information would be incomplete without mention of the two children whom Isabelle left b ­ ehind in New Caledonia. The first of t­ hese children, Jacqueline Andrée, was born in Nouméa in June 1942, when Isabelle was seventeen years old (see Figures 3.4 and 3.5). The f­ather of this child was Lionel André Paillard, a twenty-­seven-­year-­old local man of French heritage.

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Figure 3.4. Isabelle at age eigh­teen, with her d ­ augh­ter Jacqueline (age nineteen months), January 1943. Isabelle appears to be pregnant. (Private collection)

In August 1943, at the age of eigh­teen, Isabelle had a second child, Lionel Charles Albert, named ­after Lionel André Paillard, who acknowledged paternity on the birth certificate (see Figure 3.6). F ­ amily members have hinted that L ­ ionel Charles’s ­father may actually have been someone e­ lse, and he retains painful memories of his namesake calling him a bastard (bâtard), furthering this uncertainty.46 Lionel l­ ater spoke wistfully of the possibility that his f­ ather was an American, perhaps even the man whom Isabelle eventually married. An in­ter­est­ing side note, perhaps adding to the speculation, is that Lionel’s putative French f­ ather was friends with an American sailor, Frank Bochansky, who had arrived in New

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Figure  3.5. Jacqueline Paillard, about four years old, 1945. (Photo­ grapher: Arthur Lavine)

­ aledonia in March 1942 with the first wave of Americans, having survived the C Japa­nese attack on Pearl Harbor where he was stationed in December 1941.47 At Lionel Charles’s christening Bochansky was named as godfather. Isabelle and her relatives did not mingle with the Paillard f­amily, perhaps ­because of their métis ethnicity, as was noted: “The f­ amily of Lionel’s m ­ other (Isabelle) ­didn’t ever spend time with the Paillard f­amily. The ­mother of Isabelle is Melanesian, hence she is of color.” 48 By the time Lionel Charles was born or shortly a­ fter, Isabelle had broken off her relationship with Lionel André and had returned to live with her aunt, Marie Bouthaux. An old photo­graph from this time hints at a pos­si­ble reason for the separation; its caption, written by Marie’s granddaughter, reads, “Her first husband was very cruel. She came back to live at my grand­mother’s ­house.”  49

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Figure 3.6. Lionel, 1945. (Photographer: Arthur Lavine)

Isabelle left ­little Lionel and Jacqueline with their ­father’s ­family, the Paillards, where they ­were lovingly cared for, especially by their ­father’s sisters. One of ­these sisters, Jeanne, was especially close to Jacqueline, but in 1946 Jeanne herself married an American, Robert Lindsay, and moved to the United States. Another Paillard sister, Juliette, had a son, Henry Andrew (b. 1943), whose ­father was an American. Juliette and Henry eventually moved to the United States as well, although Juliette did not marry her American. In time, Lionel André married a New Caledonian w ­ oman, and ­little Lionel and Jacqueline went to live with him.

Robert Melina, an American Man Robert Arthur Melina was born in Minneapolis on 1 August 1913, the son of an American ­woman and an Italian ­father.50 His parents divorced when he was young, and his ­father moved away. Robert was raised by his ­mother and ­later a stepfather. By the time Robert enlisted in the U.S. Army in June 194251 he was a married man with a five-­year-­son, also named Robert. Before the war, he supported his f­amily by working at gasoline (petrol) stations. Robert’s military ser­v ice eventually took him to New Caledonia, where he participated in the war

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Figure 3.7. Robert Melina in New Caledonia. (Private collection)

effort as an auto mechanic (see Figure 3.7). The marriage faltered during Robert’s long absence overseas and ended in divorce.

Robert and Isabelle We do not know for certain how Robert and Isabelle met. “What p ­ eople have told me is that she was an entertainer of some sort, or worked in a coffee club or something ­t here, and that’s how they met,” one of their daughters said to me. “That’s what I was told, in my memory.”52 We do know that Robert was a talented pianist and singer, so perhaps t­ here is a grain of truth in this story.

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By October 1944, Isabelle was pregnant with Robert’s child and on 20 January 1945, Robert (then aged thirty-­one and a corporal) married Isabelle, who had turned twenty just a few days earlier. Their marriage certificate notes that the marriage is “authorized by the decision of General [William Irwin] Rose.”53 Perhaps the facts that Robert had gone through the pro­cess of divorcing his first wife and that Isabelle was expecting Robert’s child w ­ ere enough to convince the authorities to allow the marriage, despite any misgivings they may have had about Isabelle’s skin color or character. In addition, the c­ ouple was presumably planning to move to Robert’s home state of Minnesota, which had no laws against interracial marriage—­t his ­factor would also have been considered by the U.S. military authorities. Exactly five months ­after their marriage, Robert and Isabelle welcomed their first child into the world. Roberta Evelyn Jeanne Melina was born on 20 June 1945 in Nouméa (see Figure 3.8). Her m ­ iddle names reflected her ties to two countries: Evelyn a­ fter Robert’s m ­ other, and Jeanne ­after Isabelle’s late sister. By August 1945 the war was over, and American ser­vicemen began to return home from the Pacific. Apparently the Melinas ­were not able to obtain passage immediately and stayed in New Caledonia u ­ ntil 22 March 1946, when they boarded the Rutland, a U.S. Navy vessel en route to San Francisco. The ship carried some 1,500 veterans from the Pacific war theater, along with 23 New Caledonian war brides. Eight of the ­women had infants and young children with them, all but one ­under the age of two. Altogether ­t here ­were eleven children on board.54 Robert was one of only seven husbands along. The scene of departure in Nouméa was one of sadness for the war brides and the families they left ­behind. As one New Caledonian newspaper reported, It is not without a tearing that the separation from ­family and country was made. With sensitive attention from the American authorities, parents and friends w ­ ere able to be on the quay at the departure and make their last goodbyes.55 For Isabelle, the joy of departure for a new life in Amer­i­ca may have been tempered by thoughts of the two young children she was leaving b ­ ehind and might never again embrace. Robert’s impatience to leave New Caledonia and return to the United States was ineloquently expressed on arrival in San Francisco: “Noumea is ­really awful—if they want a place to drop the atom bomb, they ­ought to go ­there.”56 On 1 April, as the Rutland neared Hawai‘i, it was tossed by high waves that ­were possibly related to the massive tsunami that struck Hilo and other parts of

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Figure  3.8. Robert holding baby Roberta, Nouméa, 1945. (Private ­collection)

Hawai‘i that day. News accounts of the Rutland also note the arrival of a “baby girl born on the high seas during a storm.”57 ­A fter the long sea voyage and exciting arrival in San Francisco, the ­little ­family headed northeast, probably by train, arriving in Minneapolis a few days ­later. The weather was cold that April, with near-­freezing temperatures at night. This must have been a shock to Isabelle, used to the mild climate and balmy breezes of Nouméa. Another source of dismay would have been the realization

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Figure  3.9. Isabelle and Roberta in Minneapolis, 1946. Inscription on back of the snapshot reads, “Roberta et moi. J’ai une de ces allures. Isabelle” [Roberta and me. I have one of ­t hose “looks,” Isabelle]. (Photographer: probably Robert Melina)

that she had married a poor man, who had a ­bitter ex-­w ife and son to support in addition to Isabelle and Roberta. On 25 April 1946 Robert was discharged from the military. He began to work as a janitor at the public library,58 and the f­ amily found a place to live just a few blocks from Robert’s ex-­w ife and son. A twenty-­year-­old Isabelle was busy with ­little Roberta (see Figure  3.9) who was soon joined by a new baby, Raymond (“Rocky”) Yvon, born on 2 July 1946. In the early 1950s, perhaps to be closer to Robert’s new job on a nearby military base, the ­family moved to New Brighton, a small town on the outskirts of St. Paul. They settled down in a rented h ­ ouse, an older, rundown building with no indoor toilet. Another ­daugh­ter, Dollee Mae,59 was born on 12 June 1950—by coincidence, her birthdate is the same as that of Isabelle’s oldest child, Jacqueline, born eight years earlier. Dollee was named ­after Robert’s sister who had died in childhood. Dollee’s name was eventually changed to Margaret and she was known by the name of Margo. Margo remembered the early years of her childhood as good ones. Commenting on the photo­g raph shown in Figure  3.10, she said, “That picture

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Figure 3.10. Robert, Isabelle, Raymond, Roberta, and Dollee in Minnesota, circa 1954. (Private collection)

took place in New Brighton, that was the h ­ ouse in New Brighton. That was when she actually, the ­family was, maybe, happy. In poverty but happy at that time.” Isabelle did not speak French with her children. As Margo recalled, She spoke a lot of French, but she was told that she had to speak En­glish with us. It was just a must in the ­house. ­Whether he [Robert] spoke French or not, I d ­ on’t know. So she spoke, she must have had enough En­glish skills. She sang French songs to me, I can remember that. What they meant, I ­don’t know. Things like that. At that point I do remember her as being a good mom to me and to my sisters and brother. Isabelle did make one friend, a neighbor named Christine. Christine was German and spoke with an accent. Margo described Christine’s husband as “part Indian, part French.” Perhaps Christine’s status as a foreigner helped the two ­women to bond, and perhaps Christine’s husband conversed in Isabelle’s native tongue. In any case, even in this friendship, Isabelle was not fully accepted. According to Margo, Christine described Isabelle as an

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odd ­woman, [who] had odd ideas. . . . ​She said that my ­mother was a very strange ­woman. She had dif­fer­ent ideas about how things should be done. . . . ​To them my ­mother was very backwards. She also said native . . . ​ she said she was a native. That’s the way they looked at her. She came from an island, you know, she was a native. Look at her heritage. But I ­don’t think they saw her in the light that the rest of us do, you know. Not that I see her now, that I remember her, she ­wasn’t like that, but for Christine she was. Christine said she was odd. I ­don’t remember that: she was my ­mother. On 16 August 1957 another child was born, a girl who was named Deborah Lee. ­There is some uncertainty about ­whether or not Isabelle and Robert are the parents of this child, b ­ ecause t­ here are anomalies with her birth certificate and her birth rec­ords are sealed. Both Margo and Deborah speculated that Roberta may have been Deborah’s ­mother; if this ­were the case, Roberta would have been only twelve. As Margo recalled, Roberta had been sent away to live with relatives for several months just before Deborah was born: We lived in that h ­ ouse in New Brighton when she had Deb . . . ​but my friend that lived down the street says she did not know that my ­mother was pregnant with Deb. So ­we’re not so certain that she. . . . ​She [the friend] just says that all she knows is for nine months or so, they dis­ appeared from being. They w ­ ere right down the road from each other, but she never saw her for her w ­ hole pregnancy. So when she came down the street carry­ing this infant, and having me in tow and my brother and my sister, she did not know that my ­mother had been pregnant. And so, if she’s anything like she looks in this picture, maybe you ­couldn’t know, it’s hard to tell. But she [Isabelle] said she wanted her [friend] to see the ­little blue-­eyed baby that she had, and brought this new infant into the ­house. That part of it I cannot remember. The first hint that Deborah had that she might have been Roberta’s child came as a dramatic revelation: My brother Rocky and I w ­ ere at the laundromat one day and he said, “Listen, I’m gonna go up the street h ­ ere.” So, you know, I was always following ­behind him. So we get to this guy’s ­house and we go in. Maybe I was seventeen, sixteen or seventeen, somewhere in ­t here. And I’m sitting on the couch and ­t hey’re talking and all of a sudden they mention my dad! And I’m incredulous. I’m saying, “You knew my dad?” It’s the first time in

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my life I’d ever met anybody that knew my dad, other than my siblings. And he looked at me and he goes, “Honey, your dad is my dad.” And I’m like, “What? What are you talking about? Wait a minute.” And he said to me, “Do you want to see a picture?” I’d never in my w ­ hole life seen a picture of my dad, never. And so ­here he comes with this picture of my dad and he was in uniform. It was taken overseas. And so then he tells me this story and he says, “Did you want to meet my mom?” And I’m like, “Sure, absolutely, one day I’d love to meet your mom.” And he says, “Come on.” . . . ​And ­there she is. . . . ​Very ­bitter. She took one look at me, and she goes, “Huh.” Right away she knew by looking at me but she thought I was Dollee, my sister Margo, her name was Dollee. And Bob [the half-­ brother] started introducing me and she said. “I know who that is, that’s Dollee Mae.” And I said, “No, no, I’m not Dollee Mae, I’m Deborah.” And she said, “No.” And I go, “I’m the last born.” And she said, “No.” I said, “Yeah, I’m pretty sure who I am!” And she was a very stern ­woman, she ­didn’t mince words. She said, “Nope, the last born was Dollee Mae.” And I said, “No, I was born ­after.” She insisted ­t here was no child born ­after. I said, “Well, what­ever, that’s me.” Many years l­ ater, Deborah met some of her ­family’s former neighbors: I had an opportunity to meet some w ­ omen who knew her [Isabelle] just recently. . . . ​They ­were old, ­they’ve passed on now, they w ­ ere very old. They ­were neighbors and they looked at me and the one, she was clutching her bag, and she said, “­You’re awfully light-­skinned.” And I said, “Yeah, kind of.” But the way she said it I kind of got the feeling that ­t hey’d never accepted her. I’ve heard from many p ­ eople, she was an odd ­woman they would tell me. Yeah, I do think it was [racial]. The ­woman said to me, “She d ­ idn’t shave, like her legs or her armpits.” But you have to take that with a grain of salt. It’s who they w ­ ere. I mean t­ here’s no blaming. I understand that subculture and what­ever ­t here. And it was northeast Minneapolis . . . ​­people call it God’s Country—­very Italian. Margo also alludes to the racial attitudes of the mostly white Minnesota neighborhoods where she grew up: I never felt any dif­fer­ent. It’s not like a black person and a white person type feeling that I ever had. . . . ​Actually most ­people thought I was Mexican, more than they thought of Pacific Islander. ­Until I ­really found out about . . . ​t hings that I ever looked it up to see where my mom was from.

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All I thought of was I was from New Caledonia. I never thought it was an island. And then I look it up and I think, “Oh, yeah, that’s why my brother looks that dark, with curly hair, that’s why.” B ­ ecause I have that ancestry but other­w ise I never thought of her as being that. I thought she was French. ­After Deborah’s birth, the ­family moved again, this time to Fridley, another small town north of Minneapolis. Robert had purchased a gas station in north Minneapolis and worked long days ­t here. Isabelle disliked being left alone with the children during Robert’s working hours. As Margo explained, their lives began to change with the move to Fridley: He would work in a gas station down in north Minneapolis and she ­didn’t want to stay home alone. So he would take us kids in the car, in his car, park us alongside of the gas station—­and we would stay t­ here the ­whole time he worked, sit in this car. It was all the time that I can remember being ­t here. At night, so he must have worked at night. I ­don’t remember about school or anything, but I remember my brother and sisters and I sleeping in the back seat, and her [Isabelle] being ­t here and ­going and getting us Coca-­Colas out of the ­bottle. And then a­ fter that, she started drinking. He had gotten a gas station business recently ­there in central. . . . ​ I have the smell of gasoline—[it] is soothing to me. I always won­der, “Why do you like the smell of gasoline?” I smell gasoline and I just get this soothing effect. I think it’s b ­ ecause I spent so much time with my dad at that gas station, that smell or scent relates back to my dad. But she [Isabelle] started drinking while we ­were ­there. We’d have ­people over, f­ amily members over and they would party a lot. ­There was a lot of drinking, banjo playing and singing. ­There ­were ­family gatherings ­every weekend and a lot of drinking ­going on. We have no other accounts for this part of Isabelle’s life, but perhaps it would be safe to conjecture that she was feeling overwhelmed by this point. In the space of a few years she had had at least five (or possibly six) children, abandoned two of them, lost her m ­ other, left one man and married another, and moved seven thousand miles from her home to a new life in a country whose language she did not understand well. Margo remembered her parents’ relationship as a troubled one: I remember my dad as a very kind person, very quiet, very kind. I loved him a lot. My sister and my brother w ­ ere very attached to my dad. . . . ​I

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remember him as being a gentle man. I remember him when they ­were in their bad times and she would drink and come home. She would actually beat up on him b ­ ecause she was so angry with him, but he never struck her, never spoke unkind to her. She was always angry, but I d ­ on’t know exactly why. Always angry. And the drinking started with the unhappiness. I can remember her being unhappy and I was quite small. She had all t­ hese children; she lived in pretty much a shack with an outdoor biffy [out­house]. Then things became even more difficult. In about 1959 Robert suffered the first of several heart attacks. He became disabled and lost his business; the ­family went on welfare. Isabelle seemed to crack at this point and began to drink heavily. Margo’s memories of this period w ­ ere painful: We ­weren’t in Fridley anymore ­because he lost his business. I d ­ on’t know. Just all of a sudden one day we moved again. It might have been from the heart attacks and being disabled and that kind of ­t hing. I ­don’t remember all of it, but I think it was south Minneapolis. And she continued to drink and she would continue to take the money and go to the bars. S­ he’d wait for the welfare check to come and go to the bar. He’d go looking for her. We ­were left alone a lot. We ­were left without food. I was responsible for my sister, I ­don’t know how many times. My teenage brother and sister, they both worked to try to bring . . . ​my brother worked at the Clark restaurant, which was downtown in Minneapolis south of Broadway. He would bring home leftovers to feed us, so that we w ­ ouldn’t starve. . . . ​We ­were in a town­house on Girard Ave­nue and he would crawl through the h ­ ouse into the other side to steal food from the ­people and bring it back over. ­There was just so much. The neighbors tried to help us. Christmas came and we lived in a dark ­house with no electricity for a long time, no r­ unning ­water on our side of the building. So ­there was a lot of poverty ­after he started having the heart attacks. Yeah, and t­ hese ­people from next door, one of the guys t­ here was a Boy Scout leader. And so the Boy Scouts came into our ­house, brought us pre­sents and Christmas dinner and a Christmas tree. And he personally ran his electricity into our h ­ ouse so that we could light the tree. We lived in a lot of poverty. On Sunday, 30 April 1961, Robert suffered a final and fatal heart attack, d ­ ying as he was being taken to a hospital. Margo had an indelible memory of what followed:

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She [Isabelle] was nowhere to be found for a long time. They c­ ouldn’t find her. They looked for her in bars and ­couldn’t find her. Apparently she got word from somebody ­because she showed up at the funeral, drunk. And I remember that. She was staggering drunk. And at the casket she was crying, “Oh my Robert, oh my Robert, what am I ­going to do without you?” And she fell to her knees. And then she got up and kissed him. I can remember the kiss b ­ ecause I can remember looking at his lips and thinking, “You got my dad’s lips all wet.” They ­were wet. His waxy lips ­were wet. I can remember my eyes looking at that. I ­wasn’t very old. I was ten years old and I can remember that. It bothered me that she was drunk. I ­didn’t want to see her that way. She was ­t here briefly. Isabelle and her children moved into a room at the rundown Nicollet H ­ otel in downtown Milwaukee. Roberta (Bobby) was fifteen years old, Raymond (Rocky) was fourteen, Dollee (Margo) was ten, and Deborah was three. Deborah recounts the story of this period based on what was told to her: Then she [Isabelle] was drinking in a neighborhood bar and crying about how she ­didn’t want ­t hese children. She just wanted to go home. . . . ​The ­woman that found us was the bartender at this bar and she was listening to her [Isabelle] night a­ fter night, drinking, saying “I hate this, I d ­ on’t want ­these kids. I want to go home.” She just wanted to go home then. And this ­woman went home and told her m ­ other, “This w ­ oman, drunk, keeps coming in, sharing this story about ­t hese kids she ­doesn’t want. She left them somewhere.” Bobby [Roberta] was trying to take care of us. They used to tell me how my sister ­didn’t have any milk, so she would put choco­late in the milk that was old, that she would find places and steal off tables. She put choco­late in it so I would drink it. . . . ​So Bobby tried. Bobby at that time had a boyfriend . . . ​and she ­later married him.60 . . . ​ He tells me that the ­mother and this bar ­woman, ­woman from the bar, showed up ­t here [at the ­hotel] and they brought some food with them. And the ­mother realized right away that the food was being massively consumed, quickly, that they needed to take us. And they did, they took us that night and dropped us at [friends’ h ­ ouses], saying, “Can you take a child? Can you take a child? Can you take a child?” I remember that night well, b ­ ecause they took me away from my sister Roberta who had taken care of me from the moment I was born. I remember it well. I remember screaming, being pulled from her arms. I remember, just, oh, I’ve never forgotten that. Oh, it was horrible for me. And then they brought me to this place, it was musty and dark and they put me in

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this room . . . ​and I can remember. You know, every­body around me was gone, my sisters, every­t hing I knew. . . . ​I was sticking my hand ­under the bed and pulling on the springs. The place was dark, it was the ­middle of the night, and all of a sudden the door opened and this shadow of a person said, “Stop that right now.” Oh, my God, what’s happening to me? And that was the beginning of my life in hell for many, many years, that night. Not that it w ­ asn’t hell to start off with, but I d ­ idn’t know any better. So when they took us that day, I d ­ on’t know if it was the weekend . . . ​but they did get in contact with the State and then the State came in. So then they put Roberta and Raymond together, and Margo and I together, in foster homes initially. But then they started separating us. The children ­were made wards of the state. Roberta bonded with her foster f­ amily and even remained in contact with them u ­ ntil her death in 1977. Raymond strug­gled with the situation and eventually ran away, living on the streets while still a young teenager. Roberta was too young to take on the responsibility for her siblings, but she did stay in contact with them even when they ­were in the foster system. Margo eventually discovered that other relatives ­were not allowed to take the children: And they split us up. My two older siblings went one way and Deb and I went another way. It was horrible; we ­were put in horrible foster homes. It was a horrible life. For Debbie it was worse b ­ ecause she was young. . . . ​ Roberta had tried to raise her and then they took us and split us up; they ­didn’t want Roberta to have to be responsible for Deb anymore. They wanted Roberta to have a life, so they took her away. And things ­were ­really bad; the State is what destroyed our f­ amily. And so when I did find [my f­ ather’s relatives] I said, “Why did you let that happen?” ­There was a ­family that lived in Coon Rapids that we ­were very close to. And they wanted Deb and the State w ­ ouldn’t let them have her. They w ­ ouldn’t let them have Deb at all and they wanted her, they wanted to raise her. They ­were Latter Day Saints ­people and they wanted to keep her in their ­family. They loved her and they had pictures of her. They would have kept her. We ­were tortured. Isabelle was not permitted to have contact with her children, although she tried at least once. Margo’s last memory of her ­mother was of a brief encounter: We w ­ ere placed in a foster home in Minneapolis at first and then when my ­mother found me ­there, walking home from school one day, they moved us to Circle Pines. She found us in Minneapolis. She must have

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Figure  3.11. Last known photo­ graph of Isabelle Pezron Melina, dated March 1962. (Private collection)

been looking for us, ­because she found me on the side of the street walking home from school one day. She got out of the car and came to me. And of course, she’s my ­mother, I’m g­ oing to give her a hug and ask her where she’s been and why did she leave me. A ­ fter that I never saw her again, ­because they took me away, they took us away. We w ­ ere wards of the state—­ they had control of where we’d go. ­Until I was seventeen years old . . . ​ that’s where I had to stay. In the mid-1960s, Isabelle’s brother in Nouméa, Yvon, received letters from her, stating that she was very ill and begging for funds to return to the island. Lionel learned of this from his ­uncle years ­later, by which time Isabelle could not be found. The letters themselves have also dis­appeared. My search for information about Isabelle’s fate was unsuccessful. In Minnesota, Robert Melina’s grave in Fort Snelling National Cemetery sits next to an empty plot reserved for Isabelle. Her fate is a painful question mark for her remaining children (see Figure 3.11).61

New Caledonia: War Bride Experiences   113

Siblings: Lost and Found Isabelle never told her American children about their half-­siblings in New Caledonia, but finally in the 1990s the secret came tumbling out. Deborah received a call from Florida from a w ­ oman with a French accent, who said that she had known Isabelle. This ­woman told Deborah that her ­mother had left two children in New Caledonia; when pressed, the w ­ oman admitted that she was in fact Jeanne Paillard Lindsay, the aunt of ­those children and that she too had been a war bride—in fact, she and Isabelle had come to the United States on the same ship. Deborah was given an address in Nouméa, and ­after hesitating for several years, she wrote to her half-­siblings, Lionel and Jacqueline: We all w ­ ere shocked to hear that our ­mother also left you. We had never heard anything like this before. We have talked about it and hope that we can establish a way to open the lines of communication between us. So many years have passed and this should have taken place so many, many years ago. We should not waste any more time. We hope that you ­w ill write to us. We can get someone to interpret for us. We would cherish an opportunity to know who you are and what your lives are and ­were like. . . . ​I pray that this letter reaches you. That you are all well and that it ­isn’t too late for us to begin to know one another.62 She never received a response to her letter, and it is unclear ­whether or not Jacqueline and Lionel ­were ever shown the letter ­until recently. Nevertheless, Margo and especially Deborah never stopped hoping that they would someday know their ­family in New Caledonia. In 2006, I met American photographer Arthur Lavine, who began his c­ areer as a darkroom technician with the U.S. Army Signal Corps, when he was stationed in Nouméa from 1944 to 1946. Lavine had fond memories of Nouméa and had taken many beautiful photographs t­ here, including several of Lionel and Jacqueline as very young children. Copies of ­t hese photographs ­were obtained from Lavine, and on a subsequent trip to Nouméa, I made contact with Lionel and his wife Eliane. In one photo­graph, I identified Lionel and Jacqueline, along with their aunts and cousins. I asked Lionel which person in the photo­graph was his ­mother. Lionel responded that by the time the photo­graph had been taken, his ­mother had abandoned him and Jacqueline and had married an American. Lionel talked about the pain of not knowing his m ­ other and the mystery of her disappearance. He knew that his m ­ other had married an American soldier named Robert Melina, and he also knew the given names of his half-­siblings in the United

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Figure 3.12. Lionel in New Caledonia, talking with his sister Deborah for the first time, December 2012. (Photographer: Kathryn Creely)

States—­but he did not have any contact information for them other than a vague notion that they lived in the north. Lionel spoke of his longing to connect with ­t hese ­family members, and I offered to try to find them. ­After returning to the United States, I did an internet search that identified a Robert Melina in Minneapolis. I called this man (who turned out to be Robert Melina’s son from his first marriage), explained that I was looking for his ­father’s American-­born children, and was told that the ­people to speak with would be his half-­sisters, Margo and Deborah. He gave me a telephone number for Deborah, and I called her. When Deborah answered the telephone and I explained that I had just returned from New Caledonia where I had met her half-­brother, she was thrilled. She explained that in 1997 she and her sister Margo had learned about the existence of their half-­siblings in New Caledonia, but had been unable to establish contact. From this initial contact, Deborah and Margo have established a relationship with their half-­brother Lionel. Email messages, social media contacts, and scans of photographs have been shared between the siblings and even their children.

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Figure 3.13. Deborah Melina in 2012. (Photographer: Kathryn Creely)

Jacqueline has been more reluctant to engage in direct contact with her half-­ sisters, but Lionel has shared what he has learned. In December 2012, I was in Nouméa again and made arrangements for Lionel to speak via Skype with both Deborah and Margo (see Figures 3.12–3.14). It was an emotional occasion for all participants, being able to see and hear each other for the first time. Lionel told Deborah that he did not know who his real ­mother was u ­ ntil he was twenty and that he r­ eally missed having a ­mother. Deborah affirmed that she also had grown up without a ­mother. Lionel said that he was so content to know Deborah, ­because they are the same: “C’est ma famille d’Amerique” [This is my American f­amily]. To which Deborah replied, “My brother, my heart. . . . ​W hen I look at you, I see part of me.”

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Figure 3.14. Margo Melina Tyson in 2013. (Photographer: Kathryn Creely)

Conclusion Ambiguity and loss are themes that underlie much of this chapter. The real­ity of American racism, both at home and abroad, tempers the glorious legacy of the American war victories in the Pacific. The islands w ­ ere saved from the fate of a near-­certain Japa­nese occupation, but experienced tremendous social impacts, positive and negative. The local economy boomed; the Americans built roads, expanded airports, and brought other improvements to infrastructure; and they employed Kanak l­ abor ­under conditions that challenged the existing colonial regime. For the w ­ omen of New Caledonia, the American presence brought an up-

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surge in gender vio­lence and sex work, but also empowered ­women of all ethnicities through improved employment opportunities. War­time romances flourished, children w ­ ere born, and in some cases, especially for suitably “white” w ­ omen, marriages and immigration to the United States took place.  U.S. immigration policies and state-­level marriage laws, particularly with regard to race, introduced other elements of ambiguity, as did the indigène status of Kanak and Asian ­people u ­ nder New Caledonia’s colonial laws. Ambiguities arose in the personal histories of the children born out of wedlock to New Caledonian mothers and American fathers. Did their mothers’ communities accept the mixed-­race children? Did they know the truth about their fathers? Isabelle’s own story contains many elements of ambiguity and loss, and it leaves many painful questions unanswered. Was her second child, Lionel, the son of her French partner or of an American soldier (as some f­amily members ambiguously assert)? Did she marry her handsome American for love, or was the marriage a way for a young unmarried ­mother to escape from an unhappy personal situation? Why did she keep the existence of her New Caledonian children a secret from her American children? Is Isabelle still alive, or if she died long ago, where is her grave? The hope with which Isabelle began her new American life stands in stark contrast to the misery and addiction she suffered and her many losses: of her husband, of her f­amily ties with New Caledonia, and of custody, which shattered the lives of her American children. Writing this chapter has taken me to places that I never expected to visit. Coming to know Isabelle’s children and having the sometimes painful privilege of hearing their stories and witnessing their reunion has been a power­f ul experience. Exploring the history of New Caledonia’s war years and my own country’s good and ugly roles in that faraway place and time has been humbling.

C HA P T E R F OU R

No Bali Ha‘i New Hebrides judith a. bennett

Before the war, among the many green, forested islands of the Anglo-­French Condominium of New Hebrides, only the big island of Efate in the south had a discernible pocket of colonial life imposed on its landscape (see Map 4.1). The capital and only town, Port Vila, was located in that pocket, its pre-­war existence premised on the needs of foreigners; about four hundred Eu­ro­pe­ans and six hundred Asians lived in that town, each in their own enclave. Located along the sea front, it was “primarily a ­couple of stores, a post office, and a road along the beach” plus “the Club” built to extend over the ­water, with the settlement’s waste dumped on the shoreline. Th ­ ere w ­ ere two hotels. The H ­ otel Vila, owned by a French ­woman, also ­housed the bakery. In the early days, the other h ­ otel was known as the “blood h ­ ouse” ­because of the fighting among the Eu­ro­pean drunks, but by the late 1930s it had evolved into the more respectable Reid’s ­Hotel and served good French food. The macadamized main beach road did not run far; on its few inland offshoots to plantations, the odd car kicked up the dust in the heat of the dry season from May to October. The French trading companies—­Comptoirs Français des Nouvelles Hébrides (CFNH) and Gubbay—­each had a general store on the main road, as did the Japa­nese firm, Nanyo Boeki Kaisha, whose buildings ­were right on the ­water’s edge. To the south along the seafront, their competitor, Burns Philp Co. Ltd. (BPs) had its store and a wharf for its steamers. On “steamer day” the scheduled ship was the focal point of social interchange and an occasion for often heavy drinking among the Eu­ro­pe­ans.1 Inland from the Vila shoreline, rising up the hill terraces ­were the usual structures of colonial power, albeit duplicated: the French residence and housing for its officials as well as the British, the joint court, the court­house, two police stations, two prisons (each with separate Eu­ro­pean and native sections), and the French hospital along with a Catholic Church (mainly for the French) and a Presbyterian one (for the En­glish). Red-­roofed, white-­painted town buildings ­were of imported timber with galvanized iron roofs. Just across the w ­ ater, the “En­glish Channel,” from Vila town, the British residency sat atop the island of Iririki—­now the site of a large resort frequented by Australian and New Zealand tourists (see 118

Map 4.1. New Hebrides.

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Map 4.2. Efate Island.

Map 4.2). When the heat of the day had passed, British expatriates had the use of a nearby tennis court. Not far away in the south of Iririki the Presbyterian Paton Memorial hospital’s mission staff cared for the sick British and New Hebrideans, mainly ­t hose who supported the Anglophone missions.2 In March 1942, into this sleepy “backwash of empire” came the first advance party of U.S. Army engineers, who w ­ ere soon busy with construction at Port Vila in the south and Havannah Harbor in the northwest of Efate. They found an odd colony, its administration uncomfortably shared by the French and the British. Soon the Americans quickly outnumbered the resident population by three to one and took over many public buildings. Depending on troop movements, between 50 and 70 ­percent of the men stationed on Efate during the occupation w ­ ere African Americans, involved in construction and mess support.

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Two months ­later, in May 1942, in the north of the island group at Espiritu Santo, the first U.S. ships arrived to anchor in the south-­facing harbor off the Segond Channel. The Americans encountered the real­ity of their new environment that did not match the Hollywood-­inspired image of the gentle tropics or the reassurance of the Port Vila’s slight colonial infrastructure: When viewed from the deck . . . ​its beauty is profound, but once dis­ embarked the traveller finds instead of beauty . . . ​dense jungle . . . ​malaria ridden swamps . . . ​dengue . . . ​hookworm . . . ​a nd the omnipresent rain and heat. Occasional oasis of cultivated plantations with planters’ homes . . . ​relieved the bleakness.3 This opinion was shared by ­others, as a member of the U.S. mapping corps complained: “Espiritu Santo was nothing like the South Seas we’d seen in the movies. . . . ​­There ­were no Dorothy Lamours on that island—­just Kanaka natives and Tonkinese who worked on the copra plantations.” 4 Two years on, at their maximum strength, Americans outnumbered the Santo population in the ratio of twelve to one, not counting the thousands of transients on ships that called for servicing, unloading, and loading. All this was a major shock to the bickering inhabitants. Pre-­war, Espiritu Santo had a string of mainly French-­controlled plantations on the south coast along the Segond Channel, the southern parts of the east coast, and on the offshore islands of Malo and Aore—riddled with competing claims for owner­ship with the En­glish (see Map 4.3). ­Here, Eu­ro­pe­a ns lived ­simple lives. ­Until the Americans came, very few had generators for electric light. The only semblance of a road was between the Renée and the Sarakata Rivers, halfway along the channel, linking a few faint signs of foreign settlement. The road connected the French agent’s residence—­east of the Renée River to a small French hospital and the Catholic mission—to the Sarakata River mouth where t­here ­were a ­couple of CFNH ware­houses, near the Luganville Bay anchorage. Across the unbridged Sarakata River to the east, the road became virtually a bridle path linking plantations. Most travel on the short track was by bullock cart or ­horses. West of the channel, removed from this tiny French enclave, the British agent was ensconced in lone eminence on the small island of Venui. Luganville was yet to emerge as a postwar town on the template of the vast U.S. base at the eastern end of the channel.5 Within three weeks of their arrival, with the help of local l­abor, the pioneer U.S. force of four hundred had carved an airstrip out of the Santo jungle—­ the first of four large aviation complexes on the island. Modern equipment such

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Map 4.3. Espiritu Santo, pre-1942.

as the bulldozer and “carry-­a ll” (front-­end loader) had enabled ­t hese astonishing transformations. The likes of ­t hese vehicles had never been seen in the islands. They w ­ ere the first of many technological importations that would rapidly transform rainforest and scrub east of the Segond Channel on Santo (see Map 4.4) and around Vila and Havannah Harbor, Efate, into fully functional and vast naval and air bases. ­These cities, with all their facilities—­from myriad wharfs,

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Map 4.4. U.S. installations, Santo, and the postwar site of the town of Luganville. (With the kind permission of Peter Stone)

hospitals, airfields, and an extensive road system to electric light, ice cream machines, bakeries, sports fields, movie shows, and libraries—­were built for war’s purposes and ­were peopled exclusively by forty thousand men ­until December 1943 when fifty-­two white female U.S. nurses arrived on Santo.6 James Michener’s fictional nurse, Nellie Forbush, would not have wanted for male com­pany!

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Why a Condominium? A po­liti­cal anomaly, this group of scattered islands with about forty thousand indigenous ­people had not one, but two, colonial rulers beginning in 1907—­the British and the French each with jurisdiction over their respective nationals. Added to that arrangement was a Joint Court. Opened in 1910 and headed by a semi-­deaf Spanish judge, the court did ­little to resolve contested Eu­ro­pean land claims, but did consider other disputes between Eu­ro­pe­a ns and indigenous ­people. The two administrations, each having a few district agents by 1912, spent so much time and energy defending their respective ideas of imperial greatness that the stateless local ­people often fell through the cracks or, like the children whom the colonial powers thought them to be, skillfully played off argumentative colonial parents against each other. The chasm between the British and the French touched all aspects of colonial life—­from commerce to Chris­tian­ity, from location to ­labor. As far as Britain was concerned, the French could have the New Hebrides, but from the 1880s, the nearby Australian and New Zealand colonies had lobbied Britain constantly for their annexation.7 The token British presence in the condominium was a compromise, a reluctantly engaged in expedient that pleased no one. In terms of settler numbers, the French ­were soon dominant and had ­entrenched economic interests, mainly in copra and coffee plantations on land alienated by very questionable means. The main export, copra, did not yield a ­great profit in 1929, ­because the price fell throughout the Pacific, but recovered a ­little in 1934–1935. The French administration, moreover, absorbed French planters’ debts, as well as their lands, into a state-­owned com­pany, thereby further disadvantaging the minority British subjects. ­Every few months, two French shipping lines picked up cargoes destined for Marseilles and Saigon, respectively.8 The wily Australian trading and shipping firm, Burns Philp (BP), created a subsidiary com­pany registered in France and bought copra to sell at a higher price in Marseilles, which assisted its British customers. Though many planters went bankrupt in the early 1930s, some w ­ ere just able to survive, even if barely above subsistence level. Subsidized by the Francophobic Australian government, BP did better, b ­ ecause it was the main carrier of goods between Australia and the New Hebrides for the planters and Anglophone missionaries.9 Ships and canoes ­were essential to trade and communications. Before the war, ­t hese islands, as in much of western Melanesia, had no airfields and few roads, r­ eally just cart tracks. About eighty foreign Christian missionaries, both Anglophone and Francophone, carried out some education and delivered the bulk of the health care of the New Hebrideans, but this work was localized in the many dispersed islands.

No Bali Ha‘i: New Hebrides   125

Missionaries worried about the decline in native population due to introduced disease,10 and planters looked elsewhere for l­ abor. ­There w ­ ere 900–1,000 Eu­ro­pe­ ans and nearly 40 Japa­nese and some Chinese who had come over the years to work as artisans, traders, and market gardeners,11 but the main group of foreigners ­were imported laborers: ­there ­were about one thousand Tonkinese (north Viet­nam­ese) in 1942, originally indentured servants to the French whose colonial empire encompassed their homeland in French Indochina. Following a long-­ established pattern used in nearby French New Caledonia when planters could not get the ­labor they needed locally, the French in the New Hebrides beginning in 1921 introduced Tonkinese, but only to work for their own nationals. During the 1920s and 1930s, with Protestant missionary encouragement, New Hebrideans w ­ ere growing their own cash crops and so ­were reluctant to sign on for a full three-­year indenture on plantations. Although remaining a separate community, the Tonkinese joined New Hebridean workers, usually from islands other than where the plantation was located. Unlike some other colonies, such as the British Solomon Islands, local, often unmarried w ­ omen as well as married ­women ­were employed on the plantations, more commonly by the French, but they also sometimes worked as domestics in the planters’ h ­ ouse­hold. All of ­t hese workers, like the white settlers, clustered along parts of the islands’ coastal fringe where land was flatter and suited to plantations. In contrast to the colonial presence on the coast, some mountainous inland areas, such as on south Santo and Malakula (see Map 4.1), rarely saw a white man. Th ­ ese indigenous ­people largely avoided contact with whites, except when their men came to work on plantations or to purchase trade goods.12 A clannish and linguistically diverse p ­ eople, New Hebrideans w ­ ere cautious outside their home places and careful of crossing into other p ­ eople’s lands. The colonial authorities also imposed their own boundaries. In Port Vila the indigenous ­people could not wander at w ­ ill. ­Those who ­were not from Efate or w ­ ere unemployed could stay in town for only fifteen days, and Efate ­people ­were not allowed to be in the town a­ fter 9 p.m.13 Relatively few New Hebrideans lived in or near Port Vila u ­ nless they w ­ ere employed by Eu­ro­pe­ans, but many passed through on their way to work or trade t­ here or elsewhere. The majority lived in small villages on what they produced from subsistence horticulture and occasional employment as a laborer or crewman for the foreign settlers at about three shillings (30 cents, worth about $12 Australian or 1,028 Vanuatu vatu t­ oday) a day. Domestic servants earned 20 to 50 shillings (or about $80 to $200 Australian t­oday) a month depending on their skills, with ­women being paid less than men. Several villagers along the coasts ­were able to earn a ­little cash selling copra, but no one was wealthy, at least in Western terms. Many had lost vast areas of productive

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lands to planters and resented it. Other than having peace and greater security— at least in most places—­and benefiting from the welfare work of the missions, New Hebridean lives had not been especially enriched by their tiny, bickering colonial administrations.

Amer­i­ca’s Attractions For many incoming ser­vicemen in late 1942 and 1943, particularly ­those who had their first experience of the South Pacific in beautiful places like Bora Bora, the one positive aspect of this group of islands was: Efate, our new home, is part of the New Hebrides group. . . . ​The island is full of Melanesians, Tonkinese, and malaria. The only saving grace about the place lies in the fact that the base is fully established. Our troops w ­ ill not have the back-­breaking task of starting from scratch.14 A spectacular contrast to ­t hese minor colonial achievements, the wonders of the new military cities that the Americans constructed in Vila and Luganville drew admirers among the local population. In spite of the sheer weight of U.S. numbers, both military and civilian authorities limited the interactions between local ­people and military personnel. Local Melanesian men worked for the Americans, but usually on a regulated basis in a ­Labor Corps and mainly on Efate. Village populations adjacent to bases ­were often relocated to offshore islands, and for ­t hose who ­were not, the bases ­were off-­limits. Fear of malarial “seedbeds” among the p ­ eople was a major ­factor in trying to limit contact, lest the carrier mosquito transmit the infection to the troops. Although the ­m ilitary claimed that its “personnel had very few dealings with ­either the Tonkinese or the natives, except for trade in curios, ­etc.,” ­there ­were several instances of men interacting with villagers, including ­women.15 ­Because ­t hese islands never operated ­u nder ­battle conditions, occasions for contact ­were less ­constrained. Certainly, on both Santo and Efate, the ­people ­were given or took from garbage dumps a ­great deal of surplus American equipment, from clothing to building material, and some of this found its way to more distant islands with the workers who had been recruited by the Americans for three-­month contracts. The Americans bought fresh fruit and curios for souvenirs—­grass skirts, carvings, and pigs’ tusks—­a nd paid very well. Men who worked for the Americans also tasted a variety of U.S. tinned foods and Coca Cola and often saw American movies in the camps, although they ­were officially off-­limits. Americans ­were consid-

No Bali Ha‘i: New Hebrides   127

ered both wealthy and generous, and thus an enormous improvement on both sets of colonial masters.16 Local w ­ omen, as well as Tonkinese, often did laundry for the military, although when dealing with the Americans the average village ­woman was very guarded and protected by kin. Many w ­ ere frightened of both white and black Americans, ­because they w ­ ere strangers and in possession of heavy armaments. Many white Americans, fed on a movie diet of an olive-­skinned Dorothy Lamour in a sarong, ­were not attracted to the shy, dark Melanesian ­women.17 One described Santo, which had been sanitized and made comfortable by the con­ve­ niences the Americans brought with them, this way: Santo was as close to the romantic Hollywood version of the South Pacific as I ever came. ­There ­were no enticing, bare-­breasted, nubile maidens with swaying hips, warm kisses, fragrant flowering leis . . . ​but ­there ­were swaying palms, warm surf, a sweet fragrant scent in the air.18 Other researchers collecting oral accounts of the war experience of New Hebrideans tell of good relationships in the main between the two peoples, but also of troops, both white and black, demanding ­women of their Melanesian male friends, some sordid encounters, including “stealing of ­women,” to say nothing of rape, at least two murders, and incidences of U.S. bestiality with c­ attle.19 ­Little of this got into the official rec­ord, just as ­little is known of a brothel for the Americans at the “Frenchman’s ­house” at Surundu Bay, Santo, where Tonkinese ­women seemed to have been the sex workers.20 Informal compensation payments often countered violations. On Santo, the military courts tried only one case of a ser­ viceman “pandering” the sexual ser­vices of a “half caste” ­woman to paying troops, and the British had rec­ords of a c­ ouple of attempted abductions and procurement of ­women.21 Overall, given the circumstances, ­these ­were rare events. And, of course, ­there is l­ittle official rec­ord of intimate relationships other than ­these commercial or violent ones.

Mobility, ­Women, and War “Town air breathes f­ ree” was true for serfs in medieval Eu­rope who made it to a town for a week and a day. In Melanesia ­t hose who moved away from their home socie­ties on a semi-­permanent basis w ­ ere more often bound to three-­month contracts than shackled to periodic indentures. Even so, their worldview expanded, although ­women in the New Hebrides rarely had as much freedom as their menfolk. In war­time the relatively few ­women who became intimate with American

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ser­v icemen ­were ­t hose who had already shown a certain level of in­de­pen­dence and even disregard for some of the mores of their home island’s society. Most had been or w ­ ere married. A few without significant familial support, however, may have been more vulnerable to the demands of strangers. Plantation work or trading had brought them or their families to the big islands. One such ­woman was Ruby’s ­mother, who was from the island of Emae, located to the north of Efate (Map 4.1). She had been married to a man from her own island and gave birth to Ruby, but then formed relationships with two Japa­ nese, Tamashiku and Tokyo. Ruby’s m ­ other married Tokyo and lived in Port Vila at Melkofe (on Fatumaru Bay, on ­today’s Kumul Highway north of the central business district). However, the civil administration deported t­ hese Japa­nese and ­others for internment in Australia almost as soon as Japan entered the war. Ruby’s ­mother was a ­woman who defied convention and her ­daugh­ter seemed of the same mettle. Ruby’s granddaughter Georgina told me how she came to be the f­ amily historian: My grand­mother [Ruby] liked me so much that I was the one who was told all this. Even my ­mother [Merry Evelyn] did not know too much about her dad. At times my mum would ask me what my grand­mother told me and I would tell her. . . . ​Yes that is right. [Ruby was ­doing laundry] for the ser­ vicemen [in Vila]. That is where she met my grand­father. What I can remember—­t his was told by my grand­mother.22 Other w ­ omen met their American partners in Vila. The ­mother of Louise was from Wala, a small island adjacent to Rano off the northeast coast of Malakula (see Map 4.1).23 She had married a younger man, and when the war started they ­were living on Efate at Vila and ­were without children. She then had a child by an African American ser­v iceman. Another ­woman who became intimate with an American was young Anne Marie Avela from Malakula (Malicolo) Island, who also lived near Vila with some relatives. ­Here she met Mr. Robinson, an American in the navy, and had a ­daugh­ter, Marie Adèle.24 Cecile described what happened when her ­mother from the northernmost Banks Islands (see Map 4.1), who worked on a plantation on Santo, became involved with an American:25 She [Cecile’s ­mother] was already married when she was very young to a man from Banks islands. . . . ​­Mother met this [white] man on a plantation down south called Bell or Pell. . . . ​The white man [American] threatened that Banks man with a pistol ­because he wanted that ­woman.

No Bali Ha‘i: New Hebrides   129

Rosalina’s grand­mother, Sarah, came from the island of Ambae (see Map 4.1).26 ­Women from this island seem to have been more assertive and in­de­pen­ dent than in most other New Hebridean socie­ties. Certainly in the nineteenth ­century they migrated in relatively high numbers to recruit for indentured work in New Caledonia.27 This Ambae ­woman stayed on Santo where her ­daugh­ter Hilda was born.28 Sarah seemed to choose a dif­fer­ent kind of life ­after she crossed the Segond Channel to Malo and stayed with one man named Mr. Tom Harris who was from New Zealand. Harris went to Malo and fell in love with Hilda’s m ­ other [Sarah] but she was already married to a black man from Malo. Master Harris, the Greek, wanted her and took her, this Ambae ­woman to be with him. At that time Hilda was small. Tom Harris looked ­after Hilda. When the war came she was a big girl.

About the Mothers In some parts of the New Hebrides, children inherit rights to land via their fathers so t­ hose with foreign fathers may be poorer than t­ hose with native fathers. O ­ thers had access to land via their mothers, but mothers who had stepped outside the mores of their own ­people often did not return home to claim any rights. Ruby’s ­daugh­ter was born in Nouméa, New Caledonia, where the birth was eventually registered. Ruby’s attachment to Jo Allan endured a long time (see Figure 4.1), as described by Ruby’s granddaughter, Georgina: They [Ruby and Jo Allan Tidro] ­were both in Nouméa when my ­mother [Merry Evelyn] was born in March 1945. When my m ­ other was six months [old] my grand­mother took my ­mother and came back to New Hebrides. . . . ​ My grand­mother remarried a man from Solomon islands, S­ikaiana. . . . ​ What I got from my grand­mother was that she was married to Jo Allan Tidro and she had a wedding ring. . . . ​She did not ­really say she got married. . . . ​It was only when I grew up and I was asking her questions that she told me, “I could not marry your grand­father from the Solomons ­because I was already married to the man from Amer­i­ca who is your grand­father but a­ fter so many years I finally thought he [Tidro] was dead so I remarried.” Louise’s m ­ other, in giving birth, hemorrhaged and died, and what she knew of her “Black American” died with her. Louise thus was both fatherless and

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Figure 4.1. Jo Allan Tidro with infant Merry Evelyn, a faint image of a fragile photo­graph, Nouméa c. 1945. (G. Korah private collection)

motherless, a dangerous predicament. Anne Marie Avela abandoned her d ­ augh­ter, Robinson-­Marie Adèle, and went off with a man from the Solomon Islands to live in Rabaul ­after the war. She seems to have died ­t here. Cecile’s ­mother from the Banks Islands “soon went back to the Banks where Cecile grew up. When they went back to the Banks her ­mother felt some shame ­because she had been married to the Banks man, whom she has left for the American.”29 Rosalina’s ­mother Hilda (Sarah’s ­daugh­ter), knowing she was pregnant, was very worried and ashamed, perhaps even driven out of her mind. She did something that few adult ­women would do in the New Hebrides—­she climbed a high tree. And even fewer would do that when seven months pregnant. In a land where land snakes are small, rare, and harmless, the temptation to destroy her child materialized: When Rosalina was seven months in the womb, her ­mother, Hilda, she climbed a fruit tree, we call it nakatambo Vanuatu [Dracontomelon vi-

No Bali Ha‘i: New Hebrides   131

tiense or dragon plum with edible fruit].30 She climbed up and saw a snake. She fell out of the tree. She felt no good and went to the mission hospital. The baby was born early at seven months. Hilda looked at baby and described it as a frog. She wanted to kill this baby. She tried to kill the baby but the Sisters came. They told about this and they got Mr. Tom ­Harris to come. They told him how Rosalina’s m ­ other, Hilda, tried to kill the baby. ­These ­women demonstrated a range of reactions to the U.S.-­fathered children. Some of their responses may have been dictated by their f­ amily and material circumstances, but for ­others it was the nature of the war­time relationship, ­whether deeply felt or fleeting, that determined how they related to their babies.

About the Fathers For all the participants in our proj­ect, their paternity was largely blank, a hiatus in their f­ amily memory; for some, it was a g­ reat puzzle and a field for speculation. When relationships lasted for some time, they usually had more knowledge of it. Ruby’s American partner, Jo Allan Tidro, was in the area for more than nine months, as noted by Ruby’s granddaughter: My grand­mother [Ruby] said they ­were living together without the commanders knowing and he would go to stay with her at night where she was living. When she was pregnant and ­t here was a bomb blast or something he would drive a jeep and come and check my grand­mother was safe. And he was ­t here for the birth of my ­mother. . . . ​On the way to the airport ­t here is a place where they lived, near the trading post. ­There was bush t­ here then. She was ­t here [in Nouméa, New Caledonia] ­after the war. Maybe they ­were waiting for my Mum to be born? My grand­mother said she was pregnant when she went down ­t here. They both went to Nouméa to await my ­mother’s birth. My ­mother was born on 16 March 1945. My grand­father was ­t here for the birth. I think my grand­father went out somewhere and did not know my grand­mother was planning on returning to the New Hebrides with my ­mother who was then six months old. She got on a plane with my mum. She said then you did not need a passport. . . . ​The old man [Jo Allan] stayed on in Nouméa and boarded a ship [to go back home]. They hit a mine near Costa Rica I think. My grand­mother said they . . . ​ went on a warship back that I think hit a mine but he was alive. She said when he reached Amer­i­ca he tried sending a tele­gram for my grand­mother

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to take my ­mother over, but she did not want to go back to him as he was so jealous, so she deci­ded not to go. . . . ​They finally lost touch. My grand­mother said that he was from Mississippi. But when my Mum [Merry Evelyn] was trying to track him down the American embassy in Papua New Guinea said he was from Tennessee. So it made it a ­little bit confusing. During World War Two he was normally called “Bill.” They do not r­ eally use their names; they used nicknames. He was Bill. His full name was Jo Allan Tidro. . . . ​My ­mother [Merry Evelyn] was named ­after his aunt—­w ith “Merry” spelled with two rs. Louise knew nothing of her biological f­ ather, except he was an African American attached to the navy. He, like all the Americans, “had to go back a­ fter the war. Maybe he did not get home.” The nearest male relative was her m ­ other’s brother who took charge of her as an infant; ­later, a grand­father who worked for the “white men” took ­her. Robinson-­Marie Adèle is still seeking her ­father, Robinson, who left the area to go north with his unit. As an adult she added his surname, all she knows of him, to her own first name. Soon a­ fter she was born, her m ­ other or her m ­ other’s ­family put her in the care of Mr. Kalibaine—he was from New Caledonia and he lived with a lady from Port Vila and they live at Mr. Colardeau’s place where Mr. Kalibaine was working. . . . ​Mr. Jean Kalibaine did not have children. He was married to Meta from Aoba [Ambae]. When she was baptized her name changed to Regina. She was the nursemaid of Raymond Colardeau.31 Cecile lost the few details of her ­father. All she knew was that his name was Mr. White. Her ­mother did not tell her the name but one of her older male relatives, her ­mother’s brother did. White was a tall man, a white man. Her m ­ other seems to have had the name on paper but did not tell her. She hid it from her. Cecile was not sure of his work but he was in charge of other men, some kind of commander. When he came among ­others they bent down to him or deferred to him. The old man told her that this man was in charge of ­others. . . . ​Her ­mother wrote something down or had some note by White but it got burned in a ­house fire. Her brother in the Banks Islands still has the pistol of Mr. White. She has a brother by a dif­fer­ent man, this is her only brother. . . . ​Mr. White went to the Solomons and she was born. He seems to have come back to Santo and then again to Solomons to fight. She was not sure if he then went back to

No Bali Ha‘i: New Hebrides   133

the United States or if he died in the Solomons. He did not make any more contact or write. Rosalina’s account is similar, but she had a caring foster ­father and did not need an American one, as her d ­ augh­ter in law Agnes related: Now one Black American—­unfortunately we do not know his name, the girl [Rosalina] forgot it. He was an engineer for the planes. Now her ­mother, Hilda in November or December 1943 she became pregnant. Hilda was frightened and feared that ­people would ask who the ­father was: “Oh yu gat bel, yu pregnant blong hu?” [You are pregnant. Who is the f­ ather?]. ­These men came to carry out a fighting mission, and he did not know she was pregnant. Rosalina wants to tell you that she does not know any ­t hing about the Black American and does not need to. She knows about Tom ­Harris. . . . ​Tom Harris was a ­g reat swearer. When he was cross he would say, “Bloody d . . .” He came ­here a long time ago, one of the first white men, owned a cinema, we called it Cinema Harris and a general store. He was a Greek who lived in New Zealand but he came to Vanuatu [New Hebrides]. She stayed with Mr. Harris and regarded him as her f­ ather. . . . ​W hen Rosalina was big girl a­ fter she had finished school she looked a­ fter him [when he was old]. She supported him, she cleaned the h ­ ouse, she cleaned him and took him to the toilet. Rosalina, she helped him. Jo Allan Tidro was the only one of the American biological fathers who knew they had a child who tried to support ­either the ­mother or the child. Jean Kalibaine stepped into the role of foster f­ather perhaps ­because of the lack of his own progeny, whereas Tom Harris was drawn to it b ­ ecause of an existing relationship connecting him to the young ­mother.

Pacific Chameleon: Tom Harris Tom Harris became in effect Rosalina’s ­father. Who was this man from “Greece” and from “New Zealand”? In the New Hebrides he was known as Tom Harris. On the other side of the world, he had been born Michael Harris Anker in about March 1891 and lived at Orange Row, off Fieldgate Street, Whitechapel, London, in the heart of Jack the Ripper country. His barber f­ ather, Richard, and hairdresser ­mother, Eva, came from Tarnow, in Austria-­Galicia or modern-­day Poland.32 They, along with a brother and sister of his m ­ other (née Weiss), soon moved to High

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Street in Poplar, another poor London suburb, where both parents continued in their businesses.33 Like his name, Harris saw many changes. In 1908, when he was eigh­teen he migrated to Australia on the Wharerua, working his passage as a “pantry boy” to Sydney.34 For the next two years he was an assistant steward on vessels on the east coast of Australia and occasionally on ships to New Zealand ports and possibly Fiji.35 He may also have traveled again to Eu­rope in about 1911 and is said to have been on the ship Millicent Knight at Odessa in the Ukraine during a revolt against the Rus­sians. Perhaps he was seeking his grandparents in what is now Poland, north of the Ukraine.36 Harris had another New Zealand connection. His elder brother Albert served with the New Zealand Expeditionary Force in Egypt and l­ater at Gallipoli, Turkey, where he was wounded and died in June 1915 on a hospital ship. Before that he had joined the 17th Lancers in ­England, adding a year to his age on his application. Of a dif­fer­ent ilk from his brother, even before Albert volunteered for ser­ vice in the Lancers, he was respected for his work at the Flying Angels mission to Seamen in Auckland.37 Back in E ­ ngland, their ­father had died in 1913 and their ­mother ten years ­later. While not wealthy, Eva Harris had done well in her hairdressing business, leaving a substantial estate of more than £400 (worth about £23,000 t­oday) to a friend.38 Meanwhile, in 1913, Michael Harris Anker, then known as Harris Anker, married Olive Tanner in a Congregational church in Melbourne where he worked as a tram conductor.39 They had one child. He deserted them and resumed his maritime c­ areer as supercargo (man­ag­er of the cargo own­er’s trade) in 1919, on Burns Philp’s ship, Makambo, out of Sydney on the New Hebrides run.40 In April 1920 he may have worked on the Suva as an assistant steward, beginning his transformation by claiming New Zealand as his birthplace.41 Anker, “falsely called Thomas Harris,” took a shore job in October that year in Port Vila as a temporary store man for BP.42 At some point he also worked for Mackenzie Bros. During a stint in Sydney in 1921, u ­ nder the name of Thomas Anker, he married Mary Hayes in a Catholic church. In April 1921 he again worked on shore in Port Vila and then on the BP vessel Marsina as purser in October 1921, traveling to New Guinea and the New Hebrides. He left the ship in 1923 to work on shore as a delivery or tally clerk for BP in Port Moresby, Samarai, and Rabaul. His wife Mary may have been with him on some of ­t hese travels, but by 1924 he had resigned and they returned to Sydney. Subsequently he went back alone to the New Hebrides and purchased Batalio Plantation on Malo Island, off Espiritu Santo.43 In Sydney, Mary saw a newspaper notice placed by Olive Tanner seeking divorce in the Melbourne supreme court. This decree became absolute in 1925.

No Bali Ha‘i: New Hebrides   135

Harris also left Mary with a child to support a­ fter he moved to the New Hebrides. In 1929, in spite of difficulties serving the l­egal documents, Mary successfully obtained an annulment of their bigamous marriage, but by then Tom Harris was well ensconced in the New Hebrides.44 Like many a trader before him, Tom Harris found that the Pacific Islands provided a haven from an uncomfortable past, though not always a total escape. Even so, his moral compass did not change. Throughout much of his ­career in the New Hebrides he lived on the edge of the law, committing a series of mainly civil offenses: breaking a contract regarding the payment of employees, failing to pay taxes due to the administration, failing to pay a mortgage on his property to BP, and squatting on French land. However, he also engaged in criminal acts, including the illegal sale of alcohol, the abduction of native ­women as workers, and ill treatment of employees and a child of his de facto wife Sarah, both of whom lived with him.45 Th ­ ese offenses almost, but not quite, resulted in imprisonment ­because he went bush, prevaricated, and eventually paid his fines.46 He fathered a ­daugh­ter, Norah, by Sarah in 1933; his sons Victor and Alec ­were born to another local ­mother. He cared for ­t hese children and had them educated, sending Norah to the Catholic sisters at Bourail, New Caledonia.47 And like many refugees from the metropole, Tom Harris largely succeeded in creating a new identity. A well-­k nown skipper of BP’s ships, the shrewd Brett Hilder, called him a “rascal,” but nonetheless believed his story that he was a New Zealander, born in Napier in January “1890, or 1892,” despite the lack of documentary evidence.48 The coming of the war to the South Pacific benefited Harris, as it did many in the settler community. The Japa­nese did not capture t­ hese islands, which soon became U.S. bases. Considered an old hand, Harris made himself useful to the Americans on Espiritu Santo as a go-­between and in­for­mant. In April 1942, he helped them find a suitable site for an airfield at Bancula Plantation at Palikulo, on Santo. ­Because some early U.S. rec­ords ­were lost he also became a source for the history of the initial stages of the base development t­ here and somewhat of a favorite with the Americans—at least initially.49 Riding on the wave of the U.S. dollar and the Americans’ re­spect for him, Harris grasped new opportunities. His reputation improved, all the more so when he became man­ag­er of Burns Philp’s new branch store at Santo, which opened in 1942 to h ­ andle the booming trade as American money flowed into the local pop50 ulation. Harris was so enamored of the Americans he even talked of becoming a U.S. citizen, yet when a rumor that Britain would be handing over the New Hebrides to the Americans gained credence, the British colonial administrator at Venui, Santo, noted he suddenly “become violently loyal to New Zealand, his new

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Figure  4.2. Brett Hilder’s sketch of Tom Harris, Santo 1948. (Pacific Islands Monthly, August 1959, 87)

birthplace.”51 Clearly, the administrator knew more of Harris’s hazy history than did Captain Brett Hilder (see Figure 4.2). Harris, however, became caught up in the war­time laissez-­faire attitude of the U.S. forces in regard to gifting their goods to both white settlers and New Hebrideans.52 In 1944, in exchange for two bottles of gin, he obtained U.S. property including mattresses and electric equipment from an American sailor, who had stolen them from a naval ware­house. Unfortunately, fired up by the gin, two of the marines who traded the U.S. property assaulted their ringleader, Barnhart so he reported the men for assault. In the pro­cess, details of all involved came out.

No Bali Ha‘i: New Hebrides   137

Although the goods ­were only worth $46, what upset the U.S. command was that Harris had given the men the gin as payment. Bootleg liquor supplied by enterprising white settlers to the troops was a major issue to the U.S. command, which thought that the civilian administration did not do enough to control this trade. The  U.S. military command demanded that the British civil authority charge Harris with accepting stolen U.S. property. Harris admitted committing the offense and that he intended to sell the U.S. goods. Although the British judicial commissioner was sympathetic to him b ­ ecause “it is common knowledge that in Santo the Americans pass on quantities of all kinds of stuff to civilians,” he found Harris guilty and fined him £50.53 BP quickly replaced him as man­ag­er at Santo in 1944, ­because such creative methods of finding stock ­were not part of their business practice.54 His “loss of prestige [was] huge.”55 Admitting the truth had cost Harris his job with BP. Undeterred, Harris soon opened his own Santo business ­under the name “Tom Harris General Store.” This name was deliberately misleading. As Brett Hilder remarked, “The local natives w ­ ere sure he had been made a General, and that his store was to sell the General’s PX [military post office and shop] stores, and that may have been close to the truth too.”56 Harris’s fortunes continued to improve a­ fter the war. In 1948, the British agent on Santo considered him “an older and wiser man” since the departure of the Americans and supported his new enterprises.57 On the east side of the Sarakata River he opened the “cinema Harris,” the first permanent movie h ­ ouse in the New Hebrides, in association with a bar in a “huge quonset [building] by the sea.”58 Harris did well: cinema Harris became a focal point of life in Santo, hosting jazz ­music and a dance a­ fter Saturday night movies. He sold it as a g­ oing concern in 1955. With his health deteriorating, Tom Harris was able to live at home ­until his death. This chameleon of a man was buried “with full honours by the Catholic Church in early 1959.”59 Rosalina, the child he saved from death and fostered, had seen his goodness and believed he deserved such an honor.

Growing Up Extended f­ amily members usually cared for the children of U.S. ser­v icemen, but some of t­hese young ­people led troubled lives. W ­ hether their struggles w ­ ere caused by their unknown paternity cannot be determined. Merry Evelyn, ­daugh­ter of Ruby and Jo Allan Tidro, often felt a sense of loss. And when asked if her ­mother was set apart ­because she was lighter skinned and looked dif­fer­ent from ­others, Merry Evelyn’s d ­ augh­ter Georgina recalled,

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Actually, no. Most of the ­people think that she was a Solomon Island kid. My step-­grand­father [Levi Bollen] took her with my grand­mother [Ruby] to Solomons, to Sikaiana [a Polynesian outlier] where she grew up. . . . ​ maybe four years. She came back ­here for school and went to school in the French Catholic school. The teacher was Mrs Toffin. She would go more often to the Solomons ­after that. She [Merry Evelyn] only knew her ­father’s name was Jo Allan. She did not know that name “Tidro.” She named my younger brother Jo Allan. ­After my brother was born it was then she found her Dad’s full name was Jo Allan Tidro. You could tell she [Merry Evelyn] missed her Dad. She ­really wanted to find him and get to know him. The guy who was my grand­mother’s second husband, the man from Sikaiana, made my Mum [Merry Evelyn] pregnant with her first d ­ augh­ter [Nanette], which then caused conflict in the f­ amily between my ­mother and my grand­mother. . . . ​My grand­mother [Ruby] ­adopted Merry Evelyn’s ­daugh­ter, from the Solomon Islander. I can remember the time when my ­mother was searching for her ­father my grand­mother came home, that was in the early 1980s, and she told my ­mother that, “If you ever find your f­ ather and if he ever comes back to see you I think I w ­ ill have a heart attack.” Merry Evelyn’s brother-in-law and Georgina’s paternal ­uncle, Daniel Kalorip, explained, Yes he [Sikaiana man, Levi] came by boat from the Solomons and then he worked for the British government. He was a steward at British residency on the l­ ittle island of Iririki. Merry Evelyn married Kaltoua Kalorip. . . . ​But Merry Evelyn tried very hard to look for her ­father way back in the eighties. . . . ​she remembered who is this f­ ather. She knew that Levi Bollen was not her f­ ather and my d ­ augh­ter also worked with Merry Evelyn in Telecom and she helped Merry Evelyn to [try to] trace her f­ ather in Amer­i­ca. Merry Evelyn . . . ​she had all the contacts in the world. And she tried very hard all over the place. [Ruby and Levi] they lived together in one place. During the time Levi [had] left the British government . . . ​he worked for the Condominium weather station, next door to your flat [Kai Viti motel area]. They lived ­t here ­until Levi retired in 1978 just before in­de­pen­dence. . . . ​He lived to about 90. . . . ​A kind man, a very, very kind man. A gentle man, typical Polynesian, soft spoken. He brought up his children in a very nice home too. She [Merry Evelyn] settled down with us but when she married my

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brother, Nanette the d ­ augh­ter of Levi and Merry Evelyn, was left b ­ ehind with Ruby. . . . ​We do not want to touch that side of her life so we accepted her as one of us and never talk about it. . . . ​Well, she never talked about it. . . . ​ Nanette told her ­mother that as she was growing up she wanted very much to know who her ­father was. ­After all ­these years Nanette was afraid to ask her ­mother the name of her ­father. On her m ­ other’s ­dying bed, Nanette asked her this one last question—­“Who is my ­father?” Merry Evelyn ­gently whispered with tears flowing from her eyes, “Levi Bollen is your f­ ather.” Merry Evelyn had three children, two boys and one girl, so the boy was called Jo Allan, ­after his grand­father. . . . ​she had the right [to land] through my brother (see Figure 4.3 and 4.4). Merry Evelyn died in her late forties from the effects of diabetes. All her surviving children ­were well educated and have families of their own. Louise, the motherless child of the African American ser­v iceman, had no schooling at all: she never learned to read or write. Before she was born, her ­mother’s husband and her m ­ other had no children. He remarried a­ fter her m ­ other died in childbirth and had two children, considered to be Louise’s sister and brother. Her life has been hard—­she often worked for white men on Santo. She married twice and had thirteen c­ hildren. Robinson-­Marie Adèle, like Louise, knew l­ittle of her biological parents, but her foster parents looked ­after her and provided for her schooling. As her ­daugh­ter Anastasia, stated, Mum went to a Catholic school and ­a fter, French public school. Mum knew that her ­father was an American when she was small; what she told me that every­one was calling her half-­caste ­because she was dif­fer­ent to them; she was white and some of the kids d ­ idn’t want to play with her. ­Because Robinson-­Marie was educated at French schools, she spoke the language. In 1966 Robinson-­Marie Adèle married a Tahitian, Augustin Tiaipoi, in October 1966 at Forari, Efate, where he was working on the sole manganese mine in the New Hebrides. They l­ater moved to Papeete, Tahiti, and raised a ­family. Cecile, whose m ­ other took her back to her home place in the Banks Islands, suffered by not having a ­father as ­t here was no help or money to send her to school. She cannot read. She did have land from her ­mother’s side. Her

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Figure  4.3. Merry Evelyn Kalorib, date unknown. (G. Korah private collection)

­ other had very dark skin. Cecile looked dif­fer­ent. . . . ​when Cecile was a m young ­woman one would think her to be a “missus” or white ­woman. Cecile wants to know more about her f­ ather and has prayed to know more. Her ­mother told her nothing about where he was from; she knew nothing. She did not know anything ­until she was about 14. Her ­mother told her very l­ ittle. She is not sure of her birth date but when ­t here was a big earthquake in Santo. Maybe 1947? [January 1946].60 Her m ­ other’s brother was the one who told her about herself.

No Bali Ha‘i: New Hebrides   141

Figure 4.4. Georgina Korah, ­daugh­ter of Merry Evelyn and granddaughter of Jo Allan Tidro and Ruby. (G. Korah private collection)

Cecile now lives in Luganville with her husband, John from Torres Island in the Banks group. They have six children who have all attended school.61 Rosalina’s ­daugh­ter-­in-­law summed up the burden of suffering that both Rosalina and her ­mother Hilda carried: When Rosalina grew up Tom Harris told her what happened with her ­mother, Hilda how she tried to kill her, so Rosalina she hated her m ­ other. She did not want anything to do with her. . . . ​Rosalina said she felt ­great shame when Tom Harris told her that her ­mother tried to kill her. She felt no good about it. Hilda too was ashamed she got pregnant by an American and seems not to have wanted Harris to tell about it all. . . . ​Rosalina did not want anything to do with her. And Rosalina’s d ­ augh­ter, her first born, Manina, old ­mother Hilda looked for her and wanted to take her. Rosalina told her she did not want her to do this and would not let her do it. She did not like her ­mother so she told her ­daugh­ter all about it. Hilda said to Rosalina, “Why did you not tell her this about your ­father and how he went back to United States a­ fter he came on the mission of war and upset and spoiled every­thing?” But Rosalina she hated her m ­ other. She did not know what things ­were like during the war.

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She went only to standard three at the French school. . . . ​­Later Rosalina stayed with one man, but she was not married to him, not a Christian marriage. They stayed in one place, Big Bay [Santo]. She had ten children: five girls, five boys. And ­after ten children, all at Big Bay, then they broke up and she took the ten children. She has thirty grandchildren. She has forgotten him [her f­ ather], maybe she thinks sometimes about Hilda, her m ­ other. But all she knows is he was a Black American based near Benui [Malo].62 Several of the children of white Americans recall experiencing some feeling of difference ­because they had paler skin, which set them apart in childhood. Most of the dark-­skinned Melanesians seem to have attributed Merry Evelyn’s Eu­ro­pean looks to her Polynesian stepfather. Two of ­those who had African American fathers had dark skin but within the Vanuatu skin color range; one, the orphan Louise, was very dark, but also had features that many would consider to be of African origin (see Figure 4.5). This may not have made her life any easier ­because many New Hebrideans, particularly w ­ omen, feared the “Black” Americans.63 For most, however, the most poignant difference was the enduring real­ity that they did not know their biological fathers.

Figure 4.5. Rosalina Marie Boetovo with her d ­ augh­ter-­in-­law, Agnes Packete, 2010. (Photographer: Lyn Haywood)

No Bali Ha‘i: New Hebrides   143

Among the Few ­ ese five ­women ­were not the only part-­A merican children born in the New Th Hebrides. Th ­ ere are said to have been two men with African American fathers on the west coast of Efate, but both died without children.64 At least one baby girl (“père inconnu: Americain”—[­ father unknown: American]) in addition to Robinson-­Marie Adèle was baptized in the Catholic church in Port Vila.65 ­There was one man on Vanua Lava who is now deceased. Perhaps he was a child of one of the four Americans stationed ­there as outpost coastwatchers. Small groups of U.S. ser­v icemen ­were similarly stationed on Tongoa, Maewo, and Malakula, with far more time and opportunity to interact with the local p ­ eople than men 66 had in the main bases. One w ­ oman who traded sex for cash with several Americans on west Efate was still alive in 2010, but by then was the very old matriarch of a large ­family, so hers was one story best left with its own­er.67 Several children seemed to have been absorbed by Eu­ro­pean families. In 1944, a young New Hebridean ­woman living in New Caledonia named Simone Collins stated she was pregnant by a U.S. Navy private, Albert B. Warren. She sought assistance from the Navy to help pay for her hospital bills ­after Warren returned to the United States for medical treatment. Warren wrote letters to her expressing his love and desire to marry her. Military chaplains w ­ ere called in regularly to provide pastoral care in such domestic matters and to check the sincerity and moral responsibility of both parties.68 The chaplain ascertained that Simone was “a full-­blooded New Hebridean” fostered by a French citizen, Madame Collins, in New Caledonia. B ­ ecause they performed marriages, all chaplains would have been fully aware that such an interracial marriage could not occur in war­time ­because of the U.S. immigration laws. The chaplain, moreover, indicated that the child Simone carried may not have been Warren’s, as the pregnancy appeared not as advanced as it should have been, given the time of Warren’s departure. The chaplain’s recommendation was that Simone’s confinement expenses be paid from the Navy’s Welfare fund with Warren to reimburse the Navy and that “Warren should not be returned to this island for the purpose of marriage in spite of the statements in his letters u ­ ntil he has served for some time in the United States in a more normal environment.” Warren was poorly educated and unlikely to fight the Navy’s machinations. The fate of the ­mother and child is unrecorded, but the child was probably raised by the Collins f­ amily.69 Yet one marriage did occur: in 1945 Anna Stephens, a New Hebridean w ­ oman of mixed ancestry, married Robert Bradley, a U.S. Army man. They met when the U.S. forces ­were looking for a site for one of their camps on south Santo, and the Stephens f­ amily invited them to their property on Urelapa, an island just off the coast. The Stephens f­amily had originated from the marriage of a Tongan

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­ oman, Sela Tubou, supposedly related to the Tongan royal f­amily, and an En­ w glishman, Thomas Stephens, who had migrated to the New Hebrides in 1904. Six of their nine children married Eu­ro­pe­ans, and two married indigenous ­women. Anna Stephens was a child of one of ­t hese ­women, Sarah, and Tubou Luther Stephens. So Anna Stephens had a full New Hebridean ­mother and a ­father who was half-­Tongan and half-­English by ethnicity. Thus, in the harsh arithmetic of race, dark-­skinned, pe­tite Anna lacked the requisite more than 51  ­percent “white blood”: she was three quarters “native” and thus ineligible to marry an American and enter the United States. A sister of Anna’s f­ ather was also in a relationship with an American, but they never married, even though she had a child by him who, as an adult, found this man in the United States. How Anna’s marriage to Bradley was approved is unknown. Most of the Stephens ­family lived more like Eu­ro­pe­a ns than indigenous New Hebrideans. In the 1940s, they did not interact socially with the local p ­ eople, though some of their men did marry indigenous w ­ omen. Moreover, ser­v icemen often attended social gatherings and parties at the Stephens’s h ­ ouse. All this may have influenced Bradley’s commanding officer to turn a blind eye to Anna’s race, or Anna did not tell the truth about her direct ancestry—­which is hard to believe ­because the ­family was well known. Yet a­ fter the marriage, Bradley went back to the United States and no more was heard of him. No children w ­ ere born of this marriage.70 Lamont Lindstrom who has done much oral history research in the 1980s in Vanuatu estimates that about fifty children of Americans ­were left ­behind.71 This number may be an overestimate, and certainly t­ here ­were no more that fifty. None of ­t hese children who shared their stories complained of consistent societal rejection, but some had a less comfortable upbringing than ­others who had fathers present. Louise was a complete orphan, having lost both parents, but received some care from her ­mother’s ­family as well as that of her ­mother’s husband—­but not to the extent of receiving any formal education. Cecile suffered for her ­mother’s abandonment of her husband, even though it seems that her ­mother was forced to go with the American at the point of a gun. Cecile too was not educated and stood out among the darker islanders ­because she was fairer and had straighter but wavy hair. Rosalina perceived that she had lost both natu­ral parents—­her American f­ ather went home to the United States, and her ­mother rejected her to the point of trying to kill her. She did have Tom Harris as a foster f­ather, who loved her and whom she loved. She had some basic schooling, probably as much as most children had at the time. Robinson-­Marie Adèle and Merry Evelyn ­were both well educated and worked for the government or in business for some part of their lives. Robinson-­Marie Adèle’s foster parents seem to have been good to her, and the childish teasing she received as a “half-­caste” was bearable. Merry

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Evelyn’s stepfather, Levi Bollen, like Rosalina’s stepfather, Tom Harris, had major moral flaws, but clearly had positive qualities too. Though Merry Evelyn suffered the shame of the unwanted attention of her stepfather, the f­amily other­w ise cared for her and her child. She, just as Robinson-­Marie Adèle, made a very successful and loving marriage. All ­t hese children w ­ ere daughters of mothers who had moved away not only from the support but also the control of their natal socie­ties. Some in the next generation continued their mothers’ mobility, which influenced whom they married. Robinson-­Marie Adèle’s biological ­mother moved west into New Guinea to Rabaul with her lover at the time. Robinson-­Marie Adèle went far to the east with her Tahitian husband to live in Tahiti where her fairer complexion was the same as hundreds of Tahitians, long acquainted with Eu­ro­pean genes. Ruby married Levi Bollen from Sikaiana. She traveled to Sikaiana and the Solomon Islands with her ­daugh­ter Merry Evelyn and Levi several times before Merry Evelyn settled on Efate. Louise and Rosalina w ­ ere the least mobile, both living their lives on parts of Santo. Much the same could be said of Cecile, but she and her husband both have ­family connections to the Banks Islands. What we know of their American fathers is hazy, blurred by time. Even the man we know the most about, Jo Allan Tidro, the one who wanted his partner and child to come with him to the United States, has proven illusive, not unlike the faded, spectral image of him that has barely survived seven de­cades ­(Figure 4.1). He served in the U.S. Army and may have been in the military police,72 but the name Tidro (and variants such as Tidrow, Tedro, and so on) that I have hunted for in the rec­ords seems not to exist ­under t­ hese first names and their vari­ous spellings. ­There are a c­ ouple of Jo Allans but this is a tenuous link, and ­t hese men ­were dead or would not answer my inquiries. Maybe some reader may recognize this pale ancestral ghost of seventy years ago, and one f­ amily’s search would then be over. Two other families—­t hose of Cecile and Robinson-­Marie Adèle—­hold onto just a surname, White and Robinson, respectively. Hundreds of men with ­t hese names served in the Pacific region, so ­t hese American fathers, along with ­t hose unnamed, remain still unknown. Some are still missed by descendants that ­t hese men never knew they had.

C HA P T E R F I V E

Wallis (Uvea) Island A Dif­fer­ent Kind of Love Story judith a. bennett

All the Pacific islands ­were ­under some kind of colonial control well before World War II broke out. Yet the colonial Pacific displayed a diversity of administrative arrangements—­from the makeshift muddle of the Anglo-­French Condominium to the orderly British-­protected kingdom of Tonga. Wallis Island is flat and only forty square miles: its highest point, Mt. Lulu Fakahenga, rises up in the island’s center to only 470 feet (143 meters). Wallis (Uvea), along with Futuna Island, comprised a French Protectorate from the 1880s, but was not formally annexed ­until 1913. The French, like the British in Tonga, seemed more accommodating of ­local wishes on Wallis Island than in their larger colonies, imposing a form of shared control that was well established before 1941. From a virtual Catholic theocracy to which the chiefs complied in the mid-­ nineteenth c­ entury, power was more dispersed in the twentieth c­ entury up u ­ ntil World War II. Effectively, t­ here ­were three loci of authority on Wallis Island—­t he French resident, answerable to his superior in Nouméa, New Caledonia, and who also was the island’s only medical doctor; the local high chief or king (Lavelua); and the bishop of the Roman Catholic Church. The bishop governed religious matters while the king governed customary affairs. The king and chiefs ­were all Catholic so their shared religion gave them and the church a basis for cooperation. Though all was not smooth, t­ hese three power centers seemed to get along well enough, each obtaining vari­ous forms of taxation cum tribute ( fatogia faka ‘Uvea) from the p ­ eople and each trying to increase its power at the expense of the ­others whenever pos­si­ble. By and large, the French state neglected Wallis, but gradually began to exert more control. In the mid-1930s, a particularly active French resident, Dr. Joseph David, constructed a north-­south road, dug wells, and set up a hospital and a leprosy sanatorium to assist the p ­ eople. ­There w ­ ere only a few metropolitan French ­people on the island, other than the Catholic priests and nuns.1 Except for copra, trochus shell, and pearl shell, barrier-­reef–­f ringed Wallis was not rich in the resources that Eu­ro­pe­ans wanted, a characteristic it shared

146

Wallis (Uvea) Island   147

with Tonga. With no French traders on the island, the ubiquitous Australian com­pany of Burns Philp (BP) in 1933 set up a trading base, the only sign of an Anglophone presence. Its directors wangled a deal with the French shippers, Messageries Maritime, to stop at Wallis Island Port Vila in the New Hebrides, carry­ ing copra out and trading goods in at favorable rates.2

War­time Wallis Although it lies to the west of Samoa, Wallis has many similarities with Tonga, and its connections to that island date from the earliest times. Like Tonga, it is a Polynesian society. In 1940 its youthful population numbered between 4,200 and 5,000. In late May 1942, U.S. Marine units landed, to be joined by army units in October 1943. Being part of the Samoan command, ­there ­were no African American troops stationed ­there. Centered at Gahi (see Map 5.1) in the southeast, the U.S. troops at their peak numbered 2,600. Wallis was always well ­behind the ­battle lines, serving largely as an advanced air base and staging area, a role that became redundant once both the Gilbert and Ellice Islands to the northwest ­were occupied by the Americans in late 1943. With l­ittle to do but watch and ser­v ice planes and ships, troop numbers on Wallis Island declined steadily to only two officers and ten men in November 1944, with a few ser­vicemen added ­later. In late 1945, the U.S. Navy maintained a small garrison t­ here to observe the weather, carry out minor communications and radio monitoring, and maintain an emergency airfield. By early 1946, few Americans remained; by April, they had been withdrawn.3 Meanwhile in Eu­rope, once France fell in mid-1940 to the Germans, the French Pacific dependencies had to choose to support ­either the German puppet Vichy government ­under Philippe Pétain or the ­Free French ­under Charles de Gaulle. Broken shipping lines left the French Pacific dependent on its near neighbors, Australia and New Zealand, which responded by increasing the supply of goods and importing some of the products of ­t hese territories. A pro-­Free French administration prevailed early in the New Hebrides, the first of the colonial dependencies to declare support for de Gaulle. ­A fter much internal jousting and coaxed by the presence of an Australian warship, New Caledonia and the Society Islands, including Tahiti, also opted to support the F ­ ree French. Only l­ ittle Wallis and Futuna remained pro-­Vichy despite the urgings of Governor Soutot in New Caledonia. On Wallis, the Catholic bishop Poncet was not a Nazi sympathizer, but he and the French resident w ­ ere Vichy loyalists. In time, however, Soutot believed that they would come around to support de Gaulle.

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Map 5.1. Wallis Island. Most of the Americans w ­ ere based at Gahi.

With no French cargo shipping lines active, supplies from New Caledonia dried up a­ fter one special shipment of basic goods and food imports, and both Wallis and Futuna ­were suffering. Finally, in May 1942, one day before the Americans appeared, a ship from Nouméa arrived with some supplies and a new French resident cum doctor, Mattei. He arrested the former resident, the Vichy supporter, and sent him back to Nouméa, probably the only positive contribution Mattei ever made. Mattei’s task of rallying the island to de Gaulle was much simplified by the arrival of the Americans the next day. Suffering from hunger, the friendly ­people ­were hardly at their best to receive ­t hese men, but certainly welcomed access to a supply of manufactured goods, medicines, and store food that they had not seen for months.4

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Americans Meet Wallis Island The American marines encountered an island “populated by 5000 preindustrialized unhealthy natives and the filth of unimproved conditions. . . . ​lepers still remained on the main island. Tuberculosis, yaws and filariasis among other diseases was [sic] overwhelmingly present.”5 The Navy airmen, who ­because they moved around a lot, had more chances than most to compare and contrast U.S. bases in the South Pacific and deci­ded that Wallis, despite its natu­ral beauty, had none of the attractions of Samoa or Tonga: “Wallis Island . . . ​is by no stretch of the imagination the Pearl of the Pacific. It has gained the reputation—at least among the personnel of this squadron—as about the best spot on God’s earth to keep away from.” 6 The Americans tried to work with the French civil administration, but within a year U.S. commander Price was lobbying for Mattei’s removal b ­ ecause of incompetence. Price believed Mattei had made “the l­ittle island which looks like a tropical paradise” into “a seething cauldron of ­human unhappiness, discontent and misery.”7 To satisfy his overblown sense of French glory, Mattei had recruited seventeen undisciplined New Caledonian Kanak infantrymen to add to the twelve white French soldiers already guarding his residence. According to Commander Price, the Kanak guards terrorized the Wallis ­people and infected ­women with venereal disease. As a doctor, Mattei was so careless that the Americans, sympathetic to the Catholic nun who was struggling to provide care in the hospital, assisted with treatments; a­ fter the Americans became involved, Mattei abandoned all his medical responsibilities to care for the sick.8 The American command soon assumed virtual control of much of the island in terms of medical and hygiene matters, if only to protect their own men: The proximity of the natives due to the confining space of the small island and the illicit fraternizing of the US personnel and the lack of medical supplies at the French Hospital and the French regime’s inability to cope with the task of immediate clean-up of the island caused the US Forces to take action. Systematic checking of e­ very native on the island and rec­ords made and supplied [to] the French authorities resulted in the removal of the lepers to the island of Nukuatea, treatment of other diseases and posting of signs on fales [houses] where resided tubercular, leprosy and other communicable diseased natives [sic].9 ­ unning a civilian hospital and a leprosarium ­were not part of the military misR sion so when the Americans officially ended their involvement in health care, the islanders w ­ ere less well served.10

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From the time the Americans arrived, the king was very welcoming and had two ­houses built for them.11 In contrast, Bishop Poncet, who eventually accepted the po­liti­cal situation, objected to the high numbers of laborers that the Americans wanted to work for them—­t hree hundred a week compared to their original request for only one hundred. The bishop worried that ­there would not be enough able-­bodied men to engage in “cultivation in their fields” to support the rest of the population.12 Nonetheless, the Americans supplemented the island’s food supply and also arranged for supplies to be sent to the Burns Philp agent to sell. The bishop did not know that the Wallis workers w ­ ere the lowest paid of all employed by the Americans in the entire South Pacific, but the U.S. commander did and was proud of it. In American Samoa, laborers working for the U.S. forces ­were paid $3.20 a day, and in Funafuti (in the Ellice Islands), Fiji, and Tonga, the pay was $1.00 a day—­but in Wallis the men earned only 20 cents for the entire day. Try as he might, the bishop could not stem the stark economic effects of the U.S. occupation on his flock:13 Relations with the native population remained good so far as official expressions of good w ­ ill and cooperation are concerned despite instances of misconduct on both sides; throughout occupation the typical native offence was thieving and the typical American, one version of another of the sexual theme. Both of which sprang naturally enough from a contrast between want and plenty.14 During the war the U.S. forces ­were short of ­labor in their huge base in New Caledonia, so some from Wallis went t­ here to work for the Americans. The Americans judged some of t­ hese men so diseased that they w ­ ere ordered to return to Wallis.15 Th ­ ose who stayed w ­ ere the first of thousands over the subsequent years who migrated to New Caledonia, where, along with the Futuna p ­ eople, they are now a strong minority in the population. Many of the troops stationed on Wallis w ­ ere from the southern states of the United States and considered ­t hose from the North to be “niggerlovers” or “gooklovers.” One marine from the North who had shown re­spect for the native ­people was so labeled, but he noted that the same name callers “did not mind at all to trade a can of ‘tinny cow’ or ‘tinny beef’ for a ­little sex” and that ­t here ­were soon “a few babies in natives huts with white skins.”16 In spite of the racist attitudes held by some Americans, the Wallisians enjoyed this time of plenty. Some made money from selling illicit local brew, low-­grade pearls, and handcrafts for souvenirs, which enabled them to buy canned goods, such as “corned beef ” as well as “lace and perfumed soaps.” Many abandoned

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their own gardens, believing that the Americans and their affluence w ­ ere ­t here to stay.17 Many ser­v icemen found the Wallis p ­ eople pleasant and friendly. Stationed ­t here for four months in early 1944 before the U.S. advance into the Marshall Islands, Herbert Hice enjoyed his posting, as he related a­ fter the war: The sunsets w ­ ere fantastic. . . . ​The small Children would follow the Marines around all day waiting for them to throw away their cigarette butts. They would scramble to pick them up to smoke. Some of the Marines would give them ­whole cigarettes. They would rather have a cigarette than a piece of candy. On Wallace [sic] Island we lived in Quonset huts, about 30 Marines to each Hut. . . . ​In the eve­ning we could walk over to where the Natives would put on some sort of show. The Natives had grass Huts to live in, similar to the movie [South Pacific]. They would dance and chant and smoke some sort of Pipes. The show was very plain, not anything elaborate like in the Movie, but it was quite entertaining, We all w ­ ere having fun, they seemed to like having the Marines, Seabees and Navy to entertain. The Polynesians w ­ ere not as good looking as in the movie, but then who is ??? For a pack of cigarettes you could get Grass skirts, Fans made of grass, or a necklace made of small, very colorful snail shells, strung on some sort of Grass String.18

A Final Farewell A backwater throughout the war, Wallis was a depressing place for most marines, who saw themselves as forward fighters and specialists in assault in amphibious operations. Instead, they ­were serving as garrison troops, and their morale suffered greatly.19 The American occupation of Wallis had a bizarre finale, probably precipitated by one ser­v iceman’s ­mental illness. In colonial territories, such as some of the islands of Bora Bora, Gilberts (Kiribati), Solomon Islands, and Western Samoa, some local ­people pushed for the “wealthy” Americans to remain as the new rulers—an ambition that never afflicted the French New Caledonians, however. Believable rumors—­well grounded in the hopes held by the U.S. Navy’s high command—­that the United States would retain the island bases of the South Pacific they had occupied reached Wallis. On 25 March 1946 some locals led by an armed American ser­v iceman called “Captain Zinchek,” one of the dozen Americans left on an island that most wanted to be rid of, marched to the French resident’s h ­ ouse and demanded that the French go home. The cool-­headed Charbonnier, who had replaced Mattei as resident,

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ascertained that the king was not involved and engaged in a dialogue with Zinchek, the self-­styled “Commander of Wallis.” He managed to calm the situation with a threat to call Paris, even though this was not pos­si­ble with the radio equipment available. The situation remained fluid for a ­couple of days, but Charbonnier prevailed on the king to rally other chiefs and the ­people in support of the French. In a typical scenario in which Polynesian factions allied with equally divisive foreigners, a rival chief supported Zinchek, as did the BP agent. Eventually, the bishop came out in support of the French. Meanwhile, it seems that some among the Americans contacted the high command, and a ship came and took Zinchek away on 30  March, with the remaining ser­v icemen leaving on 9 April.20 Thus ended one American’s dream of ruling the islands. But what of the U.S.-­fathered children left ­behind?

Seeking No ­Father At the time of this writing, Petelo Tufale lives near Norsup, Malakula, in Vanuatu where he manages a large plantation and c­ attle station (see Figure 5.1). He was born in 1943 on Wallis Island. This is his story, which is the only one we recorded about this island, b ­ ecause the proj­ect did not extend to research on Wallis Island itself. It is unique, but then so is every­one’s story.21

Figure 5.1. Petelo Tufale, 2010, at home on Malakula. (Photographer: Lyn Haywood)

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My m ­ other told me about my early life . . . ​I am half Polynesian and half white. My ­mother gave birth to me from a relationship with an Army man from the United States when the Americans w ­ ere ­t here. His name was “Bobby,” but I have no f­ amily name for him, one of the difficulties of war­ time. I lived on Wallis, and I went to school t­ here. My m ­ other married a Wallis man. They had no children so I was the only one. I just continued to use my ­mother’s name. When I realized I had no other name I did not change it. The New Hebrides was an Anglo-­French condominium where most planters ­ ere French. They w w ­ ere constantly in search of l­ abor ­either to work on their plantations or look a­ fter expanding herds of c­ attle. New Hebrideans often took on this work, but not in sufficient numbers to meet the need. Mi­grant workers from French Indochina had come before the war, but thereafter po­liti­cal re­sis­tance to the French caused that source to be cut off. ­After the war, Wallis Island had an excess of population and a scarcity of paid employment. Many migrated to the New Hebrides as well as New Caledonia. The extended Tufale f­ amily was part of this exodus to the New Hebrides when Petelo was about eleven years old. His ­family came to Norsup, the largest plantation in the archipelago: My f­ amily came to Vanuatu in 1954 and I have stayed ­here up to the present day. My ­mother worked on this plantation. We came h ­ ere by ship. We all worked on the copra. ­A fter in­de­pen­dence [of Vanuatu in 1980] my ­mother stayed h ­ ere with the old man. ­Later they deci­ded to go back to Wallis ­because they w ­ ere old. I took them home. They are both dead now. Petelo was the beneficiary of being an only child, for when his m ­ other married a­ fter the war, and did not have any children with her new husband, Petelo did not have to face any pos­si­ble rejection by his stepfather: Every­one in my ­family liked me, I think it was a piece of good fortune when my m ­ other married a man but did not have another child, so her husband took care of me too. So the two of them had only me. So when they w ­ ere preparing to come to the New Hebrides, as it [Vanuatu] was called then, the wider ­family wanted me to stay ­behind. But the ­couple wanted me to come so they brought me. As for me, I wanted to come with my ­mother. And I was still using my ­mother’s ­family name. The ­family name of the old man who married my ­mother—he wanted me to take that but I did not want to. I was part of my m ­ other and her f­ amily and he accepted that. In our custom when a ­woman was born she has the right to

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her f­ amily history (it was not like Vanuatu where a ­woman is nothing). So it was that my ­mother was the oldest child in the ­family and so every­one considered me my m ­ other’s oldest child. This is why I held on to my ­mother’s name and every­one held me as my ­mother’s oldest child. So if the w ­ hole ­family needs to make a decision it goes all the way to me as the chief in the ­family. So I have rights in the ­family. For something like that I have to go back to Wallis. If ­t here is any prob­lem with them on Wallis I still go back to sort it. If t­ here is some difficulty with land I have to discuss it with them. I did not find it hard to say goodbye to the foreign man who gave me life. I do not have any problems with my f­amily and first-­ born rights have sorted things for us. It is a bit like the first born of En­glish royalty. In Vanuatu [custom] it is not the same, it is no good. Contrary to the estimate of Wallis’s Catholic bishop that about ten U.S.-­ fathered children ­were born on the island,22 Petelo, who would know better, considered the total to be higher: In Wallis ­t here ­were many part American children: full up with them!23 One girl from another ­family came ­here and visited me, but she went back to stay with her m ­ other. So I am the only one h ­ ere and I have married a ­woman from ­here so I stayed ­here. Wallis is a very small island. I have four girls and two boys so my f­ amily has grown and they are all h ­ ere. They are all married now. I want this story told so my children w ­ ill have it and know about my ­mother’s history. She [­mother] did not get all his [American’s] name and details as t­ here was some emergency in the Solomons and the men w ­ ere picked up and taken forward to the Solomons to fight. But no one knew if he was alive or dead. I think he was killed in the Solomons. That is what my ­mother told me: they ­were all taken away so quickly. Every­one must have died as we did not hear any more of them. The troops did not stop in the one place for long. ­These places ­were used for hiding, near to the Solomons and men went back and fro. So they do not have a lot of time for meeting ­women. Over ­t here [Solomons] the time was taken up preparing and being ready, t­ here was no time for wandering around and finding a girl friend. Given that Petelo was born in 1943, it is pos­si­ble that his f­ ather was a marine attached to the 3rd Battalion, 7th Marines, b ­ ecause ­t hese soldiers left Wallis in August 1942 and fought in bloody battles on Guadalcanal and subsequently in New Guinea, Peleliu, and Okinawa.24 His ­father may have perished in any one of

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­t hese encounters with the Japa­nese, but certainly dis­appeared from the Tufale ­family: Our Tufale f­amily—­t here are lots of them in New Caledonia too. I have no problems with the Tufale f­ amily. The Magoro f­ amily [his wife Emma’s] is impor­tant too. They wanted me to give a child to the male line of this ­family. But the child did not like that. I am a bit worried I did not do this customary ­t hing, and I ­w ill have to make it up to my wife’s ­people. Petelo is quite comfortable in his Wallisian identity, unashamed of his origins, but as his appreciation of Melanesian cultural expectations indicates, he is also embedded in Vanuatu society via his wife Emma and their children. Part of his success in life he attributes to a Catholic priest who lived and died in the New Hebrides: ­ ather Bertrand Soucy [a Marist priest] was from Boston in the United F States. Soucy came to Wala [island off northeast Malakula] in 1957.25 They came ­here to make a parish. ­A fter Mass, my ­family said ­there was no school h ­ ere, so the children could not go to school. We all had lost time. So he said yes it would be good for us to go to Wala, but then t­ here was no place for school. But he went ahead and started it, we stayed ­under the trees, he did not wait. So he build some local materials h ­ ouse so that the children could start school, so we went to school. ­After 1959, Soucy started to move the mission from the small island of Wala across to the mainland [Walarano]. It was very hard to get ­t here then. ­There was no road for traffic. No road, so you had to walk. So ­every weekend we walked—­first we went in a canoe from the island then walked. So he moved the mission in 1959 to the big island where it now is. So he built, built all the h ­ ouses and school. Short of stature, the fair-­haired ­Father Bertrand Soucy was an innovative priest with a large vision. In former times, the p ­ eople of the adjacent islands of Wala and Rano w ­ ere enemies (see Map 4.1). When the missionaries brought Chris­tian­ity to t­ hose islands, the fighting between them stopped. However, to build a mission station on one or the other of the islands could create resentment in the one lacking this major fa­cil­i­t y. Moreover, Soucy had big plans and ­t here was not enough land on the small islands, so he looked to the mainland and gave the mission site a joint name so all would be included. The site was formerly a tapu (taboo) place, but now had another layer of meaning attached to it.26 All this construction activity needed committed and trained workers. Petelo may not have

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settled into book learning, but was highly intelligent, and Soucy recognized this quality in him: But a­ fter I stayed a year at school, from leaving this place it was very difficult to go back to the classroom and I was not ­doing well. About 1960– 61 I asked if I could start ­doing some practical work for the mission, so I could use some skills, something about building. Now Soucy was short of one mechanic. I began to watch what one driver did, he was a mechanic and I saw what he did—­such as repairing the cocoa engine. So the story is that Soucy sent a message to the United States to find someone to provide a mechanics course [for me] to help the mission. In 1963 it was time for him to have a sabbatical a­ fter years of work so he was to go back to the United States. ­Father Soucy was not in the Army, he came to Walarano to work for the Catholic mission in about 1957. He came from ­t here when I was ­here with my parents. I met him at school. I spent about nine years in school. The local ­people did not have an En­glish school so ­Father Soucy he came ­here to conduct a church ser­v ice and he asked the p ­ eople to come. He said to my m ­ other, “That big boy, is he yours?” She said that my f­ ather was an American. He asked if I wanted to go to the United States so I asked my ­mother. My ­mother agreed but one ­t hing I did not like, and that was that F ­ ather wanted to find my American ­father, since it might have been pos­si­ble to find him. [­Later,] we went [to the United States] and met old commanders and we talked with a lot of ­people. Many asked, “Are you a full Polynesian?” All could see, so I said, “No.” My m ­ other was still ­here and, in my heart, having her was enough. That is why I did not try to find out anything about my birth ­father; it would only complicate my life. I re­spect my ­mother’s side, as I should in my custom.

Visiting Amer­i­ca Petelo knew from the outset that F ­ ather Soucy held hopes of finding Petelo’s biological f­ather. The Soucy f­amily of French origin was large, with offshoots both in the Boston area and in nearby Canada. Bertrand Soucy was the youn­gest of fourteen children, so he had no shortage of contacts in several parts of the United States; he also had many links through his religious order, the Marists (Society of Mary).27 Soucy, as an American, was also very aware that Americans who had fought in the Pacific theater often held good memories of the island peoples and of the missionaries among them:

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I went with Soucy to the United States [in 1964] and met some veterans from the war, but t­ hese ­were ones who w ­ ere in Tonga and Fiji, not Wallis. We visited one of F ­ ather Soucy’s bro­t h­ers who had been in Samoa. But we did nothing to find my birth f­ ather. I r­ eally loved my m ­ other: she let me go to the United States but only for one year. The priest wanted to find out more re my birth ­father but I said no, things ­were fine as they ­were. Although Petelo was not ashamed of his part-­American origins he still seemed to carry a sense from boyhood of what the impact of the occupation meant for some families, at least on Wallis. Perhaps too, b ­ ecause inter-­ethnic ­unions are now more common he has been less marked by his appearance as being a “half-­caste”: We half-­castes from the time of World War Two w ­ ere all the children of Americans; t­ here ­were no other white men. Th ­ ese days, every­one e­ lse is mixed up too, like me. ­­Father Soucy certainly had in his mind another reason to take Petelo with him to the United States. Missionaries of vari­ous denominations, when on leave or sabbatical, often took indigenous Christians home on formal and informal “deputation work.” Part of the reason for this was to raise money for the missions or for a par­t ic­u ­lar proj­ect in the mission field. With careful pre-­ departure planning, ­Father Soucy hoped the presence of a lively, intelligent young man would stimulate donations for his mission since his ambitious building program at Walarano would have needed considerable financial input.28 Soucy was well known in church circles as a fundraiser with entrepreneurial skills used to further the work of the mission. He had prepared himself and Petelo to educate, entertain, and perhaps charm ­people they met. However, Soucy’s primary aim in taking Petelo to the United States certainly was to find him some training in mechanics so the young man could work on the mission. For Petelo, it was an opportunity to see another world and to learn a skill: We went direct to Los Angeles where he had a sister. So we then went in a truck by road to lots of places, to Florida. Soucy’s ­family ­were all over the place in Boston. So we went ­t here and all of them wanted to meet me. What did they know? They ­were ­really in the dark. So I had prepared for ­doing some custom dancing t­ here. We took along a movie camera, and we made ­music and explained every­t hing to them. Some of the f­amily lived in Maine near Canada, so they asked us to go t­ here for a while, but ­after that we went to Quebec.

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Petelo became tired of entertaining his hosts, particularly when some of them offered comments that he found insulting, touching on his mixed ethnicity. Although he appreciated his status as a guest he was not g­ oing to be humiliated: ­ ere was the f­ ather of a child [a war­time child] who lived in Quebec so Th we went to Canada to visit him, as I wanted to know what sort of a man he was. So they asked me—­usually Soucy’s ­family—­t hey wanted to know about my f­ ather. I told them my ­father was from Wallis, my ­mother was from Wallis. But with that ­family where we ­were staying wanted me to do a custom dance, but I did not want to. Th ­ ose ­people ­really wanted to find proof [of my ancestry], they said I was a bastard from ­here [Vanuatu], they did that. So that was the end of dancing. We left from Quebec and went to New York. I met all sorts of ­people; it was a good place. I saw many places in the United States. I went to all of them. So I returned to St. Theresa’s [Boston] to stay with one of Soucy’s relatives. This ­family where I stayed was a missionary’s ­family. But I never wanted to stay. I wanted to come home. I wrote to my ­mother. She asked me when I was coming back and I ­really wanted to see her again. For one bereaved American f­ amily this personable young man seemed to offer them a chance to gain a surrogate son: Another relative of F ­ ather Soucy approached me and told me they had lost a son in the war, but I did not want to stay. They said if I wanted to stay, then that would be alright with them. But no, it was time for me to leave the US. Petelo took their offer of fostering him in good spirit. For their part, they did not forget him once he left the United States: This same man was to come h ­ ere last year but his wife is sick. I told him he should attend to that first. This old man came before, his name is Beau, but this year he did not come, I think ­because of his sick wife. Though Petelo did not elaborate, perhaps ­because he is now married to a strong ni-­Vanuatu ­woman, he seems to have caught the eye of some young American ­women on his visit: In 1964 I was still young—it was lucky I did not get married in the United States! It is not a good place. Too big, far too big, you have to get every­

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thing in the shop; you cannot do the same as h ­ ere in Vanuatu. It was not good for me—­the snow, I was not used to it. It was so cold, not like Vanuatu. My word! Snow fell and the next morning I had to put on more clothes. I did not like that. When I was working I did small things like making a cupboard, something like that, worked on small machines. So I went to study about being a mechanic. This was so I could help the mission when I came back.

The Return Home The relationship between Petelo and F ­ ather Soucy matured. A ­ fter they returned from the United States, Petelo looked on him as a ­father, and Soucy continued to treat him well, as if he w ­ ere his son or nephew: I came back and continued to help the mission with mechanical work. So it was, and all the time Soucy looked ­after me. ­After I left school I stayed with him. I ate with him; he provided meat for me. He looked ­after me as though I was his child. So ­t hose who are part-­A merican children are looked a­ fter by Americans! When I married the both of us lived at the mission and went ahead with the building. I then was working on the building, not just him. We built the school, every­t hing. We built the big church over t­ here. Petelo was not wrong in his assessment of Soucy: ­others have attested to his feelings of responsibility for a fellow American’s child left ­behind in the wake of war. ­Father Soucy, the builder-­priest, gained a reputation in the New Hebrides (Vanuatu) for his innovation and modernity. Figures 5.2 and 5.3 show his success in building the Catholic mission structures at Walarano, which ­were completed by 1972. And Petelo was part of that success, learning much about construction management and planning on the job. Soucy was keen on the parish boys learning a trade, just as he had been in regard to Petelo. In 1982 he managed to recruit two overseas volunteer workers to run a boys’ training center at Walarano. Soucy always wanted to see an indigenous clergy and staff run the mission and its school, church, dispensary, and training facilities.29 As this became a real­ity, Soucy’s skills ­were needed elsewhere, away from his “­family” of Petelo and Emma: ­ fter that, Soucy left Walarano b A ­ ecause the mission wanted him to work on Ambrym. He went to Sesivi and stayed t­ here. It was hard for us to go to Ambrym.

Figure 5.2. Interior of the Catholic church at Walarano, built during ­Father Soucy’s time at the mission. (Photographer: Lyn Haywood)

Figure 5.3. School at Walarano where Petelo helped ­Father Soucy’s building program. (Photographer: Lyn Haywood)

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For many expatriates who have lived most of their adult years in the Pacific Islands the time of retirement poses real issues. Th ­ ose whose lives ­were steeped in their work find such transitions extremely challenging. Some of the religious ­orders are now more proactive in terms of preparation, but many an el­derly missionary has wanted to stay on. With all his relatives in the United States, Soucy had to choose ­whether to return to be near them or stay in Vanuatu. He went for a time to the Marists’ retirement center at Port Vila, but did not like it. His world was in Vanuatu; his heart was with his ­family of Petelo, Emma, and their children. Petelo, nonetheless, was careful not to usurp the claims of Soucy’s own ­family: When it came to the time for him to stop, when he could no longer work for the church he asked me, as he was retiring, if he could have a bit of land and he asked me, “What do you think, could I come and live with you?” I said, “I cannot say, but if you want that you must go and ask your ­family in United States first. If that is alright with them for you to stay in Vanuatu then if you want you can stay, but if they do not want that, then. . . . ​.” So he went back to the United States and his ­family said, “It is OK; you can stay with Petelo and Emma.” So it was straightened out and he came back ­here. Like most Pacific ­people, Petelo has a deep sense of reciprocity. He demonstrated his love for Soucy, the man and the priest who had become his only parent ­after the death of his ­mother and foster ­father: What he did for me when I was small, I had to give back to him. He did not come h ­ ere to work for me; he came to work for the ­people. He needed a small place for himself. So when he came back from Ambrym he asked me to build him a small ­house, so I built it and he came down ­here to the plantation. It was near the church and he could still walk around, but he could not see very well. We, my ­family, ­were living at Lakatoro [on Malakula]. So we began to look ­after him, with food or the like. But in time he could not look ­after himself anymore. So I saw this and said that it was time for him to move into our h ­ ouse. He could not go by himself to the toilet, he needed a man to help him with that. So I took him from the small ­house to ours. He lived with us about eight years. When he could no longer stand up he stayed in bed for most of the time. He could not talk well. I helped my wife with him ­because he was heavy. Soucy had almost dis­appeared from the horizon of the Marists, but not entirely:

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One time I got a telephone call from the United States from the big boss of the mission [Marists] in Boston. He said, “Petelo, I am having trou­ble finding out where Soucy is. They do not know in [Port] Vila, and cannot tell me.” So they all wanted to know where he was staying. They all knew he was ­here but no one knew who was looking ­after him. I said, “He is staying with me.” “Can I talk to him?” “Yes, he talks to me but he is not very clear.” So I explained all this. Soucy’s sister also rang me so by then every­one knew he was with me. When she stayed with him once for three months I met her. She rang and said, “He is with you is he alright?” “Yes he is fine, but he is old and cannot do anything.” So she talked to him. By then Soucy could not talk very clearly and all he could manage was eating. My wife had to feed him. Before, I got some help with clothes from the ­family. When I needed clothing or anything they helped me. I needed some help with him. So medicine or things like that ­were sent. Caring for Soucy was as much Emma’s work as Petelo’s. This generous ­woman had once led a strike against Soucy when he, given sometimes to impatience, told all the w ­ omen coming to Easter confession that they needed to wash b ­ ecause of body odor. He went too far; ­t hese ­women had walked a long way to church in the heat of the day and had to wait patiently u ­ nder the trees for their turn in the confines of the confessional. So Emma who headed the Catholic w ­ omen’s group led the refusal to take part in the liturgy of Easter. Soucy deci­ded it was wiser to hear the confessions and get over his personal distaste.30 Yet Emma put this resentment aside, worked hard for the church, and continued with Petelo to help the old man.

The Two Last Things Soucy wanted one last t­ hing. When he died he wanted me to take him back to the mission. So he asked me if it would be pos­si­ble in due course for him to go back to the mission he built. So I had to go and see the ­people at Walarano. They agreed that we could bury him ­t here. His grave is at Walarano b ­ ehind the church (Figure 5.4). When he was alive I had to do all I could for him. He was a singular man who did g­ reat good to me, provided the means for helping me in life, so I, with my wife, w ­ ere willing to look ­after him ­until he died. I had one thought, when someone is good to you, you must return it. Petelo’s story reveals that his ­mother dearly loved him and his stepfather supported him. His enduring attachment to his ­mother and his care of his parents

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Figure 5.4. ­Father Soucy’s grave at the rear of the Walarano church, 2010. (Photographer: Lyn Haywood)

indicate he was a good son, content with who he is, confident as a Wallisian but able to fit within Melanesian society. He had moved as nimbly in the world of the Americans, but did not want to be one of them, though he was connected by blood. His abandonment, accidental or intentioned, by his biological American ­father left him with no trace of resentment or profound loss. Both culturally and personally, he recognized and responded in kind to ­t hose who ­were good to him and cared for him. In Petelo’s eyes, Soucy’s love of him and his f­ amily had even endured beyond death: Now ­here is an amazing ­t hing I do not understand: when ­Father Soucy died [in 2008], ten days a­ fter, a man who worked for David Rousey called me on the telephone. He said that he wanted to meet me, so I said, “Yes, near the Catholic mission.” So when I went he said that Rousey wanted me to manage his plantation. So I tell you, I think ­Father Soucy again saved me. But I do not understand it. In the custom of this place a­ fter ten days [­after a burial] we have to make a feast, a sort of commemoration, make this small t­ hing for all the friends. So I made this in my h ­ ouse. I did every­t hing. This was when the phone rang, and the man wanted to talk to me and said that David Rousey wanted to see me. And then I met him and

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he wanted me for the job of man­ag­er of his big plantation. Immediately I told my wife and I thanked ­Father Soucy! All this astonished me, yeah! As I was leaving Petelo’s spacious ­house laden with gifts of fruit, I commented to him that it seemed he was still not interested in knowing about his American birth f­ ather. With a broad smile and sparkling eyes, he said that was true b ­ ecause he already had two fathers, his Wallis one and ­Father Soucy. So why would he need another?

C HA P T E R SI X

Tonga in the Time of the Americans judith a. bennett

Tongatapu. . . . ​Its fame spread to Guadalcanal, Santo, Efate, and all islands in general. Among men with airplanes it became known as “Fat Cat Island Number One,” and was a most desirable place to visit. The reasons for this are obvious. The ­people are handsome if not beautiful, ­free almost to a fault, and with a very low incidence of venereal disease. The land is clean; the Eu­ro­pe­ans  .  .  . ​are in­ter­est­ing and co-­operative; and the climate is delightfully cool. —­James A. Michener, History of Tongatapu1

So wrote James Michener in his role as U.S. naval historian. His description well reflects the American view of Tongatapu during the years 1942 to 1945.2 ­These Americans had come to an island that already had experienced a series of encounters with Eu­ro­pe­ans dating back to the seventeenth ­century. Over the centuries, successive interactions with the West had transformed many aspects of Tongan society and culture. Adoption of Western technologies in the form of metal goods, cloth, and the like was rapid. In the early nineteenth ­century, certain chiefly aspirants to greater power saw advantages in alliances with Christian Wesleyan missionaries, forming symbiotic relationships. Such chiefs often became champions of the new religion, and their ­people followed. Chris­tian­ity had much to offer to all levels of society, and the Tongans responded to the new religious ideas with both curiosity and intelligence. The missionaries introduced literacy and provided po­liti­cal advice to the chiefs to manage the demands of outsiders and keep Tonga in­de­pen­dent. In time, many aspects of former belief systems ­were subsumed by or accommodated to Chris­tian­ity. But missionaries had a habit of bringing not only the Gospel but also ideas about society based on their own experiences and class. Christian values pertaining to Western concepts of the ­family ­were often at variance with older ideas. The fact that the brother-­sister relationship (vasu) in Tonga was a close but respectful one with specific duties and obligations was a puzzle to the missionaries who thought

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that the husband and f­ ather should be the f­ amily head in all matters. But that was not such a big prob­lem. The Tongans’ sexual be­hav­ior was. Early visitors to Tonga, explorers and ­whalers, recorded that ­women of high birth w ­ ere expected to remain chaste so as to contract a good marriage with a high chief and thus beget highly ranked offspring. In such a hierarchical society, aw ­ oman’s rank was impor­tant. High chiefs could have several wives or sexual partners, but the higher born ­women ­were considered of greater public status. Yet even the lower ranked ­women in ­t hese alliances could gain some status, at least for their offspring, among the chiefly h ­ ouse­hold. A w ­ oman married to a chief would suffer, as would her partner, if she had sexual relations with anyone but her husband. ­Women of lesser rank but still above the lowest class of w ­ omen may have had more premarital sexual freedom. Ordinary w ­ omen of the tu‘a class—­ laborers and workers on the land—­had considerable freedom in sexual matters, but often formed longterm relationships, although without formal marriage or a ceremony. Men of this class had the same freedom, and sexual involvements ­were acceptable; they and their former partners attracted no stigma on this account. Thus the first visitors to Tonga found some ­women available as sexual partners in exchange for gifts to ­these ­women. They quickly learned, however, that the daughters of chiefs, as well as married and betrothed w ­ omen, w ­ ere not included in this category. Christian teachings that did not allow for polygamy or premarital or extramarital sex, and that frowned on divorce, thus w ­ ere at odds with several values in traditional Tongan society. This meant that several avenues to favorable alliances via serial marriages and offspring ­were lost to t­ hose of high rank. However, adherence to Chris­tian­ity in Tonga, as elsewhere, did not mean that Tongans’ be­ hav­ior always conformed to its counsels of perfection. Tonga became a kingdom in 1870 and remains the only one in the South Pacific. By the second half of the nineteenth c­ entury, a­ fter conflict among several contending chiefly co­a li­tions, the kingship resided in the Tupou dynasty, which was supported by Protestant Christian missionaries. Britain declared Tonga a protectorate in 1900, partly to circumvent pos­si­ble annexation by Germany or another Eu­ro­pean power and partly, at least in British thinking, to eliminate some poor governance practices in the 1890s that had made the country more vulnerable to t­ hose other powers and internal po­liti­cal cliques. No longer ­were Tonga’s foreign relations the prerogative of the king. British intervention did not creep t­ oward total control of Tonga although, in the first de­cade of the twentieth ­century, corruption and an overreaching British consul threatened the existence of Tongan sovereignty. More tactful British consuls and a new youthful queen, Sālote, gradually consolidated the government, overcoming but never quite elim-

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inating resurgent chiefly factionalism. Certainly, by the late 1920s u ­ nder Queen Sālote, who had made an astute and successful marriage to Tungī, who then became premier, a more united Tonga was making steady progress in formal education, health, and agriculture. Pre-­war Tongan society was stable, hierarchical, law abiding, and, like its queen, deeply Christian. By the 1930s, on the main island of Tongatapu in and around the capital Nuku‘alofa, ­t here ­were signs of modernity. In addition to seven thousand ­horses in dubious health, about two hundred motor vehicles w ­ ere in use, mainly on the flat areas. ­There ­were more than sixty miles of metaled roads, a regular shipping connection with New Zealand, a radio broadcast link, a cinema, general stores, and, for the Eu­ro­pe­ans and the royal f­ amily, telephone ser­v ice. Beyond the town and its fine harbor, life was less sophisticated, but made easier by imports such as kerosene lamps, galvanized iron for roofs, metal tools and cooking vessels, and imported pro­cessed food. In 1939, Tonga’s population over the three main island groups numbered almost 35,000, including about four hundred Eu­ro­pe­ans and four hundred ­people of mixed ancestry. Th ­ ere w ­ ere probably more in this last group who identified entirely with their Tongan ancestry ­because ­whalers, traders, and crews of transpacific shipping had all left a ge­ne­tic imprint from the late eigh­teenth ­century. Although highborn Tongans retained control of the lands, business was in the hands of the expatriates, e­ ither of En­glish, German, or occasionally American ancestry, and most se­nior public servants w ­ ere En­glish or from New Zealand. Few Tongans ­were engaged in commerce, other than in small village trade stores or as agents for the expatriate copra-­buying trading companies: Morris Hedstrom, Burns Philp, Brown Joske Ltd., and Lever Bro­th­ers. A few Japa­nese traders, associated with Banno Bro­th­ers, lived on each of the main island groups: Tongatapu, Ha‘apai, and Vavau (see Map 6.1). Though not over-­endowed with export crops, Tonga did well from copra, though less so in the depressed 1930s. This decline in exports reduced Tongans’ ability to buy imported goods that the ­people had come to value and often to rely on, such as canned meat, white flour, refined sugar, biscuits, cloth, and soap. For most Tongans, subsistence on plentiful local supplies of food became a tolerable necessity.

War Looms ­ ecause Britain handled Tonga’s foreign relations and trade, it was responsible B for its defense. Even before war broke out in Eu­rope, Queen Sālote had told the British that all Tonga’s resources could be used to support Britain. In the event, Britain delegated Tonga’s defense to New Zealand, but the Tongans, loyal to Sālote,

Map 6.1. Tongan islands. The Americans constructed the airfield.

Tonga in the Time of Americans   169

quickly volunteered in large numbers for a Defense Force headed by local officers, subsequently supplemented by officers from New Zealand and Fiji. Once the war extended to Japan, the Tongan government deported all fourteen Japa­nese men and their Japa­nese wives, who w ­ ere then interned in New Zealand along with Tonga-­based German subjects already living ­t here. Respecting their queen, tiny Tonga during the war managed to raise funds to purchase four Spitfire fighter planes for Britain. This generosity of spirit soon extended to the Americans once the United States entered the war. Even though the occupying Americans who appeared in March  1942 occasionally ­were heavy-­ handed in dealing with the “natives,” especially in 1944, the queen and the British consul and agent acted with calm and restraint for the greater good of the Allied cause.3 Along with the families of the “nobles and better class p ­ eople,” the knowing queen, focused on the protection of blood lines and rank, strongly advised the young ­women of noble birth to retire to the outer islands.4

Taimi ‘o e Kau Amelika: The Time of the Americans As on many other islands, the incoming Americans soon greatly increased the numbers living on Tongatapu, peaking around 10,000 in 1942, with more than 30,000 transients on the ships en route to the forward areas in the west or returning to U.S. ports. Most Americans ­were based in the west at Houma or near the airfield that they built at Fua‘amotu in the south. ­There was also an outpost on ‘Eua island and a small naval base at Ma‘ufanga, west of Nuku’alofa (see Map 6.1). Many hundreds of military men w ­ ere regularly in Nuku‘alofa and the wharf areas to transfer goods, armaments, and personnel on and off the U.S. Navy ships in the harbor.5 The Americans enjoyed Tonga, but “apart from the romantic charms of some of the Tongan belles ­t here was ­little ­else in the way of entertainment.” 6 Yet the wider society helped salve the loneliness of boys far from home: “Almost e­ very naval officer or enlisted man . . . ​is the recipient of more kindness, cheer, and entertainment than he could ever possibly repay.” Tonga’s reputation soon spread to the military in other areas in the South Pacific, and many ser­ vicemen managed to finagle flights to “Fat Cat Number One” for rest and recreation from as far away as the New Hebrides and Bougainville in New Guinea. U.S. naval history makes it abundantly clear that Tongans benefited materially from the occupation. No other island base report is so frank and honest in describing the scope of the American impact. Michener claimed that more than one million dollars of U.S. property was e­ ither gifted, “borrowed,” or other­wise found its way into all the islands of Tonga; much of this leakage was attributable to slack American control of military property and to the close relationships the

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friendly Tongans had with young men a long way from home. One “complete ­house was built on Navy time with Navy property for an attractive girl.” Schools and churches “­were showered with gifts whose title was not always clear.” Moreover, many Tongans, including ­women, for the first time made money not from cutting copra but from ­running small businesses, trading curios and fresh fruit, and providing ser­vices for the occupiers, such as washing and ironing clothes and working in military gardens.7 ­A fter the lean years of economic depression, the war ushered in an era of plenty. In the eyes of the Tongans, the Americans ­were exciting, rich, generous, and power­f ul, and “­t here ­were many charming Tongan girls and of course they ­were enthralled by ­t hese ‘wealthy’ Americans.”8 One Tongan, recalling his m ­ other’s accounts of war­time, spoke of how she remembered the Americans with fondness: My ­mother used to talk how wonderful and kind the American soldiers ­were. ­Those [Tongan] ­people hardly had anything to wear or eat so what the “soldiers” (all military personnel ­were “sotia” in Tongan) did was smuggle out old uniforms and get the locals to strip off all the American IDs [insignia] and use them. Young boys, including two of my older bro­ th­ers, joined the queue in the eve­nings to get a share of the leftover foods ­after the soldiers had dinner. The chefs and cooks saved scraps all from breakfast, lunch, and dinner in buckets for the locals to collect. Most local ­people saw and tasted t­ hese foods for the first time, things like sausages, devons [luncheon meat/baloney], salamis, cheese, butter, choco­late to name a few.9 Yet the Americans also had the power to interfere in civilian lives and to flout protocols involved in the Allied unity of command. In August 1944 when the weak Commander Hodsdon virtually withdrew from his role to wile away the time with his “prostitute,” a subordinate medical doctor deci­ded it was time to take action against some Tongans who had stolen large quantities of cigarettes, beer, gasoline, and equipment from the naval ware­house. Armed with a revolver, the doctor and his men ­were very rough on the suspects and had the temerity to raid the premier’s h ­ ouse­hold, which was perceived as a gross insult to a supportive ally. Even though the Tongans who w ­ ere beaten up, whipped, and imprisoned ­were not adequately compensated for their injuries, the patience and reserve of the queen and British consul prevented their treatment from becoming a major diplomatic incident. The only saving grace from this ­bitter episode was the removal and replacement of the officers concerned.10

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Children Seeking their Fathers Many war­time children have searched for their American fathers. The respected Tongan scholar, I. F. Helu, in the days before the internet had become so power­ ful, remarked, ­ fter the war when they [war babies] had grown up they naturally wanted A to trace and contact their fathers. Hardly anyone succeeded in ­doing this. I did participate in a c­ ouple or so of t­ hese searches—­a ll in vain of course, due mainly to the lack of identifying material or documents.11 Possessing only the most meager details, many longed for a way forward in their search. Some made their way to the United States, partly in the hope of finding their ­father. For example, one child related that her ­mother was called Rose and her f­ather was Samuel.12 Her m ­ other had ­later married, and her stepfather destroyed all documents with details of her natu­ral ­father. She said, I went to Amer­i­ca three times. In San Francisco, I stayed with a friend. Tried to look for a job when we w ­ ere ­there. End up, some time I stay, overstay t­ here [­after visa expired], but we went, my husband [and I] in 1979. Then we go back to Tonga. But once I met someone t­ here I thought was my ­father . . . ​at a place called Hattaras Island [east coast of the United States]. My husband used to go and paint with a person over ­there. They ­were working at the Army ­there. I met someone ­there. I wondered was he the one? His name was Samuel Neal. He seemed to me—­I ­don’t know, but he says, “No’ No” and that he was in the navy [or coastguard]. I was talking to him and he said, “No.” He was not on that island. He was not in Tonga. I felt it was him, maybe he was thinking I wanted some money. He was married and he had three children—­t wo girls and one boy and one of the girls was called “Rose” and that is why I sometimes think of him. Maybe he thought I craved money or something like that, you know the way of the palagi [white man]. I d ­ on’t want to blame. I’d like to meet him. All I want if he is still alive [crying], he might be seventy something now. Some children of the Americans initially did not want to know about their fathers. Tom relates that his m ­ other had four children in the war years, three to ser­v icemen and the first to a New Zealander.13 His eldest brother has met up with him [New Zealander], my second brother is two years older than me and he’s met up with his ­family in the States. He and his wife

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actually went over. . . . ​His ­father actually traced him down. He went to Tonga. That’s the only one in Tonga. He obviously remembered her name and went by that. And fortunately t­ here was still a f­amily member back ­t here. The good ­thing was the name my ­mother gave my brother matched. My ­mother always tried to talk to me about it, but I always shoved it off. I think she mentioned a name to my wife but I am not sure. . . . ​But now for my grandchildren and that, it makes a difference. And I was saying last night, what a pity, my mum’s just died in 2001. My ­daugh­ter is the one who is keen to do something about it. Tom’s ­mother was of mixed heritage—­Tongan and Eu­ro­pean. In war­time Tonga the troops would have noticed his fair-­skinned ­mother in Nuku‘alofa, b ­ ecause most of the Eu­ro­pean w ­ omen and children had been evacuated when the war started and did not return ­until 1943 or ­later: ­ ere w Th ­ eren’t too many Eu­ro­pe­ans ­there. And she was probably one of the few Eu­ ro­ pean girls ­ running around in bare feet which she always claimed—so, she was an easy target, I suppose, or probably encouraged to entertain the army personnel. And she was white with light brown hair. As a child, the community did not scorn Tom, but sometimes ­people would call him “­little, ­little white boy.” But this name-­calling was not hurtful to him ­because in ­t hose days, “they re­spect the Eu­ro­pean.” His greatest challenge was from his stepfather, whose aggressive discipline Tom saw as a response to his m ­ other’s earlier relationships with ser­v icemen, but conceded that it may have stemmed from the man’s fundamental nature: I ­don’t know ­whether it was that he hated my m ­ other being someone e­ lse’s but he still, at my young age, he used to work me hard and give me hidings and that. I got no grudge for that. That’s a part of growing up in the islands. They never thought twice about clapping you over the head. Mind you, he was the same with his daughters. Another Tongan recalled how some Tongans who wanted to know about their American ­father’s ­family often did not try to search for fear of being identified by other Tongans as “sinful born children.” Even so, many Tongans showed compassion for U.S.-­fathered children. It is said that when Queen Sālote saw a young boy of African American and Tongan parentage being teased and ostracized by his peers, she took him into her ­house­hold where he was raised. As an adult he has achieved much and is well respected, as is his f­ amily.14

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Seeking the Children: The Lost and the Found Some American families came to learn about their ser­v icemen’s South Pacific connection. “Rusty” (Marion Floyd) Gudgel Jr. joined the Navy just before the attack on Pearl Harbor (see Figure 6.1). At seventeen, he was too young to enter the military without his ­mother’s permission, which she gave in September 1941. He was on the USS Lexington when it sank in the B ­ attle of the Coral Sea in May 1942. Other vessels picked up the survivors and dropped them in Tonga. He stayed ­t here u ­ ntil at least mid-1943 when he moved to New Caledonia. Rusty came from divorced parents in California and had a basic education of about eight years at school. For Rusty, as for many a child of the Depression, military ser­v ice offered regular wages and supplied practically all his needs such as accommodation, food, and clothing. For many too, it also provided a chance to see new places, as well as defend their country. But the military exacted discipline, and this impulsive young man soon fell foul of its demands. He was regularly involved in minor infractions of military rules, the most common being absent without leave (AWOL) from a few hours to up to five days and longer. He was also involved with vari­ous ­women in port. Mostly his offenses ­were dealt with at the

Figure 6.1. “Rusty” (Marion Floyd) Gudgel Jr.,  U.S. Navy. (Dianne Gudgel-­Holmes collection)

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Captain’s Mast—­wherein the commander could order punishment for minor offenses such as being absent for a short time. In Tonga, Rusty caused a disturbance at a public dance and ended up on bread and w ­ ater for five days. He also was punished in a summary court-­martial for “using obscene and threatening language” to a camp guard and had his salary reduced for six months. His worst offense that almost resulted in a dishonorable discharge in 1944 was ­going AWOL for seventy-­ seven days in California ­after his ship returned to the United States. He was arrested in San Diego on leaving a movie theater. At some time in his stay in Tonga he became intimate with a Tongan ­woman. She was ­either pregnant or had already given birth by the time he left the country in May 1943. Once the war ended he returned to civilian life. He married about four times and lived in Seattle and California. Hardly a responsible ­father, at some time he did tell a sister-­in-­law in the United States about his Tongan child. His niece is still looking for that child, a search made all the harder ­because no one in the American ­family knows if the child was a boy or a girl.15 Not all men abandoned their Tongan ladies as carelessly. In Tonga, as across the South Pacific, many Americans wished to marry their indigenous partners, particularly if the w ­ omen had given birth or w ­ ere pregnant. U.S. law, however, placed virtually insuperable barriers to marriage. First, the ser­v iceman needed the permission of his commanding officer. This permission was rarely forthcoming ­because of the second barrier placed by U.S. federal law, which consigned this region to being outside the “Western Hemi­sphere.” U.S. immigration law then did not allow non-­white ­people or ­those from the so-­called Asiatic barred zone to immigrate to the United States, with the exception of small po­liti­cally motivated quotas (such as the 105 men per year from China and Filipinos who had served in the U.S. armed forces). Third, even if an indigenous ­woman managed to get into the United States, most state jurisdictions would not allow her and her American partner to marry. Now and then a marriage was contracted, probably when the commander concerned was not fully cognizant of all the facts of the case; this occurred more ­after the war officially ended. Often in such marriages the female partner seemed to be a ­woman of Eu­ro­pean ancestry. One such bride was Monica Dias (née Boyer), who lived in Fiji but whose ­mother was Tongan. In 1946 ­t here ­were still American personnel stationed in Fiji, particularly at the army air base near Nadi. Around that time a young Hawaiian-­born soldier, Corporal Gilbert C. Dias of Portuguese descent, met Monica Boyer who was working as a typist for the Americans. Gilbert in fact had just joined the ser­v ices on 14 September 1945, when he turned eigh­teen, but the war had already ended. His first posting seems to have been Fiji. By November 1946 Monica’s ­father was making inquiries of the U.S. consul in Suva about what documents ­were needed to enable Monica to marry

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Gilbert. It seems that the two ­were able to marry without all the requisite paperwork, most likely with the support of the Catholic priest, ­Father Roach, ­because Monica was more than two months’ pregnant.16 The information that the U.S. consul most wanted to know was her racial background b ­ ecause the only way Monica could enter the United States was if she was Eu­ro­pean and could apply for a visa ­under an immigration quota allocated to vari­ous acceptable countries. If she was not fully Eu­ro­pean, she could possibly meet the concession “that she possesses a preponderance of white blood.” Monica dis­appeared off the consular radar ­until early 1947. She seems to have flown to New Caledonia and boarded a U.S. Army plane to Hawai‘i to go to her husband’s parents’ home in Honolulu. When the Immigration Department in Hawai‘i checked her background they classified this eighteen-­year-­old as “racially ineligible and not exempted” and contacted the consul in Suva. The consul then learned from her ­father, Mr. Boyer, that Monica’s ­mother’s parents ­were both full Tongan. Boyer’s ­father was a New Zealander of Australian parentage, and his ­mother was half-­Samoan and half-­American (or Canadian). Mr. Boyer was thus “one-­quarter native.” In the abrasive arithmetic of “race” and identity, Monica then was then “62½ other than Eu­ro­pean.” Lacking the mathematically impossible cut-­off point of 51 ­percent, she did not possess a “preponderance of white blood” and was not eligible to immigrate to the United States.17 Fortunately, her plight and that of at least one Samoan ­woman of mixed ancestry, Lena White, who had been married in Auckland to a U.S. ser­v iceman, received publicity at what happened to be an auspicious time for them. For the United States, the politics of diplomacy and race had altered a ­little by 1947. The United States now wanted Japan as an ally against the emerging communist regime in China. The U.S. occupation force had fathered thousands of children who w ­ ere treated as outcasts in Japan. Moreover, many U.S. ser­v icemen wanted to marry Japa­nese ­women or had already done so. Briefly in July 1947, the U.S. government bowed to po­liti­cal pressure of interest groups and suspended the exclusion of immigration from Japan (see chapter 1), which gave a win­dow of thirty days for married couples to request a visa for the “alien” bride.18 The Hawaiian delegate to Congress, Joseph Farrington, managed also to get Monica and Lena entry ­under this brief but broad amendment to the immigration law, which was a relief ­because Monica had given birth to a son in May 1947.19 Some of the inherent contradictions of Amer­i­ca’s ­legal construction of race severely affected ­women who identified by birth, place, and one parent as Tongan. One who escaped ­t hese ­legal complications was Louisa Raass whose ­father, Albert Henry Raass, was born in Detroit. He came to Tonga and in 1903 legally married a Tongan w ­ oman called Losele from Vavau. U ­ nder the U.S. Nationality Act of 1790, Raass’s children automatically became U.S. citizens. Thus when his

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­ augh­ter Louisa wished to marry an American ser­v iceman in the Navy, Warren d Scott, and immigrate to the United States, the U.S. consul had no objections. Had Albert Raass been “white” but not an American citizen, then Louisa could not have been admitted to the United States ­because she did not have a “preponderance of white blood”; that is, more than 51 ­percent ­under the Immigration Act of 1924 holding in the United States during the war. Her f­ather’s nationality had primacy over this general rule.20 Yet it is pos­si­ble that Louisa already had acquired British nationality, at least for a time. Her first marriage was to Thomas (“Jack”) Maton John Smith some time before 1932. Their third and last child (Thomas) was born in Tonga in April 1941. Smith had lived and worked in Tonga for some years as a butcher’s assistant for his f­ ather William. William was Australian, and Thomas was born in Levuka, Fiji; thus both w ­ ere British subjects, so that the children and Louisa w ­ ere probably also legally British subjects.21 Along with the Eu­ro­pean ­women in Tonga, Louisa was evacuated to New Zealand in late December 1941 and returned to Tonga in April 1943. Some time in 1943, she divorced Jack Smith, thereby losing her British nationality. Her children, however, ­were still British subjects.22 Smith contracted another marriage in Tonga to Helen Hanson in 1944. Louisa married Warren Scott in 1945 and went to Pago Pago with him where he was demobilized (see Figure 6.2). He then worked for the U.S. Army and ­later the New Zealanders as a mess steward at the air force bases in Nadi, Fiji, where he lived with Louisa in 1946–1947.23 Although he approved the marriage of Louisa and Warren Scott, the U.S. consul could not see how Louisa’s children with Jack Smith could have U.S. citizenship via their m ­ other, b ­ ecause she had not resided in the United States at all, let alone for the requisite period needed to transmit her U.S. citizenship to them. She and Scott seem to have overcome this difficulty by leaving their children with her grandparents and ­going alone to the United States to live in late 1946. This, it would seem, met her residency requirement. In 1948 her f­ ather, Albert Raass, the children’s ­legal guardian, obtained British passports for the three children from Suva, Fiji, and ­later took them to the United States where presumably they ­were granted citizenship and lived thereafter with their parents.24 Thus for some, being of mixed ethnicity provided at least the possibility of gaining access to the U.S. partner’s country. But t­ here could be additional complications. On 7 July 1943, Michael John Burke was born in Kolofo‘ou in eastern Nuku‘alofa, Tongatapu (see Map 6.1). On 20  July his eighteen-­year-­old ­mother, ­Eleanor, “a subject of the Kingdom of Tonga,” consented to his adoption by his ­father, U.S. naval chief machinist’s mate, Melvin C. J. Burke, “in that by Tongan law the child ­will be regarded as an American citizen.” Melvin was thirty-­five and

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Figure 6.2. Louisa Raass and Warren Scott, U.S. Navy, c. 1944. (Raass ­family site, Bebo, January 2013)

had spent fifteen years in the navy. Registered by the Chief Justice of Tonga, the adoption was finalized.25 ­Because his ­father was an American citizen who normally resided in the United States, Michael then had the right of entry also, though this law was changed in November 1943 to bar the entry of illegitimate children of U.S. ser­v icemen.26 So Michael managed to obtain American citizenship just a few months before he would have been locked out of the United States probably forever.

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Michael was not forgotten by his ­father, but soon lost contact with his ­mother and did not see her again for more than sixty years. Young Eleanor Anita Taulanga, as she then was known, was married to Viliami Taulanga. Eleanor was of mixed heritage, born at Ma‘ufanga in 1926. Her natu­ral ­father was Fred Thurry, an En­ glish sailor. Her m ­ other, Minnie Jennings, born in 1900, was the child of Eleanor Lee and George Napier Jennings, an En­g lishman born on a mi­g rant ship to New Zealand who settled in Tonga. Eleanor Lee’s ­mother (Kalo) was Tongan, and her American ­father (George or Siosi) was said to be of mixed European-­ African ancestry. Given the U.S. government’s propensity for granting permission to marry in the South Pacific to ­those islanders with “a preponderance of white blood,” Eleanor would have qualified, had she and Melvin Burke been able to marry, but at the time she was still legally married to Taulanga; her divorce was not finalized u ­ ntil early 1945. Melvin too had married in 1935 and returned a­ fter the war to his American wife. Michael stayed with his m ­ other, who married Edgar Groom in mid-1945 and went to live with them in Suva, Fiji. Eleanor and her second husband looked ­a fter Michael well, and he appeared to be “healthy and happy” when the U.S. vice consul visited him. In April 1947 his f­ ather began the pro­cess of getting his son to the United States, but the paperwork and delays meant permission was not granted u ­ ntil December. The Grooms wanted to keep Michael, but abandoned this hope, probably on the advice of their l­ awyer and the U.S. vice consul, even though they ­were the only parents the ­little boy knew. Michael then was flown to the U.S. West Coast via Pago Pago, American Samoa, and Hawai‘i.27 His biological ­father, Melvin, had not been able to pluck up the courage to tell his wife that Michael was coming, so he asked her sister to break the news to her. His wife was very upset, but once she saw Michael, who so resembled his ­father, she accepted him, and the boy remained the only son of his f­ather (see Figure 6.3). Even though he was with his birth ­mother for the first four years of his life, Michael has no clear memory of t­ hese years or what must have been a long and frightening flight to the United States. His stepmother did not entirely fill the gap in his life left by the absence of his biological ­mother, a gap he did not understand ­until he was in his twenties: As a child I ­didn’t feel dif­fer­ent than the other children, I guess ­because I looked so much like my Dad. I d ­ idn’t know my ethnic background ­until I was 24 years old. When I was growing up, I felt like I was close to my Dad but not with my new M ­ other. She showed her love by making me new clothes or buying me things. She ­wasn’t very affectionate with me. I had a lot of problems with insecurity, e­ very time I would ask questions

Tonga in the Time of Americans   179

Figure 6.3. Eleanor Jennings and infant son, Michael Burke, 1943, Tongatapu. (Michael Burke collection)

about my early childhood (in Fiji), I was told that I was born in Long Beach, California and I was just having a bad dream. I ­don’t have any memories of my early childhood years in the islands. When I would bring things up about my m ­ other and f­ ather, like I said it was just dreams. I guess my new parents w ­ ere ­doing their best to erase my past, which led to a lot of anxiety and distrust. Michael only learned of his “Tongan connection” when his parents told him he was ­adopted, which they did ­because they believed a relative had already told him about his status. He did not know about his time in Fiji ­until the proj­ect researchers revealed it. Not only did the absence of an affectionate ­mother have an emotional impact on Michael but his ­father’s long ­career as a naval officer ­until 1955 also “took a toll on our f­amily.” The death of his stepmother released both Michael and his ­father from the bonds of loyalty and the burden of silences: My a­ dopted ­mother died when I was 28 years old, and I wanted to know more about my birth ­mother’s life and her ­family in Tonga. When I found

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out that my birth ­mother had married and moved to Auckland, New Zealand, and ­didn’t want to have contact with me, I was very disappointed and hurt of course. I guess she ­didn’t want to open old wounds.28 His f­ ather’s reaction ­after his wife’s death revealed that his attachment to Eleanor had been much more than a casual encounter. He showed Michael items related to his time in Tonga and his adoption. But just as Michael’s paternal aunt had revealed to his stepmother that her husband had a Tongan child, so would his maternal aunt tell Michael much about his ­father and Eleanor. Eleanor’s ­mother, Minnie had a sister, Jane Jennings, who was a member of the Catholic religious order, the Missionary Sisters of the Society of Mary (SMSM).29 The lively Sister Malia Katalina would have been almost forty when her niece Eleanor met Melvin: I was told by my Aunt that Melvin met my ­mother while he was recovering from surgery in the Navy Hospital in Tonga. A Catholic nun who would visit the men in the hospital befriended my dad and he was invited to dinner at the Jennings home, and that is how they met. My dad d ­ idn’t want to talk about his time when he was stationed in Tonga; he would always get very emotional about it. He did give me a lot of papers and photos of me and my birth m ­ other. When my a­ dopted mom died he did try to contact Eleanor hoping, I guess, she was still waiting for him to come back to Tonga, but she had already moved on in her life.30 Indeed, Eleanor had moved on. Her husband Edgar Groom died in 1949. In 1957 she married Patrick Compain, who was reluctant to allow her to be in contact with her wider f­ amily at the time Michael tried to locate her. Through this proj­ect, Michael and his aged ­mother, plus his six half-­siblings who had long wanted to find him, and their families in New Zealand and Australia, are now in touch. He has journeyed to New Zealand and been warmly received by all. The mystery of his ­mother solved, Michael now has a huge Tongan and international ­family that ­until 2012 he never knew existed. Yet they had kept a place for him in the ­family genealogy. His Tongan kin had not forgotten this ­little boy; he was just absent for a long time.

­After the Americans Michener, in his history of Tongatapu, refers on several occasions and contexts to the many intimate relationships between the American men and Tongan w ­ omen. One w ­ oman, the willful, intelligent Tupou Posesi Fanua, “­daugh­ter of a minor

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chief,” did not heed the queen’s advice to such w ­ omen to move away from Tongatapu. A fluent En­glish speaker, Fanua got on well with the Americans and seems to have found it con­ve­nient to divorce her husband Posesi. She then moved in with a se­nior American officer, which at the time brought both into considerable disrepute.31 Overall, most relationships ­were cordial, some ­were serial, and some ­were deeply felt. A few relationships with w ­ omen of “predominantly white blood,” in the words of U.S. consular officials, resulted in marriage. Other ser­v icemen tried also to marry Tongan ­women, but could not get the permission of their commanders or the  U.S. consul. Michener, the optimistic historian, luxuriating in the rich experience of his easy war experience b ­ ehind the lines and his own prior relationship with a Polynesian ­woman in Samoa,32 envisaged no long-­term repercussions of such relationships: ­ ere are numerous American babies on the island and ­t hese children are Th among the most prized in all of Tonga. Several naval personnel have allocated payments to Tongan mothers for the care of ­t hese children. ­There is l­ ittle evidence that the American naval personnel debauched the island or changed in any fundamental way its moral principles.33 Michener’s assessment of the love of the mothers for the children may have been correct, but envy among t­ hose less well-­off often determined the reactions at the time and more so a­ fter the war—­t hough most adults seem to have shown more pity than disgust for ­t hese war children. One child growing up ­after the war described this experience as follows: Mothers with “foreign kids” w ­ ere generously looked a­ fter by their American “partners,” they had good food, clothing and money. We [as children] in turn tried to push them down deep into the mud, to make them fault. However, when the Americans left a­ fter the war [and] t­ here ­were no more contacts with ­t hese mothers . . . ​t heir “kids” became outcasts and made fun of by the local [children].34 Tongan researchers too are less sanguine about the consequences of the American occupation than was Michener. The support that ­t hese fathers gave to their children faded almost as quickly as the ships leaving the island for the United States. Although aware of a resurgence of pre-­Christian be­hav­ior in regard to sexuality during the war, ­these researchers regard the introduction of commodity sex, both heterosexual and homosexual, to be a direct outcome of U.S. influence, a trend that postwar contact with the outside world has not discouraged.

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Most casual sexual encounters w ­ ere with w ­ omen whom both Tongans and the Americans classified as pusipusi or prostitutes who ­were paid in cash or with goods for their ser­v ices.35 Even some married ­women saw opportunities for earning extra cash by engaging in casual sexual relations. However, ­there ­were few professional prostitutes, and they tended to be from par­tic­u ­lar families. In Tonga where the brother-­sister relationship is strong, one Tongan soldier, shamed by the loose be­hav­ior of his sister with the Americans, could no longer cope and committed suicide.36 Many girls from good families had to wear the shame of lost virginity and being unmarried with a child once the Americans left and the days of reckless plenty ended. Their ability to make favorable marriages for their families was considerably reduced. Yet it would be incorrect to think that all Tongans before the arrival of the Americans completely followed the Christian prohibitions against freer sexuality, as several genealogies, including that of Queen Sālote, attest. Ex-­nuptial births from 1920 to 1937, comprising a ­little more than 17 ­percent of all births annually, belied a total conformity to Christian ideals.37 Yet almost all who fathered ­t hese children before the war stayed in Tonga and generally acknowledged them, even though considerable shame and gossip resulted from any public flouting of moral standards, especially for ­women. Children of African American and Eu­ro­pean American ancestry stood out. Even so, many war­time relationships ­were affectionate and sincere. Indeed, many families had encouraged such relationships for the gifts that flowed their way as a result. Young Tongan ­women sought alliances with the admired and generous Americans, and some even tried to follow them when they left.38 But they did leave, and more than four hundred babies never knew their fathers. Many of ­t hese, especially t­ hose few of African American paternity in a culture where fair skin is admired, still recall feeling ashamed when teased as children with “Nika” (“Nigger”) or “‘Uli‘uli” (black) added to their first names.39 ­After the war, like Tonga’s respected Queen Sālote, many thought the “time of the Americans” was best forgotten ­because it saw Tonga deviate dramatically from some of its Christian and Tongan values.40 For some, such as Michael and his ­mother, the U.S. occupation cast them on a long and often complex geo­graph­ i­cal and emotional journey. For o ­ thers who may not have journeyed so far, the affective impact was often just as intense ­because they have no final resolution about their paternal origins. It is believed that Queen Sālote, in order to stem the criticism of ­t hose who had U.S. children, simply deemed that all children born in the war years ­were Tongan, which legally indeed they ­were. For her and her subjects, l­ittle more needed to be said, but silences, although they can liberate, also often imprison.

C HA P T E R SE V E N

Kai Merika! Fijian Children of American Ser­vicemen jacqueline leckie and alumita durutalo

Adi Romera Drodrovakawai and Martha Naua w ­ ere called Kai Merika when they ­were children. Both w ­ omen w ­ ere born in 1944 to fathers who w ­ ere American ser­ vicemen stationed in Fiji during World War II. Their mothers, Lusiana Ratu and Jessie Lockington, respectively, had fallen in love with men they could not marry.1 Adi Romera and Martha shared much in common, especially the anguish of being estranged from their American ­father; their differences reflected social, cultural, economic and po­liti­cal complexities in colonial Fiji. Adi Romera’s ­mother Lusiana Ratu was a chiefly indigenous Fijian from the mataqali (sub-­clan)2 Nakelo in the village of Viseisei, Vuda tikina (district), in Ba yasana (province). Martha’s m ­ other Jessie was of mixed ethnic descent—­her ­father was i-­Taukei,3 and her maternal grand­father was Irish. Jessie’s parents had a de facto marriage, and she was born out of wedlock, as was Martha, who was born on 1 June 1944. Jessie registered her as Martha Emmy Francese, although her ­father, Samuel Anthony Francese, was not named on the birth certificate.4 As she was growing up, Jessie told Martha a ­little bit about her ­father, prompted by mementos she had kept, including an army towel and photographs. Samuel was from Worcester, Mas­sa­chu­ setts, and had enlisted in the Medical Department.5 He was twenty-­four years old and Jessie was twenty-­six when Martha was born. He only spent around seven months in Fiji before he was airlifted to Australia with malaria and he had no involvement in Martha’s upbringing. For the first years of Martha’s life her grand­mother cared for her in the small town of Navua, while Jessie worked as a ­house­maid for expatriates in Fiji’s capital city of Suva. When Martha attended Dudley House School she joined her ­mother. Funds did not permit schooling beyond the age of around sixteen years, and Martha then had to make her way in the paid urban workforce, securing long-­term employment at the Carreras cigarette factory. She was only twenty years old when she was selected for further training in E ­ ngland. Martha met her f­ ather and her two half-­sisters in 2002. This gave her a sense of closure about her paternity, but as discussed l­ater in this chapter, her frustration over why her f­ather had abandoned her remained. 183

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Meanwhile Lusiana, who already had two sons, had married Apimeleki ­ asolo prior to Adi Romera’s birth on 29 September 1944. He chose to marry her N despite not being the f­ ather of the unborn baby. He had three children from two previous marriages and would go on to have eight children with Lusiana. Adi Romera was registered in the Fijian Vola ni Kawa Bula (VKB)6 ­under her stepfather’s mataqali in Lauwaki village, which qualified her as a Fijian landowner and resource owner and ­later enabled her to develop small businesses. She also worked in the ­hotel industry and ­later as a seamstress at Lautoka hospital. Adi Romera was blessed with the love of a ­mother and ­father who provided her with economic security and belonging as i-­Taukei,7and it was not ­until she started school that she was called Kai Merika. She then began to ask questions and was told her f­ ather was Dick F. Henry, a commander in the American Navy. ­Later when she became a m ­ other, she increasingly wanted to meet her “­Daddy” and kin in the United States. She has never met them, despite spending three months with her son in Seattle during 1999, when she sought the assistance of vari­ous organizations to trace her ­father. In 2012 we determined that Dick was Dalton Frame Henry, a fireman first class and a motor mechanic’s mate first class who disembarked from the USS Wharton in Fiji on 11 June 1942. He was born in 1909 in Tulare, California, and died t­ here in 1977.8 Lusiana was ten years younger than he, and she passed away in 2005. Adi Romera had no photographs of her ­father. Adi Romera and Martha’s questions about paternity and identity are common to Kai Merika born during World War II. They go back to childhood when an awareness of being dif­fer­ent emerged. Adi Romera looked dif­fer­ent from the other children in her village and even from her siblings; she thought they looked more Fijian than she did. She gradually became aware that she must have had a dif­fer­ ent ­father. Martha, in contrast, was born into a “mixed-­race” community. This ethnically diverse category in Fiji comprised not only the descendants of indigenous Fijian ­women and Eu­ro­pean men (from intimate u ­ nions pre-­dating Fiji’s cession to the British crown in 1874) but also the children born of relationships between i-­Taukei, Indo-­Fijians, Eu­ro­pe­ans, and ­t hose from other Pacific cultures—­ especially Samoans, Gilbertese (Kiribati), Ellice Islanders (Tuvalu), Solomon Islanders, and Wallisians. Their descendants ­were known by changing terminologies, such as Part-­Fijian, Part-­European, half-­caste, Euronesian, mixed race, dra rua (two blood), and Kailoma.9 Fiji possibly had the most heterogeneous and well-­ established mixed-­race communities within the South Pacific. Although mixed race was a distinctive category within Fiji, ­there ­were hierarchies and marked differences within this grouping based on descent, ethnicity, skin color and appear-

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ance, respectability, class, religion, and locale. By World War II suburbs in Suva, such as Flagstaff, ­were associated with Fiji’s unique mixed-­race enclaves. For instance, Nate, who was born in 1945 and grew up in Flagstaff, had an American ­father by birth, a Chinese f­ ather (whom Nate calls his stepfather), and a m ­ other with Australian, indigenous Fijian, and Indo-­Fijian ancestry.10 Suva also became the home of Pacific Island communities (such as a Gilbertese [Kiribati] one in Nasese) where visiting soldiers w ­ ere often warmly welcomed (see Map 7.1). The number of Kai Merika in Fiji is unknown b ­ ecause many U.S.-­fathered children, such as Adi Romera and Martha, w ­ ere integrated into i-­Taukei or ethnically mixed communities. This chapter also explores other reasons, such as silence and secrecy, for the probable underestimation of the number of Kai Merika births. Adi Romera’s and Martha’s narratives are indicative of an openness to discuss and acknowledge such births, but other accounts remain shrouded within secrecy. Our inquiries to locate Kai Merika ­were frequently rebuffed. Indigenous Fijian culture and protocol are layered with many forms of silence.11 Rumors about paternity and intimate affairs may be public secrets, but are not always directly discussed, especially with a stranger. This does not imply that such births ­were shameful, but that biological paternity was often irrelevant in the communities in which the children w ­ ere a part. Regardless of this ac­cep­tance, personal narratives of being Kai Merika show how the children, and sometimes their families, questioned their identity and sought to know the circumstances b ­ ehind their birth. Many echoed Martha’s plea: “Who am I? Where is my f­ ather?” The contradictions of secrecy and silence over Kai Merika births also stem from moral judgments over female sexuality. This further raises questions about the social activities of Kai Merika mothers during the war. How did they meet the Americans? What was the nature of the contact between Fijian w ­ omen and the soldiers?

“Yanks in the Cannibal Isles” Although the peak presence of Americans12 only lasted eigh­teen months, they had a huge impact on Fiji, especially on the main island of Viti Levu.13 This was partly ­because of the sheer numbers of American servicemen—­more than 20,000 among a war­time population in all of Fiji of approximately 221,000. By the end of 1942, an estimated 40,000 troops from the United States, New Zealand, and Fiji w ­ ere 14 stationed on Viti Levu. The troops’ social impact also came from the profound infrastructural changes necessitated by the war, such as the construction of bases, fortifications, roads, and hospitals. Fiji was an impor­tant node in the South Pacific Command and was considered the fortress protecting the eastern

Map 7.1. Fiji islands. The capital, Suva is located on Viti Levu. Most of the U.S. installations ­were located in the west and northwest areas of Viti Levu where conditions ­were usually drier than in the southeast.

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and southern Pacific. In late 1941 and early 1942, several white w ­ omen and children w ­ ere evacuated from Fiji due to a strong fear of a Japa­nese invasion. In November 1940 the New Zealand Expeditionary Forces had taken control of Fiji’s defense, although the Fijian contribution to this and the war effort was also significant.15 With at least 14,000 New Zealand soldiers in Fiji, it is not surprising that Kai Viti Kiwi children ­were also born. For example, Selai Ramateni from the village of Nananu in Tailevu Province gave birth to two daughters—­one with a Kiwi (New Zealand) f­ather and the other, Latileta, with an American ­father, who was based at the nearby military camp at Lodoni in northeastern Viti Levu (see Map 7.1).16 ­After Pearl Harbor was attacked on 7 December 1941 substantial numbers of American troops began to arrive in Fiji; they took over Fiji’s defenses in July 1942 ­under Major General Robert S. Beightler.17 This takeover was greatly welcomed, and Fiji became a pivotal center for the preparation and provisioning for the offensive against the Japa­nese, as well as a vital point to stage aircraft to and from the combat zone, New Zealand, and Australia. ­Later, when several military hospitals ­were established on Viti Levu, Fiji became a key rest and recovery area in the southwest Pacific.18 For many ­battle-­weary men, part of their recovery was the com­pany of ­women in a Pacific locale that conformed more to their preconceived Hollywood visions of the “real” exotic Pacific19 than did other zones such as the Solomon Islands. The military code name for Fiji was Fantan, which “conjured the thoughts of beautiful dusky Hula Hula girls dancing in grass skirts or wearing sexy sarongs.”20 De­cades ­later, in a conversation with his son Frankie,21 Frank shared with him ­t hose initial impressions in which leaving the horrors of Guadalcanal gave way to the relief of paradise in Fiji, and sexual attraction became true love: He said they got shipped out he d ­ idn’t know they w ­ ere ­going, only found out on the boat half way through he was ­going to Fiji, when he arrived in Suva he said man it was so . . . ​paradise you know, beautiful girls with flowers in their hair weaving Fijian mats, and he saw them ­doing the hula, and he said Oh! it was like [he] died and he went to heaven. He was so happy, and then he said he met Mum and then every­t hing was beautiful, rosy, then he could get married and send him to Guam, and he ­didn’t ­really realize they ­were building one big bomb! t­ here was thousands and thousands, training, training, that’s for ­going to Tokyo. Frank’s memories also remind us how personal narratives w ­ ere subsumed within the larger agenda of war—­w ith secrets and outcomes that most participants

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might, if at all, only discover with hindsight. Frank could not marry his sweetheart Nive—­not b ­ ecause he did not wish to do so—­but b ­ ecause military and American immigration regulations would not issue visas to Pacific war brides who did not have at least 51 ­percent “white” blood. Nive’s parents ­were Gilbertese and Samoan. Nive, like many ­women of mixed ethnic descent, lived and worked in Suva and was not subjected to the same restrictions on settlement in urban areas that most i-­Taukei faced. American ser­v icemen ­were prohibited from mixing with “native w ­ omen” who included indigenous Fijians and Indo-­Fijians, but not “part-­ Europeans” (such as Jessie) nor probably “mixed race” ­women (see Figure 7.1). Standing ­orders forbade enlisted personnel “To fraternize with natives (Fijians

Figure  7.1. Doughboys’ dance in Fiji. (208–44–14GGG-1, File  RG 208-­A A, Folder GGG, AEF Fiji Islands, Recreations, NA. Photo by Harry Poague, Red Cross correspondent)

Fijian Children of American Ser­v icemen   189

and Indian) . . . ​To ­ride in motor cars in com­pany with natives . . . ​To dance with native w ­ omen . . . ​To enter native Kava Saloons . . . ​To enter native villages or ­native encampments and barracks, except on military duty . . . ​To engage in any sports against natives . . . ​To supply liquor to natives or to drink in com­pany with natives . . . ​To consort with native w ­ omen, to enter native dwellings, native social halls or native places of entertainment.”22 In Suva, areas that ­were out of bounds included the ­Grand Pacific ­Hotel, Nasese village, Toorak, Laucala Bay and the notorious “Hollywood” area in Naiqaqi. The ­Grand Pacific was reserved for officers and Eu­ro­pe­a ns, but some mixed-­race ­women frequented it.23 Nasese may have been off-­limits, but this did not prevent Frank from visiting Nive t­here. Many Indo-­Fijians in Suva resided in Toorak, which was also a popu­lar locality where illicit alcohol and gambling ­were available.

Fiji’s Hollywood Forbidden “Hollywood,” adjoined the main street of Victoria Parade in Suva. The exchanges between ­women and men outside ­t hese ­houses fascinated the students at the nearby Suva Boys Grammar School.24 Yet, in 1942 the U.S. Army Surgeon General reported that “prostitution, as such, is not known to exist in Fiji.”25 The police commissioner also claimed that t­here was no evidence of brothels in Fiji during the war,26 although he did admit t­ here was “suspected procuration during the late war years” by a few w ­ omen who “ply their trade in their own homes or the rented rooms in which they live.”27 Other reports recognized the existence of brothels, such as a request from the governor, Philip Mitchell, to deal with “a halfcast called Harkness a bootlegger, brothel keeper and apparently also a sodomite” in the Nadi area.28 By 1942 U.S. medical authorities in the Nadi area had encouraged “waitresses” to submit to weekly examinations,29 whereas taxi ­drivers ­were “reputed souteneurs [pimps]” of “known prostitutes” in Suva.30 Captain Charles Henne witnessed an Indian “pimping” his wife to soldiers in a hut near Nadi.31 In 1942 the Nadi district officer reported that “Fijian girls are being steadily drawn into this vice in ever increasing numbers,” swelling the existing number of half-­caste prostitutes, some of whom had Eu­ro­pean status.32 A year l­ater, Dr. James Taylor, Medical Officer of Health in the Central and Western Districts, stated it was a “fact” that the Fijian mothers of illegitimate half-­caste babies had accepted money as prostitutes. Secretary for Fijian Affairs, Ratu Sukuna, denied this, although he claimed that the “ex­pec­tant mothers are themselves ­either half-­ castes or pure Polynesians with a sprinkling of Fijian.”33 Th ­ ese divergent assessments point to the contested and constructed meanings of “prostitute” and the

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cultural and moral affront posed by such a label. Meli, the only ­mother of a Kai Merika whom we w ­ ere able to interview, had no qualms about discussing the sexual liaisons between village ­women and New Zealand and American soldiers.34 Although “plenty money” may have changed hands, it was an informal arrangement. She and some young w ­ omen sneaked along the sugarcane tramline to “cross the border” from the village of Viseisei to Saweni military camp. She chuckled at the exciting memories of eve­nings spent at the camp, at dances, and at movies and being at the beach with James, the ­father of her son Apesi (see Map 7.1). Some Americans ­were invited into Indo-­Fijian homes, but ­t here is very ­little evidence of sexual liaisons between the Americans and Indo-­Fijian ­women. They would have been extremely shameful, especially b ­ ecause w ­ omen w ­ ere perceived as the ones to uphold ­family honor and respectability. By World War II, the Indo-­Fijian community had distanced itself from the ste­reo­types of female promiscuity and prostitution that ­were prevalent during the Girmitiya years when ten Indian indentured men settled in Fiji for e­ very four Indian w ­ omen.35 However, American reports on sexuality in Fiji still cast Indo-­Fijians as the cause of moral laxity in Fiji: “Promiscuity, however, is common, particularly among the Indians. Illegitimacy is no stigma to the Indians, but this concept has been forced upon and rather widely accepted by the Fijians.”36 The high rate of venereal disease contracted in Fiji by American forces indicates that ­there was considerable sexual contact with locals. Captain Arthur Thompson reported that “gonorrhea is endemic in Fiji, but with the arrival of troops ­t here was a marked increase in the incidence of this disease.” He also cited a special report from Major Sam Gendel that stated, “Gonorrhea is quite prevalent among the female natives. ­These girls think very lightly of intercourse.”37 The New Zealand forces built a separate infectious diseases hospital at Tamavua to treat its soldiers.38 During World War II, only a small number of ­women in Fiji ­were sex workers, but such associations and stigma could be linked to ­women’s romantic relationships with the foreigners. This is another reason why ­t here has been silence about children born from ­t hese relationships. How then did Fijian ­women and American ser­v icemen meet?

Meeting Through Work Although soldiers complained about the lack of “white round-­eyed females”39 in the colony, this attitude did not inhibit their social and sexual encounters with indigenous ­women. Neither did military regulations prevent such contact. Villages ­were located close to military camps, and this proximity enabled Fijian ­women, such as Adi Romera’s m ­ other, to meet Americans. For instance, on the

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other side of Viti Levu, a handsome tall blonde from the Lodoni military camp, who was remembered as having the name “Smith,” visited Selai, a young ­woman, in the nearby village of Nananu ­every weekend. He was only one example of several such probable liaisons between American men and Fijian ­women. Indigenous ­women ­were also resisting colonial and chiefly restrictions on their mobility by visiting towns and camps, earning money, and having fun. As Ratu ­Sukuna politely suggested, “in the tropics, with so many Fijians on active ser­v ice or attached to military camps, a number of native w ­ omen are looking for male companionship.” 40 The war was “an opportune time for the Fijian ladies.” 41 Americans paid for, courted, and fell in love with w ­ omen of all ethnicities in Fiji. Sergeant Ira Reader Steed recalled that men of the 227th Regiment “fraternized ‘often’ with the local ­women of Suva.” 42 ­Women not only met ser­v icemen through social activities such as dances or movies but also paid work brought some couples together. “Half-­c aste” and Rotuman ­women earned comparatively high wages as preferred employees at military laundries where a small number of indigenous Fijian w ­ omen w ­ ere also hired, such as at a new laundry in Nausori.43 This is where Nive met Frank, when he was allocated light duties while recovering from the ravages of the battles on Guadalcanal. They traveled together on the truck transport between Nausori and Suva, and soon Frank was spending many of his eve­nings at Nive’s home. Another big laundry fa­cil­i­ty operated at the 142nd Division hospital in Tamavua, Suva, where Jessie worked. Americans may have also met locals through private laundry ser­v ices, such as that established by Arthur Solomon’s Samoan grandparents, Aufai and Milovale Selio.44 Their d ­ augh­ter Kupe Selio Dass was married to employee Bob Chalek Dass when she had an affair with American Sam Butler. In rural areas both Indo-­Fijian and Fijian ­women did laundry for ser­v icemen.45 Other everyday opportunities for civilians and military to fraternize included riding the cane trains that transported troops and locals between Lautoka and Nadi—­named the “Lautoka Express” by New Zealand troops (see Map 7.1).46 For many of Fiji’s ­women the war was a time of flux, offering them new in­de­ pen­dence as paid workers and a hectic social life outside the ­family. Martha reflected on how this freedom affected her ­mother: “I guess ­because of the strictness once she probably had the chance to come out and work, she probably went straight headlong into it.”

Pregnancy and Birth Jessie’s enjoyment of her freedom was soon compromised by the real­ity of pregnancy. Afraid of her ­mother’s reaction, she ran away to join a friend in Lautoka, where she gave birth to Martha. Jessie’s ­mother then fetched her ­daugh­ter and

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granddaughter back to Navua and raised Martha. Adoption within the extended ­family, both formally and informally was common among Kai Merika babies. ­Arthur’s ­uncle and aunt, Kasi Gus Solomon and Aunty May, ­were registered as his parents when he was born. His m ­ other’s husband, Bob, had been anticipating a dark-­colored baby, but “when he saw this white baby he flipped.” At the age of four, Arthur and his cousin went to Vatukoula to live with Kasi and May, but a­ fter two years Arthur’s ­mother pleaded for her son to be returned. Although this was against the wishes of his grand­mother and caused heartache for his a­ dopted ­parents, Bob came to love Arthur as his own. Fijian children born out of wedlock w ­ ere usually incorporated into their m ­ other’s mataqali and would be cared for by kin or customarily ­adopted. At birth Latileta was registered in her m ­ other’s mataqali of Sawatini in Nananu village, but was raised by her grandparents in Namena village. David contrasted his negative experience of being fairer than his ­adopted Samoan siblings with that of a Fijian girl in a village near Ba who had green eyes and was fair, “but nobody questioned it was just accepted . . . ​She was white, no one mentioned it.” 47 Nate, however, suggested that shame about illegitimacy did persist among Fijians: They w ­ ere very conscious that if their ­women folk, if they made it available to t­ hese white men, that they [the w ­ omen] are partially responsible. ­There’s certain disquiet amongst them about that, they have to keep it ­under their breath sort of t­ hing, keep it hidden. In 1943, Brewer, a nurse with the Child Welfare Department, and Dr. Taylor advocated establishing a home for illegitimate children to h ­ ouse “an increasing number of Fijian American half-­caste children being or about to be born in the Central and Western districts.” Taylor added that “the treatment of illegitimate by Fijians is not always good” in the villages but Dr. Baxter, Acting Director of Medical Ser­v ices, and Ratu Sukuna rejected their request.48

Torn Apart Most Americans quickly dis­appeared from their lovers’ lives. ­After six to eight months in Fiji, Martha’s f­ ather suffered a severe malaria attack and was airlifted to Australia for treatment before being returned to the United States.49 Couples ­were also permanently separated ­because of troop movements. Frankie thinks his ­father was suddenly shipped out to Guam ­because he was ­going to secretly marry Nive (­after being denied permission by his commanding officer). His ­father wrote to Nive declaring his love for her and his son and urging her to consult a l­awyer

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in Suva so that they could be re­united. Nive stopped corresponding with Frank, although she kept the letters and ­later passed them on to Frankie, who returned them to his Dad. Meli had no contact with James a­ fter he left—­“no more—­finish the memory”—­but he did say goodbye and left some money for their baby.50 D. F. Henry joked that he would smuggle Lusiana home inside a wooden chest on his ship. In fact, as mentioned earlier, Henry had been married to an American since 1928.51 Some mothers, such as Nate’s, ­were already married with children when they had a war­time affair. She and her lover corresponded, but she stopped writing a­ fter her priest warned that she would not receive communion if she kept in contact with the soldier. Other mothers, such as Selai, found closure to a war­time romance and their child’s questions by saying that their ­father had died in the war.

Childhood: “A Void Inside Me Not Having a ­Father” Martha conveyed the extreme emptiness inside many Kai Merika children by saying ­t here was “a void inside me not having a ­father.” As she grew older, she transformed this internal void into questions and action—­a iming to succeed in life without a f­ ather and l­ater searching to find him. Martha persisted in asking her ­mother to tell her who her ­father was. In a subsequent de facto marriage to an Indo-Fijian man, Jessie had a d ­ augh­ter, Surita. Martha’s grand­mother disapproved of Jessie’s relationship with him and “kept drumming it into [Martha’s] head that’s not your f­ ather.” When Martha was aged twelve, she asked Jessie, “How come my name is Francese and my sister’s surname is Ram?” Sometimes m ­ other and ­daugh­ter “would end up in an argument, and that’s when she would open up and tell me. Not so much, just a ­little, enough for me to accept my ­father was dif­fer­ent. Yeah it ­wasn’t easy” (see Figure 7.2). Nate did not know that he was “an American boy” u ­ ntil he overheard his ­mother and sister discussing a cousin who was spreading rumors to that effect. Nate was not the only Kai Merika at Marist Bro­t h­ers High School. Another was Arthur, but he never inquired about his paternity b ­ ecause he knew his stepfather, Bob Chalek Dass, loved him. Latileta and Merewalesi, who, respectively, grew up in the villages of Namena and Lauwaki, w ­ ere also loved and accepted by their families.52 Latileta did not experience discrimination from the village children, although she was occasionally called “dra rua,” “Kai Merika,” or “American.” This was when she realized that her skin was fairer than the ­others. Merewalesi guessed she had mixed parentage when her cousins occasionally teased her as “Kai Merika” or “American,” but she never considered t­ hese words as insults. Generally the term “Kai

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Figure 7.2. Samuel Anthony Francese. (Martha Naua collection)

Merika” was used in fun or as affectionate teasing, possibly ­because many Fijians had warm memories of the American invasion. But Adi Romera recalls that this did not always mean ac­cep­tance within the village: Growing up in the village was not very easy b ­ ecause of my skin color and history. At times the f­amily members treated me like an outcast but my ­mother was always strong and she protected me. ­There ­were times when I was told that I was not a Fijian but a descendant of [sic] Amer­i­ca soldier.53 David also had a strong ­mother, but his relationship with her was troubled. At the age of twelve while he was feeding his younger siblings, he asked her who his ­father was. She broke three plates over his head. By then David’s m ­ other had a very respectable marriage, but she carried to her grave intense anger about the circumstances of David’s birth without shedding any light on who his birth f­ ather was. His stepfather was loving, but David was torn between his part-­European Catholic f­ amily and a­ dopted Protestant Samoan ­family. His m ­ other’s ­family resented his adoption, and his a­ dopted grandparents rejected him. He thinks this

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was ­because of the circumstances of his conception and ­because he assumed the se­nior role among the children as the eldest son. Yet he was still an outsider, ­because he was much fairer than the other grandchildren.54 Martha vividly recalled the feeling of powerlessness she had in school ­because she had no f­ ather: Not so much in teasing, I would say when you only have the one side of your life that’s only your maternal side, and you feel so hopeless and powerless, whereas ­you’re with other students who have both parents, and uh, I was never treated badly by anybody or told off by anybody, but, just a general feeling that mum was always t­ here, so parent, m ­ other and ­father ­doing both, and my heart went out to her, but I felt very sad inside me. It weakened me somehow, I felt as if I ­don’t belong ­here with all ­t hese children that’s the ­t hing I used to think, but I kept telling myself I’ve got to toughen up, and life is not the same for every­body, for me it is this way, and I have got to forge on. Martha was repeatedly asked, “What’s your ­father’s name . . . ​why ­doesn’t your ­father come for parents’ day?” She was ­silent, ­because “I ­can’t lie about my identity, p ­ eople would ask me and sometimes I had no answers b ­ ecause I d ­ idn’t know, and that would bring up sadness.” Frankie also had a tough time at school ­because his m ­ other had very l­ ittle money and he often went barefoot and without lunch. He felt inferior to the other students and blamed this on not having a ­father. This frustration and anger emerged during his teenage years and was possibly a reaction to the positive images his m ­ other had drawn of an absent hero: When I was small she talked about him a lot, in fact she used him for me as an inspiration, like if I did well in school he did better you know, if I ran fast and I won my heat in school he was faster than me, and if I climbed this tree he was t­ here, if I fish he was better and I thought my God, this guy I ­can’t catch him! He seemed a superman. Nate took pride in being the “American boy” among his siblings b ­ ecause his stepfather had been abusive ­toward his ­mother: I took g­ reat delight in this, b ­ ecause rather than be ashamed to be an ­illegitimate, . . . ​I was pleased that that man, who l­ater proved to be absolutely cruel to my ­mother and denied me of any teenage years or any childhood, was quite brutal to her and I’m glad that I had no part of him in me. No physical makeup in me. No blood of him in me.

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Martha became keenly aware of how gendered differences could apply to a young female Kai Merika whose ­mother was a sole parent. She felt that she had been exploited as a source of domestic ­labor within the extended ­family. ­Because she had no ­father to support her, she could not “talk back, you just have to go quietly and obediently and do it.” As a teenager she was sensitive about being judged by boys “like an easy person to catch . . . ​very defensive I was. . . . ​I was always a ­little withdrawn you know and reluctant to sort of open up and have fun like all my other mates, in case the boys might find out I ­didn’t have a ­father. . . . ​ That made me more a loner . . . ​I would only hang out with ­people that understood me.” ­Others also felt alone b ­ ecause they w ­ ere Kai Merika with no f­ ather. Frankie said, “That’s me only, carry­ing this stupid burden,” and Nate thought that “no one cared or noticed about what he got up to.” For some children, the pain of being dif­fer­ent and alone became a source of strength. Martha was sometimes chided as Kai Merika when she was a naughty child, but was also called “very strong hearted, yalo kaukauwa.”55 Like some other participants, she was determined to improve her circumstances through education, saying, “One fine day I am gonna get out of this, just want enough education, that’s the ­t hing I ­really went for, and I kept telling my mum, long as I have a bit of secondary education I’ll be ok” (see Figure 7.3).

The Search Martha’s sense of yalo kaukauwa spurred her on to search for her f­ather. This search began in childhood: “I was always looking out . . . ​hoping someone would love me.” Adi Romera did not engage in a similar quest ­until much ­later in life. Other Kai Merika, who ­were i-­Taukei, such as Latileta and Merewalesi, showed greater interest in connecting with their American kin than in meeting their birth ­father. Martha finally met her f­ather in 2002, a­ fter unsuccessfully trying to locate him through the U.S. Embassy in Suva. They advised her to pursue her search by visiting the United States, but this was unrealistic ­because of the expense and having to care for eight children. Her d ­ augh­ter Anne l­ater relocated to the United States and traced her grand­father through the internet. She telephoned Samuel who was “so shocked and happy at the same time.” Although Martha was overjoyed to meet her ­father “and that void had gone away,” she continued to won­der why she had been the only one who searched. Her f­ather assured her that “I planned to come over, even though I married a dif­fer­ent ­woman, I had two children, the plan was always t­ here that one day I would come over and look you up.”

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Figure 7.3. Martha, 1960s. (Martha Naua collection)

Martha found this shallow, but was pleased that she and her Dad ­really talked: “He was sort of angry at himself most of the time” and said “sorry I w ­ asn’t ­there in your growing up years.” In contrast, Frankie’s ­father, with the help of his second wife and her sister, initiated the search for his son. This time the U.S. Embassy in Fiji was able to be of help, and it forwarded Frankie’s contact details to his kin. F ­ ather and son ­were united, and Frankie met his American ­family in the United States in 1984: “They all know about me, it’s not secret. They know more about me in the States than I know about them!” Yet Frankie, like Martha, had painful questions for his ­father: “Where w ­ ere you when I was small?” Confusion over a ­father’s name could also impede the search. For de­cades Adi Romera had been looking for Dick F. Henry. Our research in 2012 determined his ­actual name is Dalton Frame Henry, and he was also known as “Deek.”56 Nate’s search for his ­father in Colorado was hindered by differences between the oral and written versions of his surname. Inquiries at a military base and Jewish hospitals (­because his ­father was Jewish) ­were fruitless, but when Nate rechecked the telephone directory, he remembered how his m ­ other had pronounced his

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f­ ather’s name. Nate met his f­ ather and his curiosity was satisfied, but it was something of an anti-­climax. Thirty years a­ fter the war, former American soldier, Lewis Bernard Benesh, did return to Fiji to be re­united with his sweetheart. His granddaughter Maria Benesh Brown, who was a child when he returned, vividly remembers that event: I was waking up one morning to go to the corner store to buy bread and butter only to find a white Caucasian man outside getting out of a cab, this man who we did not know turned out to be my grandpa. This was beyond my imagination. He was actually in front of my eyes!57 Lewis married Maria’s grand­mother in the village and subsequently the f­ amily moved to the United States. On Memorial Day in 2012, Maria posted on Facebook, “he was the most kind person I know, his name w ­ ill be carried on . . . ​ thank you GOD for one of the greatest gift . . . ​­w ill see you in heaven.”58

Mixed Identities: Kai Merika Kai Merika now call themselves Kai Viti and t­ oday are usually recognized u ­ nder this inclusive term that refers to all ­people born in Fiji. ­Those who ­were accepted and raised within a village appear to have had a secure identity as Fijians. Most ­were registered on the VKB, ­either in their ­mother or stepfather’s mataqali. Both Adi Romera and Merewalesi spent their childhoods in Lauwaki where her grand­ mother and step-­grand­father raised Merewalesi. Although Adi Romera was part of her stepfather’s mataqali ­there, Merewalesi had been registered in her ­mother’s mataqali of Todralai, in Saru village in Lautoka. Villagers in both Saru and Lauwaki accepted her identity. Being part of a village and kinship lines is fundamental to i-­Taukei identity and, as Martha suggested, provides a sense of security where ­t here is ­little reason to question one’s paternity, search for an American ­father, or identify as Kai Merika: “if ­you’ve grown up in a village some ­people would just say you come from that village and that’s all rather than being known for something you are ­really not.” Identity, both developed by the self and assigned by ­others, is not fixed, and some Kai Merika have had to reappraise their identity due to changing circumstances, new knowledge about their heritage, and the politicization of ethnicity and access to resources in contemporary Fiji. Adi Romera and Martha are very aware that identity is not fixed. By 1975 Adi Romera was a registered landowner in her clan and had acquired a block of fifteen acres. She moved her ­family onto this land and operated some small enterprises from it, such as sugarcane farm-

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ing. She felt that her success exacerbated the already existing competition with her siblings. Even when she had helped her ­mother care for the younger ones, she was discriminated as Kai Merika. Adi Romera’s siblings’ resentment intensified ­after her stepfather’s death—­driving her to search for her ­father. Unlike Adi Romera, Martha could not be registered on the VKB. She faced the dilemmas of being of mixed descent in Fiji: And we ­can’t very well demand, we ­don’t have a full say as a Fijian, ­because of our blood, some have registered their children ­under the Fijian names and went ahead and registered their children into the . . . ​[VKB], ­t hose children w ­ ere ok, at least they had land to claim, and plenty other things to claim I guess, as in Fiji. As for us no, it is as if we have one leg down ­here and one leg’s flying up ­t here. Some other Kai Merika, such as Nate and Arthur, emigrated from Fiji several years ago. Nate relates strongly to his American side and calls himself an American, although he has been living in New Zealand since about 1965. During a lengthy wager over his nationality at a bar, his companions asked, “Well what the hell are you, and I said, I’m Fijian, and they said, oh shit why ­haven’t you got fuzzy hair and all that? I says, ­because I’m a goddamn American. American-­Fijian, and proud of it. I stick up for American in any com­pany.” Since 1962 Arthur has spent most of his life in New Zealand. He identifies as a Samoan from Fiji and honors his heritage passed on by a Samoan ­mother and American Palagi [Eu­ro­pe­a n/ white] ­father. Both Martha and Frankie are proud of their Italian ancestry from their ­fathers. Martha’s f­ ather was born in San Marino with a m ­ other of French descent. Frankie’s grand­mother was from Calabria. He has a distinctly Italian surname and often has been asked if he is Italian. When ­people inquire about Martha’s identity she may say she is an Italian, although she has no doubt that she is a Fijian, albeit not a “full Fijian”: “I know a Fijian way of life, I know it, I know it very very well, but we ­were always classed as dif­fer­ent, so we know we ­weren’t full ­Fijians. . . . ​I ­didn’t look like a Fijian, although I could carry a Fijian name and just get away by it.” T ­ oday Martha and her descendants carry a Tuvaluan surname from her marriage to Mataiasi Vakaloloma Naua (Lomax) for nearly fifty years.

Isa Lei The complexities of identity go much deeper than t­ hose of national or ethnic affinity for the Kai Merika born in Fiji during the Pacific war. It goes beyond

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securing a belonging within the fractious ethnoscape of contemporary Fiji. The narratives of Adi Romera and Martha reveal that, w ­ hether brought up as a registered i-­Taukei in a village setting or as part-­European or mixed race in a city, ac­cep­tance also as Kai Merika or, perhaps more accurately, as Kai Merika ni Viti has been painful. From such challenges Adi Romera, Martha, and other Kai Merika have persisted in the fundamental identity quest to find their fathers and connect with unknown kin. Lieutenant Alfred Potts may have asserted, “Perhaps with no other government in the Pacific Theater have the associations and cooperation been greater than with the Government of Fiji,”59 but solid barriers prevented Fijian mothers and American fathers from raising their own children together. War­time births became cemented u ­ nder layers of silence embedded within the secrets of war and Fijian culture. Some families and communities in Fiji remained ­silent about paternity ­because of shame, but yet the facts surrounding the child’s birth and conception became irrelevant once he or she was born and raised within a kinship group. Kai Merika who w ­ ere united with their American kin experienced mixed feelings of being joyous and underwhelmed. Adi Romera was unable to meet her

Figure 7.4. Adi Romera Drodrovakawai with some of her grandchildren, 1990s. (Adi Romera ­family collection)

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f­ ather and most of his immediate relatives, but she was happy and tearful when she received our letter in late 2012 with details about her ­father. Dalton had no children with his wife in Tulare and sadly did not know that through Adi Romera he had many descendants in Fiji, now spanning five generations (see Figure 7.4). Martha’s Dad passed away on 29 November 2008 and Frankie’s Dad on 16 July 2012. A Fijian friend who met Frank when he visited Fiji, and l­ater stayed with him in the United States in 1990, said he would sing Frank’s favorite song Isa Lei60 in a kava session where all would drink a bowl of kava in Frank’s memory.61 This also seems a fitting tribute to all the American fathers and the Fijian mothers of the Kai Merika ni Viti from World War II.

C HA P T E R E IG H T

“I ­Don’t Like Maori Girls ­Going Out with Yanks” Māori-­American Encounters in New Zealand angela wanhalla and kate stevens When Japa­nese forces bombed the  U.S. naval base at Pearl Harbor in early ­December 1941 war was already a real­ity to New Zealanders, but one that was located on the other side of the world. The attack on Pearl Harbor, followed by the fall of Singapore on 15 February 1942 and the bombing just four days ­later of Darwin in northern Australia, brought war to New Zealand’s doorstep and transformed the country into a South Pacific base for American forces from mid1942 through 1944 (see Map 8.1). Fearing a Japa­nese invasion, it was with ­great relief that New Zealanders welcomed U.S. entry into the war at a time when New Zealand defense forces ­were largely stationed in the M ­ iddle East.1 Around 100,000 American ser­vicemen ­were stationed in the country between 1942 and 1944, almost entirely on the North Island. The Americans arrived in the city of Auckland, in the form of the 145th Regiment of the 37th Division, U.S. Army, and in the country’s capital of Wellington, in the form of the 1st Marines, on 12 and 14 June 1942, respectively. In total six divisions w ­ ere stationed in the country ­until the end of 1944. Wellington hosted the 1st Marine Division from mid-­June u ­ ntil late July 1942, as well as the 2nd Marine Division for a short two-­ month period in late 1942. The 2nd Marines occupied Wellington and its surrounding districts for a much longer period of rest and relaxation from March to early November 1943. They ­were stationed at several camps in and around the city, as well as at Solway Park, in the town of Masterton. Wellington residents knew only the marines, not the soldiers of the U.S. Army, although they did encounter members of the U.S. Navy whose ships regularly called in at Wellington Harbor.2 From March to July 1943 the 3rd Marine Division was stationed at Auckland. The 25th, 37th, and 43rd U.S. Army Divisions also occupied Auckland, and the U.S. Navy barracks w ­ ere located at Mechanics Bay. Residents of Rotorua, Kaikohe, Whangarei, Taupo, and Hamilton also hosted troops (see Map 8.1), as did ­t hose of the South Island cities of Christchurch and Dunedin, which American ser­v icemen visited on furlough.3 Māori ­women’s accounts of the “friendly invasion” have a familiar ring to them, echoing the experiences and feelings of w ­ omen in Australia and Britain 202

Map 8.1. U.S. camps, North Island, New Zealand.

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that emphasize romance, exoticness, and excitement (see Figure 8.1). They w ­ ere treated to American courtship traditions, swept off their feet by the glamor of American uniforms, and entranced by their exotic accents. Recalling their arrival in Wellington Mihipeka Edwards said, We [would] gaze at t­ hese beautiful specimens of manhood, so handsome. Even the not-­so-­handsome are tall and beautifully turned out, smartly uniformed and very military in their stance. I am carried away. I forget I am married. I’m not bothered about being married. The American boys are charming, polished, reckless. ­They’re hard-­cases; they a­ ren’t afraid to go a­ fter it, but they make you feel cherished.4 Georgina Kiripuai Aomarere, who lived at Otaki, a coastal town near Wellington that was often visited by U.S. marines, regularly met them at dances and remembered their courteous be­hav­ior, good dancing, and romantic glamor. I “thought the marines ­were a bit of all right. They ­were dif­fer­ent from New Zealand men that we had any contact with in a romantic way—­lovely flowers and

Figure 8.1. Dance onboard a U.S. naval ship, Wellington, 15 October 1943, attended by several Māori ­women. (Private collection)

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chocolates, and they told you how beautiful you w ­ ere.”5 Dances, often carefully managed by social ser­v ice organizations like the American Red Cross, as well as by local communities, w ­ ere not the only avenues for meeting American ser­v icemen. Māori families also invited ser­v icemen into their homes, knowing ­t hese lonely young men, many of whom ­were away from home for the first time, required com­pany, home comforts and a good meal.6 More formal cultural occasions also offered an opportunity for social interaction and sometimes romance. Many Māori communities formally hosted American ser­v icemen. In March 1943 Te Puea Herangi and King Koroki, leaders of the Kingitangi, hosted officers and “hundreds” of American troops at the town of Ngaruawahia in an effort at diplomacy.7 They sought to help improve relations between Māori and Americans a­ fter several violent encounters had taken place in the preceding months between the two groups in Auckland, prompted by American racial prejudice. Māori leaders and military authorities judged the day as a ­great success, ­because the region was “alive with the greatest crowd that has ever been seen t­ here for years.”8 At the village of Ohinemutu, Ngāti Whakaue tribal leaders hosted groups of American ser­v icemen who regularly visited Rotorua’s scenic thermal district.9 In Wellington, the Ngāti Poneke Young Māori Club gave cultural per­for­mances for wounded American troops recuperating in the hospitals in that city, but they ­were also kept busy at the many American camps in the region where their shows ­were a regular feature of camp life.10 At this time the chance of a Māori w ­ oman meeting an American serviceman was high, ­because they ­were being manpowered into essential industries and moving to Auckland and Wellington in greater numbers. Māori ­were then predominantly rural, mainly concentrated on the North Island, particularly in the regions of Taranaki, Waikato, and Hawkes Bay, as well the hinterlands of the two main cities, Auckland and Wellington. They ­were also a minority population, constituting around 6 ­percent of the total New Zealand population of just over 1.6 million ­people in 1942.11 With a population on the move, thousands of young men fighting overseas, and the arrival of cashed-up Americans, local officials, welfare groups, and church and community leaders, believing social upheaval was imminent, w ­ ere determined to regulate the sexual and moral be­hav­ior of young ­women in New Zealand (see Figure 8.2). Sex was on the minds of young p ­ eople during the war. Ser­v icemen sought out the com­pany of ­women for this purpose or paid for the privilege. As Mihipeka Edwards remembered, the Americans ­were “charming, well-­mannered, kind, generous and courteous, ­free with money, and with blatant and honest sexual appetites.”12 Māori ­women ­were targeted by the Health Department, then ­running a public education campaign about venereal disease. ­Because increasingly large

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Figure 8.2. An American serviceman and a Māori ­woman enjoy the regatta on the Waikato River, Ngaruawahia, March 1943. (Alexander Turnbull Library, Wellington, New Zealand)

numbers of them w ­ ere directed into work in urban areas, they w ­ ere singled out as a threat to public health by authorities who ste­reo­t yped them as “easy ­going” and sexually permissive.13 ­Because of ­t hese official attitudes Māori w ­ omen’s be­ hav­ior was placed u ­ nder scrutiny; as a result some w ­ omen’s war­time urban experience involved court appearances for being idle and disorderly,14 inspections for venereal disease, and institutionalization in reformatories. When Māori ­women came before the courts, judges often made it a condition of the sentence that they return to their rural homes. Of four young Māori ­women charged with being idle and disorderly at Auckland in 1943, two ­were sent immediately to the hospital to be examined for venereal disease, whereas the o ­ thers ­were “ordered to leave the city and live with relatives in the country.”15 One judge informed a young Māori

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­ oman that “Auckland is out of bounds to you—it is too big a temptation.”16 w Māori leaders also preferred that ­women stay in their rural communities, ­because in the words of Māori politician Apirana Ngata, “the cities are vile.”17 Yet Americans ­were an attraction, and in provincial towns too. In Rotorua young Māori ­women ­were refusing to be directed into work ­under the government’s Manpower Regulations. Instead they ­were “roaming the streets of Rotorua mostly in the com­pany of American ser­v icemen.”18 Journalists also reported on their presence at “drunken parties” in private homes with U.S. ser­v icemen,19 residing in ­houses of ill fame,20 as well their general “delinquency.”21 Official concern eventually led to the child welfare department opening a residential institution specifically for Māori girls in 1944 at Featherston called Fareham House.22 It operated as the first and only “special institution for Māori.”23 What concerned Apirana Ngata and o ­ thers was that in the cities and towns with their fast-­paced life, and far away from the elders, traditional customs of community and ­family observance of young ­people’s private lives and loves unraveled. Despite their concerted attempts, Māori leaders could not control young ­women’s mobility so they sought to smooth the transition to urban living. In Wellington the Ngāti Poneke Young Māori Club offered a secure cultural and social space for urban-­based Māori ­women. The Māori War Effort Organ­ization (MWEO), with its 315 tribal committees, worked to support the war effort, but also turned its attention to social welfare, establishing a system of welfare officers in urban spaces, working in conjunction with and the support of the government.24 One of ­t hese ­women was Kuini Te Tau, who was recruited to work for the MWEO in 1942: she acted as a liaison officer with the Native Department, and part of her job involved finding accommodation and work for Māori ­women and girls manpowered to Wellington.25 ­Others, such as Te Mauri Meihana, became involved in supporting new migrants to the city through social organizations. Working for radio station 1ZB in Auckland, she saw what was happening on the streets of that city, which led to her “involvement in fundraising for the war effort and welfare work among young Māori w ­ omen in the city from, for one ­t hing, their association with American ser­v icemen, together with lots of other ­troubles.”26 Māori-­controlled organizations grew during the war years, and they w ­ ere needed b ­ ecause Māori ­women w ­ ere vulnerable in cities: they encountered racial discrimination in accommodation ser­v ices, drinking establishments, and in other spaces, as well as isolation and loneliness. Around seven hundred Māori ­women ­were living in Auckland in 1943, and by 1945, 1,700 ­were employed in essential industries in the wider Auckland district.27 ­Women’s groups w ­ ere particularly concerned about young ­women who came to the cities without ­family

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support, such as the girl who came before the Auckland Magistrates Court in February 1944. She “had no money and for two months had been sleeping in parks. She was arrested in a military garage in the city where it was said she and another girl had been taken by ser­v icemen.”28 ­Women’s organizations and the churches responded to the arrival of young Māori ­women in the cities by providing social ser­v ices and hostels.29 A Māori Social Centre was established and opened in Auckland in April 1943. Run by the Māori Methodist Mission, it was designed to offer leisure and recreational facilities for young Māori living and working in the city.30 In concert with the churches, the United Māori W ­ omen’s Welfare Society established two hostels for young Māori ­women engaged in war work in Auckland at Hepburn Street and at Cleveland Road in 1943. Mrs. Matire Hoeft thought that t­ hose unused to city life would find the difficulties of their migration compounded by the “unusual situation created by the war.” Her aim and that of the or­ga­ni­za­tion was “to keep them out of trou­ble.”31 Māori ­women’s be­hav­ior in towns and cities during the war gained them attention from authorities, but they also faced reprimand from their own ­people. In May 1944 Jimmy Parapara tried to drag a ­woman away from the com­pany of an American ser­v iceman. They w ­ ere walking down Cook Street in Auckland at the time, in full view of the public. The ­woman was a complete stranger to Mr. Parapara, and his actions resulted in a charge of assault. In his defense he stated, “Something had gone wrong with all the Māori girls ­these days—­they ­don’t know us now.”32 His friend Dick Witana, also charged alongside Parapara, claimed he assaulted an American ser­v iceman ­because “I ­don’t like Maori girls ­going out with Yanks.”33 Law enforcement officials, magistrates, health and welfare authorities, local councils, and Māori community leaders all preferred that Māori ­women stay in the country: in the city they constituted a “war­time hazard” and, to many ­others, a “social prob­lem.” During war, casual sexual encounters w ­ ere certainly common, but Māori ­women also formed sincere attachments with American ser­v icemen. John Lee Zimmerman, who was stationed with the U.S. Marine Corps at Wellington, published a memoir in 1946 in which he recounted that he “knew several of our men who had taken one or another of the girls to live with him, and in all cases it worked out well. ­There was no attempt at concealment, and the situation was accepted as quite the natu­ral ­t hing. The girls seemed to be as faithful as though ­t here had been a marriage ceremony, and as far as I could determine, they lost no reputation in the eyes of their own ­people.”34 As an officer, Zimmerman was able to travel easily and frequently, giving him an opportunity to observe the pattern of Māori-­American relations. Although Zimmerman claims ­t hese relationships

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­ ere publicly accepted, this assertion is neither fully supported by oral accounts w nor official military rec­ords: both sources reveal that such couples found themselves on the receiving end of social and l­egal disapproval. Notably they faced several barriers to gaining permission to legally marry from the military authorities, so couples took up alternative arrangements, normally making a customary marriage or cohabiting for a lengthy period of time—­thereby challenging, at times, local customs and practices of morality. Interracial couples found many ways to be together. One “respectable ­woman,” then employed as a cook at an Auckland h ­ otel, had met an American at a dance. She helped him desert from his unit, purchased civilian clothing for him, and let him reside at her flat.35 He did not remain hidden for long, and their relationship ended when he was recovered by military police. The young ­woman was investigated by the Manpower authorities, who recommended she return to her m ­ other in North Auckland “in view of the girl’s circumstances.” Permission was given to terminate her employment on the condition she returned home and did not return to the city ­unless she had the support of her tribal committee.36 Sandra’s U.S. marine ­father, John, went AWOL with his pregnant Māori girlfriend, Charlotte, but he was caught and court-­martialed. John fell madly in love with Mum and he d ­ idn’t want to go back to Amer­i­ca so they ran away. They w ­ ere caught in Roxborough. That’s where they w ­ ere found. My grand­mother did tell me that when he was transported out they had to go to Auckland. Mum, and Nana and I went up and I think I was only a few months old. We went up to Auckland to farewell him on the boat. He assured my ­mother that he was coming back as soon as he served his time for desertion.37 Unfortunately for John and Charlotte, and ­others like them, military regulations made it extremely difficult for them to marry. With twenty-­nine American states having outlawed interracial marriage on the eve of World War II, the U.S. military exported American social attitudes as well as ­legal codes to the Pacific.38 Military authorities did not encourage marriages with foreign ­women, and this practice was given official support u ­ nder military regulations. The U.S. War Department issued Circular No. 179 in June 1942 requiring any ser­v iceman who wished to marry to obtain permission from his commanding officer two months in advance of the wedding; before consent could be given the commanding officer was required to conduct an investigation into the young ­woman and her ­family.39 The circular also set out regulations for refusing permission to marry, which mirrored U.S. immigration laws that restricted entry to t­ hose who could

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potentially become a burden on the state (including for reasons of ill health, physical or m ­ ental disability, poor moral character, or criminal activity) or did not fit racial criteria. A commanding officer also had recourse to state law when it came to marriage and could “refuse on account of anti-­miscegenation laws of the soldier’s home state.” 40 ­Because of this one New Zealand war bride believes interracial marriage “would have been a no-no. I think t­ here ­were plenty of children left ­behind. [­There would have been] very few marriages between Māori and American ser­v icemen, and if t­ here ­were they would not have been allowed to go the States.” 41 However, a small number of American ser­v icemen ­were able to obtain permission to legally marry Māori w ­ omen. ­These marriages ­were able to happen ­because a coherent and or­ga­nized pro­cess to manage the marriage opportunities of ser­v icemen had not been established across the South Pacific Command.42 Vivienne was one of t­ hose ­women. She married Raymond Leroy Gipe at Wellington in 1943, and they had a son, Leroy, who was raised by his aunt and ­uncle at the predominantly Māori settlement of Te Araroa, in the Bay of Plenty region of the North Island (see Figure  8.3).43 Leroy passed away in 2005; his bro­th­ers George and Trevor tell his story. George remembered they first saw Leroy when he was 4. He was brought home [to Te Araroa]. We had a big farm ­there. I can still remember the day clearly, ­because he [Dad] was quite taken aback b ­ ecause Mum arrived with this unexpected taonga (trea­sure), ­shall we say. ­Because we ­were on the breadline as it was, struggling, and he thought “gee, another mouth to feed.” My m ­ other ­didn’t worry about that. She gave him love and affection, which he was looking for. And he’s been with us ever since. In Māori the word is whangai. It is a very impor­tant status for a person. The equivalent in Eu­ro­pean is orphan. To Māori whangai is a status within the ­family, so in lots of families they had whangai. They could be related, distantly, or could not be related. But if they ­were Māori, of the same hapu (sub-­tribe) or whanau (­family), it was accepted that they became whanau. Leroy’s m ­ other was part of the whanau. So that’s how he came to be with us. Leroy’s m ­ other had left the village of Te Kaha seeking work in one the larger North Island cities, eventually ending up in Wellington. George, who was a young boy during the war, recalls that with the Māori men overseas, the industries in the country w ­ ere left to the ­women so a lot of the factories employed Māori ­women and ­there was this relocation policy that went on. So young, single ­women shifted to the cities. They had menial jobs

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Figure 8.3. Leroy, son of Vivienne Kawha and Raymond Leroy Gipe of the U.S. Navy, photographed at Te Araroa about age fourteen. (Private collection)

working in hospitals, and factories, that sort of ­t hing. She’s part of that relocation. Our m ­ other [Iritana] was manpowered. She went to Hawkes Bay. The big exodus was to Hawkes Bay. [Local industrialist] Sir James Wattie saved the Māori ­people ­because he put food on the ­table for them. ­There was no industry on the w ­ hole East Coast and Bay of Plenty, it was, just sustenance you know, ­people ­were living on the smell of an oily rag, if that. It changed their [Māori ­women’s] lives, ­because it gave them status (see Figure 8.4).44 According to George, Raymond Gipe, who served with the U.S. Navy, loved Vivienne. It was not just a one-­night stand; he married her. He had his son registered, and he was named ­a fter his ­father, as Leroy Albert Gipe. His ­father went back to the States, and I think he tried on several occasions to get Leroy and Vivienne to come over. We understood that she was fearful of the ugly side of Amer­i­ca, being Māori. She was an attractive ­woman, but at that time a lot of the Māori girls ­didn’t go, they

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Figure 8.4. Māori ­women w ­ ere manpowered into essential war work from 1942 ­under the Manpower Regulations. Many ended up working in factories, such as ­these ­women who ­were employed in munitions work at Hamilton. (Alexander Turnbull Library, Wellington, New Zealand)

stayed home. Leroy’s ­father knew his son was alive, and he provided Vivienne with provisions for him b ­ ecause when he [Leroy] came along to us we w ­ ere quite taken aback by the clothes he was wearing, so I think the f­ ather did provide for his son, and that’s impor­tant, we must not forget that. Despite never returning to New Zealand, Raymond Gipe found ways to financially support his son. On his death he left his modest estate to Leroy:

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Following the American notification [of Raymond’s death in 1961] the ­widow wrote to Leroy and asked if she could live in the h ­ ouse. Although his estate was modest, she stayed in the h ­ ouse for the rest of her life. We had a meeting about it and we all agreed to it, and that’s how it rested. We never pursued it any further than that in fairness to her. Now that’s what you call wairuatanga (spirituality) and tikanga (custom) at its best. I think that was right on the year that Leroy changed his name. It was his wish, it ­wasn’t ours, ­because Mum felt he should leave it til he was old enough to decide. So when he wanted to change, we had to go down to the Māori Land Court. In ­t hose days the Māori Land Court ­were responsible for adopting children in Māori families. So the Gipe dis­appeared and the Evans came. He was happy, got his School Certificate: Leroy Albert ­Raymond Evans, Higher Learning Certificate, University Entrance, he was so proud of it.45 By 31 December 1945, Vivienne was one of 1,588 New Zealand w ­ omen who had married U.S. ser­v icemen; of ­t hese, US consular officials only found 14 who ­were “believed to be racially excluded.” 46 Most of t­ hese excluded w ­ omen ­were Māori and did not go to the United States as war brides b ­ ecause of the race-­ based U.S. immigration law. Instead they w ­ ere “abandoned” in New Zealand, as ­were their children. W ­ omen like Vivienne faced the difficult prospect of obtaining a divorce, which at the time not only attracted social stigma but was also a ­legal nightmare. For New Zealand ­women married to U.S. ser­v icemen, obtaining a divorce was difficult b ­ ecause the ­legal pro­cess had to be carried out in a U.S. jurisdiction, often the home state of the ser­v iceman, thereby necessitating an expensive journey stateside. This was an enormous difficultly encountered by all foreign war brides, but particularly so for Māori and other indigenous/non-­white groups facing race-­specific immigration bans. ­These ­women ­were caught in a ­legal limbo ­until 1947 when the Matrimonial Causes (War Marriages) Act was passed by the New Zealand government; this law gave New Zealand courts the jurisdiction to nullify marriages regardless of a husband’s domicile, notwithstanding the fact that its decrees might not be recognized by the husband’s country’s courts.47 It also made divorce easier by reducing the grounds for desertion from three years to twelve months. A Māori ­woman, Kitty, chose to divorce her American ser­v iceman husband in 1949. She had married Edward in 1944, at St. Matthew’s Church, Auckland, when she was twenty years old and he was twenty-­three. Three weeks ­later his unit shipped out, but the ­couple maintained contact through a regular exchange of letters. Edward was discharged from the army in July 1945, but never returned to

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New Zealand. Four years ­later the New Zealand Supreme Court granted Kitty a divorce; the documentation reveals that the military authorities warned the ­couple of the l­egal barriers to making a life together in the United States. The petition read, “Prior to my marriage I [Kitty] called at the American Consulate to get permission to marry. They told me before I got married I could not go to the USA;” however, Edward “agreed to return to NZ ­a fter his discharge. I believed him.” 48 Edward was representative of many young soldiers in the Pacific: on return to the United States they ­either did not want to go back to the Pacific or could not return for financial reasons. He wrote this in a letter to his “Dearest Wife” on 26 July 1946 encouraging her to petition for a divorce, which he would not contest: I ­will take the blame for it as since I am home I have not been much good. For a while I was working to get money to come back to you and it seemed the more I worked the less I had so I could not make anything and it would cost me over 1000 dollars to get back and I could not get it. So that is the reason I could not get back and I would have liked to be back with you and the rest of our friends.49 Although he noted that “it is too bad that money is keeping us apart,” exclusionary U.S. immigration policy, which informed marriage regulations that w ­ ere applied to American ser­vicemen in foreign territories, also fostered f­ amily breakdown and created fatherless children. Although ­there ­were some marriages between Māori ­women and  U.S. ser­ vicemen, and children w ­ ere born to t­ hese couples, most Māori war babies fathered by American forces in New Zealand w ­ ere not born to a married c­ ouple. Most children ­were born out of a range of sexual and emotional relationships, from long-­term cohabitation to fleeting sexual encounters; sometimes they ­were the result of more coercive and violent encounters. The fate of Māori children fathered by American ser­v icemen during World War II is ­little known of or remarked on by historians.50 Partly this is due to the fact that government and military rec­ords barely mention ­t hese children or their mothers, which renders it impossible to know how many children American ser­vicemen fathered in New Zealand with ­either Māori or non-­Māori ­women. For instance, in cases of illegitimacy ­t here was no ­legal requirement to register the ­father’s name on the birth certificate. The silences around paternity that characterize the official archives are reinforced by the many strategies taken by mothers and their wider kin to protect the ­family and the child from social judgment associated with illegitimacy. As was the case with the American invasion of Britain

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and the U.S. occupation of postwar Germany, any w ­ oman in New Zealand who dated or married an American ser­v iceman attracted negative social reactions. Often regarded as unpatriotic, t­ hese ­women w ­ ere also ste­reo­t yped as pleasure-­ seeking good-­time girls. That perception of sexual freedom and immorality associated with ­women courted by American ser­v icemen was “readily transferred onto children born out of casual [as well as permanent] relationships between local girls and GIs” wherever they ­were stationed, including New Zealand.51 Military authorities w ­ ere not well equipped to deal with the social consequences of war, often leaving U.S. consular officials or the American Red Cross to deal with issues relating to the welfare of w ­ omen and children left ­behind by American ser­v icemen. Numerous Pākehā (Eu­ro­pean) ­women wrote to ­t hese organizations for advice or assistance in locating a lover or husband, and they also turned to the New Zealand government for help in tracking down errant fathers. Māori w ­ omen, however, rarely used such facilities to trace ­t hese men, perhaps ­because they ­were unaware of their right to financial support from the U.S. military or ­because they had whanau support, with ­family structures flexible enough to easily accommodate whangai, as in the case of Leroy. Only one instance appears in the American rec­ords of a Māori ­woman seeking help. She wrote to the U.S. Veterans Administration seeking financial support for her child, who was fathered by a soldier in the U.S. Army killed at Luzon in March 1945, but could not proceed further with her application without l­egal documentation proving paternity, which was impossible now that he was dead. All she had was a certificate verifying the birth of a ­daugh­ter in 1944, but no ­father’s name was ­recorded.52 ­Those ­women who had a child out of wedlock had to deal both with the public stigmatization attached to illegitimacy in war­time New Zealand and the lack of any government support for them. Without access to social security single mothers ­were left with few options. Some turned to abortion as a solution.53 Tragic cases arose, such as a twenty-­two-­year-­old Māori ­woman who was sentenced to two years’ probation for disposing of the dead body of her newborn child in March 1945. Described as being of “unblemished character” and having “lived an industrious life,” it was revealed in court that an “American ser­v iceman who left New Zealand at the beginning of last year had been responsible for her condition.”54 Social attitudes ­shaped the life trajectories of New Zealand’s war babies, born into an era when ex-­nuptiality was regarded as shameful. As one participant noted, it was the children who bore the brunt of the shame.55 The presence of Americans, or “war conditions” as it was often characterized, was associated with a rise in ex-­nuptial births and also adoption. At the end of 1943, 1,467 illegitimate births had been registered; this number ­rose to 2,020 in 1944, followed by a drop

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in numbers in 1945 to 1,824. The number of adoptions also increased: 577 in 1943, 1,313 in 1944, and 1,191 in 1945.56 Official adoption statistics do not reveal how many of t­ hese children ­were fathered by American ser­v icemen, nor how many of ­t hese adoptees ­were Māori. Māori communities preferred to follow the custom of whangai, which operated alongside l­ egal forms of adoption, but retained the child within the extended f­amily. During the 1940s Te Onehou Phillis remembered “some of our local girls [in the Bay of Plenty] getting pregnant and their babies ­were brought up alongside them in their families.” Indeed, remarked Te Onehou, “very rarely w ­ ere Māori babies given permanently to strangers, with ties to the birth ­family severed.”57 Private organizations stepped in too, such as the Auckland-­based Motherhood of Man Movement, a nondenominational or­ga­ni­ za­tion that offered assistance to unmarried mothers to keep their babies or help place them for adoption.58 They helped all w ­ omen, but experienced difficulty finding placement for a cohort they described as “mixed race” children.59 Of the children whose individual stories w ­ ere gathered for this proj­ect, most remained within the immediate or extended f­amily as whangai and w ­ ere often raised by grandparents. Only a tiny number of ­women resorted to stranger adoption, with most of their children placed with Pākehā families and raised with l­ ittle or no contact with Māori culture, tikanga (custom), or language. Some, like Michael Gaeng and his two bro­th­ers, ended up in the welfare system where they experienced the trauma of children’s homes (see Figure 8.5). He was one of triplets born in late 1943 to Ina, a single Māori w ­ oman in her mid-­twenties. Ina had moved to Auckland to escape an arranged marriage, a customary practice among high-­ranking Māori families maintained well into the first half of the twentieth ­century. On moving she left ­behind connections to ­family, but forged new relationships, including a brief romance with an American ser­v iceman with whom she became pregnant. For their first five years the triplets had a difficult life. On their first day of school, their teachers found them to be malnourished and extensively bruised. Social workers w ­ ere called to the school, and the children w ­ ere taken into care. “From the age of five to the age of nine we w ­ ere then kicked from pillar to post, and stayed in places which w ­ ere pretty hard.” A ­ fter spending time in a number of children’s welfare homes, the triplets w ­ ere taken in by a Māori ­couple from the Bay of Plenty, who raised them in a loving home. “We ­were raised by fantastic ­people, absolutely brilliant ­people. They ­were so good; they ­were bringing stray cats and dogs into the world, and we w ­ ere the last of the thirteen that they had brought up into the world and sent out to work.” From the moment they w ­ ere taken into care, the triplets lost contact with their birth ­mother, with whom they did not reconnect with ­until they ­were twenty-­one:

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Figure 8.5. Michael and his wife Glennis, 2012. Michael was one of triplets born to a young Māori w ­ oman from Taranaki and fathered by a member of the U.S. Marine Corps. Michael and his bro­t h­ers ­were placed into state care at the age of five and did not see their ­mother again ­until the age of twenty-­one. (Private collection)

It ­will be about then that I knew where she was anyway, and she tried to make contact with us. But we had our 21st birthday John and I, ­because we had lost our other brother at 19, and we got Mum back for the first time. She was in the Te Awamutu ­Mental Institution, Tokanui. Ina, they discovered, had been institutionalized for many years ­because of a severe ­mental illness, which probably accounts for the difficulties the triplets experienced early on in their lives. Having grown up with neither birth parent the bro­th­ers have ­little knowledge of their ­mother’s background, her life in Auckland, or how she met their American f­ ather. Nor do they know the nature of that relationship, but Michael likes to believe that it was more than a fleeting encounter: “Looking at his photo­ graph, Dad was a very handsome man. Mum was a beautiful ­woman herself in her younger days. [I think] ­t here was a l­ ittle bit of love between the two of them.” 60

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In 2000 Michael and his brother John met their American f­ amily, which was a wonderfully positive experience that resolved many mysteries for them, but they also still wanted to connect with their Taranaki ­family. They wanted to know if “they had known about us, and I d ­ on’t know if they ever knew about us, w ­ hether Mum made contact with them, or when she left Taranaki, that was it, she was disowned. With whanau, you’d think they would be close. That’s what we wanted.” Michael’s experience signals the diverse legacies of intimacy in the Pacific war and is a reminder that the fate of the GI babies is as much a story of the Māori ­mother as it of the GI f­ ather, b ­ ecause, as Michael says: “Every­body’s got to have a ­mother and a ­father. I wanted to know where I came from.” Michael’s desire to know about his parents is commonly expressed among Māori as whakapapa, a term that is often equated with genealogy, but in fact is more broadly concerned with feelings of connection and bonds of kinship. It is through whakapapa that Māori are connected to ­people, place, a culture, and language, and it is on ­t hose bonds that an emotionally secure cultural identity is based. Michael has had the g­ reat fortune of meeting his American siblings, but had to overcome de­cades of ­family secrecy to do so. Many children of war have faced a similar wall of silence. During the war and in the de­cades following it, making and keeping secrets was a social practice that served protective functions; however, long thereafter, f­ amily secrets continue to be maintained, serving as a source of pain and frustration for adult children.61 As children our participants gathered fragments of evidence from overheard conversations, from letters or documents hidden away in a box on top of a wardrobe or at the back of a drawer accidentally discovered during childhood, and uncaptioned photographs. Teasing from other children, differential treatment by their ­family (­either being placed on a pedestal, ignored, or mistreated), or partial truths blurted out by ­family members in angry moments also provided fragmentary information. Some posed questions, but often ­t hese went unanswered, with aunts, uncles, and mothers having “forgotten” a name or “lost” documents that might have revealed clues to a f­ ather’s identity. ­Others, worried they might anger their parents, did not ask any questions or kept ­silent, feeling that their quest for birth parents represented a rejection of ­t hose who raised them. Growing up in a small rural Māori community where every­one was related meant that Ani “always knew that I had an American ­father and the ­people where I came from knew that I had an American ­father. It was widely known. ­People knew and accepted it.” 62 The secret concerned his name, which was not revealed by her ­mother or aunts and uncles ­until she was an adult and had her own children: “I would often say to my ­mother, ‘Who was my ­father?’ and she would say, ‘Oh we ­don’t need to talk about that’ and it ­wasn’t ­until she was ­dying that she

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actually told me his name and where he came from.” Maraea was also raised by her grandparents in a tight-­k nit Māori community, where the “local kids called me Marikena, which is short for American, right from when I was born. I was the fairest kid at the school, [in] a totally Māori community. I was aware right from the word go that I was an American.” 63 Marikena was not a term of reproach however; it signaled instead that she was special, a status reinforced by the standing of her grandparents in the community and her position in the ­family as the first-­ born grandchild. Maraea was special, but she still felt dif­fer­ent ­because “I never knew anyone ­else like me.” ­Others grew up believing their stepfather was their biological ­father or that their birth ­mother was their sister. Secrets ­were carefully managed in ­t hese situations, and revelations of an American connection w ­ ere often made accidentally. Charlie, who was raised by her maternal grandparents in Auckland, grew up believing that her ­mother, who was only sixteen years old when she had Charlie, was her sister. When Charlie was twenty-­one, a cousin revealed who her birth ­mother ­really was: “when she said it t­ here was no way that I knew it was untrue. I knew 100 percent it was true, and sitting t­ here it was like the puzzle of my life came right together. I understood, all t­ hose l­ ittle remarks, and how I just felt inside. That was good.” Charlie welcomed and embraced the news and wishes she could find out “a ­little bit about him and his parents, where ­t hey’re from. It would be very releasing I think.” At times, the revelations of long-­held secrets over paternity further strained relationships with a ­mother who had been unable to discuss the past. Grace, who was raised by her grandparents, said of her ­mother, “I ­didn’t ­really have a lot to do with her. I ­didn’t ­really know her that well. We ­didn’t bond as a ­mother-­daugh­ter ­because my grand­mother was actually my ­mother. She brought me up.” 64 A very effective and frequently used way to stop questions from inquisitive children was to tell them their f­ather died at war, a situation they faithfully accepted. Says Grace, “I was actually told he was killed. She told me he was killed in Hiroshima.” Although, as Maraea says, “it was rumored that he [her American ser­v iceman ­father] had died, but then that’s a rumor.” Questioning usually stopped in the face of such a definitive ending. Over time, feelings of regret combined with a sense of a lost opportunity emerged. The unanswered questions remain, and it is t­ hose feelings of regret and sometimes anger that then serve as a catalyst to begin research into their ­family history and personal identity. Oral accounts stress the frustrations of d ­ oing research in the face of fragmentary information and bureaucratic barriers. Few have the necessary documentation to help them start the research journey. As Maraea says, although her ­mother took her American sweetheart “home twice, the old ­people, particularly my

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grand­father’s brother, ­were anti the relationship. I found out ­later that my grand­ mother was also absolutely opposed to the relationship too. So any evidence, photos, they just got rid of them. W ­ hether he knew I was on the way or not I ­don’t know. Th ­ ere are heaps of questions.” A number of individuals have similar stories of lost mementos, whereas o ­ thers encountered a multilayered and confusing American bureaucracy that has made it difficult for them to gain access to military personnel rec­ords. Grace says, “I actually felt I was just shrugged off. Certainly they sent me the form and I just put in the too hard basket. I thought, when I read it, I thought I just ­can’t do this.” ­Family silences mirrored t­ hese archival absences. One of the biggest barriers many have faced is extracting information from their ­mother or ­family. Many war children experienced an uncompromising refusal to reveal any information that might assist them with locating their American birth ­father. Often this refusal was born of the fact that their m ­ other had closed off the past when she entered marriage and a new life ­after the war. A lucky few have had some success tracing their ­family ­because their ­mother retained mementos given to them by their American ser­v iceman sweetheart, especially photographs and letters. ­These documents serve an impor­tant function of providing his name, and a photo­graph offers the potential for recognizing themselves in his features. They are evidence of his existence, confirmation of an association with their ­mother, and are an ave­ nue for proving paternity. Th ­ ese personal trea­sures, however, have revealed just how far some w ­ omen went to protect their secret. Jack and Hilda, a young Māori ­couple, ­adopted John at the age of two weeks. In his early thirties John discovered that Jean, the w ­ oman whom he knew as a ­family friend and often referred to as aunt, was actually his birth m ­ other (see ­Figure 8.6). “On the death of my natu­ral ­mother [in 1995] we’d been given this big box of letters, which w ­ ere just filed into the wardrobe and never looked at.” John’s wife Gill said she started reading ­these letters, which went back to 1950. I went through them all. John’s f­ather, Don Asher, was sent back to the States ­because something happened to him in the war, so he was sent back to recover. He was obviously very in love with John’s birth ­mother while he was over ­here. He deci­ded, ­because he was a policeman and a detective at the time, he deci­ded that he wanted to track her down. A friend of his was travelling to New Zealand so he gave the name of where she used to be and asked him to look her up. W ­ hether he tracked her down or not he found out she had had a baby. That set Don off even more, wanting to find the child. This is where all the letters come into action. They started writing.

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Figure  8.6. Jean, who fell in love with an American ser­viceman, Don Asher, while he was stationed at Auckland with the U.S. Army. They had a son John, who was a­ dopted by friends of Jean. (Private collection)

He found Jean, and she was married, but they started writing letters to each other. Now, what was in ­t hese letters was lovely but sad. We know they are, b ­ ecause of the facts of the situation, she told him some lies, possibly she thought they ­were white lies and nothing would come out of it. She told Don that when she had John she had looked a­ fter him for six months, but as a ­woman on her own she ­couldn’t cope, and met this nice ­couple and they took him at six months old, but as we know, he ­wasn’t six months old. The letters sparked John and Gill’s search for Don and his f­ amily. Using the clues from the letters, such as addresses and phone numbers, they discovered that Don had become the chief of police in Piedmont, California (see Figure 8.7). Gill rang the police station, but had no luck. She wrote a letter to him and “then we got the phone call.” A year ­later, in 1996, they traveled to the United States to meet the ­family. Although Don had died many years earlier, Gill said “to see ­those ­people’s ­faces, it was like they had waited their ­whole lives.” Some had reservations, however, especially Don’s w ­ idow Viola. According to John, “It took

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Figure  8.7. ­After demobilizing in the United States Don Asher joined the police force in California, ­becoming chief of police at Piedmont. He always knew about his New Zealand-­born son John and had attempted to find him several times, but was unsuccessful. (Private collection)

her two weeks to getting around to wanting to see me.” “But,” says Gill, “as soon as she saw him she just embraced him.” John, they discovered, was never a secret. They ­were surprised to find out, says Gill, that John “was talked about, they knew about the fact that they [Don and Jean] wrote to each other. He obviously went into his marriage with Vi with no secrets. She must have been a very special ­woman.” On meeting the American ­family John and Gill discovered something astonishing. Gill explains that not only had they known about John from since he was five years old. Th ­ ey’ve got a box of letters in Amer­i­ca too: Jean’s letters. She would get photos from Hilda and Jack, and as he [John] went on to become a very good football player in Auckland and New Zealand, she cut bits out of the newspaper and sent them all to the States. The ­family told us that Don carried a photo around of John ­until the day he

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died, and had he been able to bring him to the States he would have. This is where it all gets very sad. As the years went on, and as she [Jean] could see as time went on and ­people travelled more, she could probably see that this man might make a trip over. She told him that John d ­ idn’t want to know him, whereas John d ­ idn’t know anything about it. John d ­ idn’t even know at that stage that she was his m ­ other. It was sad that this man who had a lovely wife, thought about him [John] almost daily. His wife and ­family knew about him all the time; ­t here was no secret about how much he wanted to meet this boy. John says that his American ­family is “lovely, they ­don’t smother me. They accept me for how I am, and for what we are.” Yet John undertook this search with some concern for his parents, Jack and Hilda. “This is something I would not have done while the old man was alive, I d ­ on’t think the old man would have liked it.” In addition, John did not have a strong need to find ­family ­because he had experienced a loving childhood: I had had a happy childhood. I had nothing that upset me, or I ­didn’t feel I had missed out, that I would have had a better life over ­t here. I had an old man who was as tough as old boots, but he loved me to pieces, but so did Mum. My old man, if I wanted to do something, he was ­t here to foster it, and to be honest with you I w ­ ouldn’t change it. As far as changing my Mum and Dad I’d have it all again. Probably if I could have my time again I would probably have taken a bit more notice of the old boy. I was too busy ­doing other things. ­There’s a lot now that I wished I had listened to and learned from him. John, however, does not regret discovering his American f­ amily: “The only regret I have got is that I never got to meet Don. That is my only regret.” 65 Hannah kept a photo­graph and five letters from her American ser­v iceman sweetheart secret from their son, placing them in a choco­late box on top of her wardrobe for safekeeping (see Figure 8.8). Even when her son, whom she named ­after his birth f­ ather, was d ­ ying of cancer she never revealed the mementos. Hannah passed away nine months ­after the death of her son, and it was only then that the letters ­were discovered. ­Those letters, from Milton W. Cummins, a corporal in the 2nd Marines who had been recently stationed in Wellington, suggest he and Hannah w ­ ere in love with each other. The Marines left Wellington for “somewhere in the Pacific” at the end of October 1943. In January the following year Milton had “at last found time to answer your most sweet and precious letter” (see

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Figure  8.8. This photo­graph of a young American marine, along with five letters, was only discovered ­a fter the death of Hannah. In 1943 she embarked on a relationship with Milton  W. Cummins, believed to be the man depicted in the photo­graph, and became pregnant. Her son, also called Milton, never knew about the photo­graph or the letters. (Private collection)

Figure 8.9). He offered assurance of his good health and expressed his concern for Hannah. She had left her husband and children ­because she was pregnant with Milton’s child. To survive she needed to continue working, a ­matter that had Milton worried: “I only wish I w ­ ere ­t here with you. ­There must be a way, ­t here just has to be a way.” 66 By August the baby had arrived, and Milton’s excitement is clear: “I know from your description of him, he must be the very best son ever!” 67 By October he had received photographs and noted his son’s growth, but remained anxious for Hannah. His letters indicate he had e­ very intention of returning to her. “I feel so completely helpless, being so far away. Never fear,” he ended, “it ­will work out somehow.” 68 His letters are full of affective sentiments, loving words, and promises, but like many American ser­v icemen, he never ­returned. New Zealand w ­ omen like Hannah who left their husbands for American lovers ­were quickly stigmatized as unpatriotic, and their abandonment was seen as an

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Figure 8.9. A page from one of Milton’s letters to Hannah. (Private ­collection)

appropriate punishment for their withdrawal from marital life. ­These ­women, who often felt a deep shame, carried this emotional burden and secrets into the next generation. Hannah’s d ­ augh­ter-­in-­law “felt very, very angry at Nana [for keeping the letters secret] b ­ ecause it would have made a huge difference to Milton I think to have been able to have read ­t hose letters and just seen that picture of his ­father. It would have made a huge difference to him, to know that he was wanted and loved by his f­ ather.” 69 Hannah’s granddaughters are now embarking on a journey of discovery, b ­ ecause “it meant such a lot to Dad, [so] it would be

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r­ eally good just to find out who he was, and get some information about him. Where he was from and what his background was.”70 They also want to reconcile their grand­father Milton’s disappearance with his repeatedly stated desire to return to New Zealand, to Hannah and their son. An obvious answer is that he did not survive the war. It appears, however, that Milton W. Cummins was harboring his own secrets, b ­ ecause when he was romancing Hannah in New Zealand he already had a wife in Florida and was the ­father of two young children.

Conclusion Each person is prompted to search for his or her American f­ather for dif­fer­ent reasons: some only want confirmation of paternity, whereas o ­ thers want to know where they fit in the ­family puzzle and to understand their heritage. One participant said, “I just would like to find out what my ­father was like, what his background was, what he did, what was his job before he went into the Army. I want to find out about his f­amily and where they came from.” Many want to make a meaningful connection with relatives, especially when their own childhood has been troubled or fragmented. As one participant said, “A lot of ­people ­w ill trace ­family hoping ­t here is wealth; all I want is just a connection, even if I just have a photo of him. I believe that if he was alive he would have loved me as his d ­ augh­ter. Truly loved me, which I never got.”71 Some are afraid to ask questions, b ­ ecause they fear what they might find. Charlie is “interested, but I’m scared. I r­ eally am and that’s why I h ­ aven’t been successful. This fear I have ­because I ­don’t feel of ­great worth I’ve always feared that I would be rejected.” ­Others are not searching for an emotional connection, ­because they got that from t­ hose who raised them. As Maraea says, “I’m not worried about proving who I am to them, I know who I am, but I want to know if they are related to me. If they d ­ on’t want to know me at least I know who they are. I d ­ on’t think it w ­ ill be like that. All I know is that I am evidence I am ­here.” Says Grace, “That ­doesn’t worry me in the slightest, not at all. I had a good life, I d ­ idn’t experience any cruelty. I had a wonderful life as a child actually. I think I was very fortunate.” Raised by her ­mother, stepfather, and grandparents Ruth “was very lucky with my childhood. I ­can’t say that I ever lacked for anything.”72 Many have expressed frustration, however, at the extent to which their f­ ather’s identity has been kept secret from them over many de­cades; this secrecy was often authorized by wider ­family who joined in the secret and worked hard to maintain it. Even when their childhood has been a happy one, they express this frustration. For all, searching for a secret or absent ­father is regarded as key to

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healing past emotional traumas. Some seek a parent-­child relationship that makes up for an emotional connection, bond, or closeness that they did not experience as children. Coming to terms with the past is expressed most obviously in the search for an American ser­v iceman f­ather, but children born out of war face a number of barriers, including a paucity of written documentation from both New Zealand and American sources as well as de­cades of entrenched secrecy from within their ­family. Reflecting on the heady years of the American occupation of New Zealand, Mihipeka Edwards recalls how war brought together young men and ­women. With no knowledge of what the f­ uture would bring they entered sexual relationships: some w ­ ere fleeting; ­others ­were enduring and romantic and often conducted by letters once the ser­viceman had left New Zealand’s shores. But t­ here ­were social and emotional consequences for ­women who had children out of wedlock. Says Mihipeka, “I just hope that the babies born ­because of ­t hese circumstances do not suffer too much, ­because they are the realities of war. Someone has to pay, and it’s usually the innocent. ­These are the sadnesses of war.”73 Now ­t hese babies are adults, and their personal accounts are intensely ­human dramas characterized not only by secrecy and sometimes deception but they are also deeply emotional, h ­ uman stories.74 Th ­ ese adults are all seeking a fundamental ­human bond, that of the connection between parent and child.75 They are their mothers’ secret, and it is their need to understand the circumstances that lead to that situation, as well as their sense of self, that is the catalyst for undertaking research to discover their American f­ather. It is by finding their birth ­father that they hope to understand their m ­ other’s actions, to achieve a confident sense of self and identity, as well as a more complete sense of their whakapapa. Born out of conflict, t­ hese South Pacific war children reveal the ongoing emotional legacies and social consequences of the U.S. military presence in the Pacific, but ­until now their experiences have existed on the very margins of social and cultural histories of global war.

C HA P T E R N I N E

The Solomon Islands Off the Radar judith a. bennett

In their advance into the South Pacific in 1942, the Japa­nese forces reached as far as Guadalcanal in the central Solomon Islands chain. The Solomon Islands archipelago was a British protectorate, but unlike Tonga, Britain’s other protectorate in the South Pacific, its myriad small socie­ties never had any overarching indigenous government or ruler. When the British established an administrative presence in 1896, three years a­ fter they claimed it, they did so mainly to satisfy the British possessions of the Australian colonies and New Zealand, which w ­ ere fearful of other Eu­ro­pean powers filling the imperial gap in the western Pacific. Though they believed that mi­grant ­labor was essential to plantation development in Fiji and Queensland, the British saw one benefit of colonial control being the elimination of the abusive features of the ­labor trade in the Solomon Islands, which ­were often perpetrated by British subjects. In the 1930s the indigenous population of about 95,000 subsisted on what they produced in their gardens and foraged in the forests and sea. They lived in scattered villages along the coast and inland, with the coastal or saltwater p ­ eople ­often at enmity with ­t hose living inland. ­These “bush” ­people lived in forested mountains and rarely came to the coast except to seek short-­term work, commonly for three years on plantations. Since the late 1890s areas of coastal land had been alienated by fiat or by sale to planters and Christian missions. The local ­people often resented this ceding of land, seeing their ancestors as having sold land that was not theirs to sell, but rather belonged to the clans and their descendants. Christian missions w ­ ere tolerated and often embraced, however, ­because they returned something to the ­people—­health care, education, and social activities. Just before World War II, the expatriates—­mainly planters, Christian missionaries, and government officials—­numbered about five hundred Eu­ro­pe­a ns along with about two hundred Chinese who w ­ ere active in small-­scale trading and retail, as well as in trades such as cooks, carpenters, and tailors. Just before the war, most of the main islands had a resident district officer who patrolled his region, keeping basic law and order, British-­style, and collected the annual male head tax. Like every­one ­else, ­t hese administrators traveled by foot 228

The Solomon Islands: Off the Radar   229

or on sea in an archipelago that had no roads and no airfields. The government district station was often part of small expatriate settlements around a port, such as Gizo in the New Georgia group or Faisi in the Shortland Islands. Boasting an excellent anchorage, the tiny capital, Tulagi was in the Florida group, north of Guadalcanal, with a hospital, court, prison, and other government offices, as well as a cricket pitch, a ­hotel, and a few stores. Scattered up the hillside ­were government residences. The Chinese had their quarter of trade stores on the narrow coastal flat. On adjacent islets, both Burns Philp (BP) and Levers had ware­houses and stores. As in much of western Melanesia, the main export by the early twentieth ­century was copra, which languished as a commodity throughout the 1930s. Most of it went to Australia on the ships of BP, the major shipping, trading and planting com­pany in the island chain. Other significant planting companies ­were ­Levers and Sydney-­based W. R. Carpenters. Many smaller planters went bankrupt during the Depression or lived as “poor whites.” All of the l­abor was indigenous, with Malaitan men the most numerous. ­Women could only come to plantations with their husbands, but relatively few did so. Plantation work was hard and poorly paid, especially during the Depression years, but men endured it to earn enough money to pay their tax and to buy a few basic trade goods. Capitalism was still breathing in the Solomons, but it was hardly robust, even for the expatriates.1 Most Solomon Islands’ socie­ties guarded their young ­women, ­because when they married “bride wealth” would accrue to the clan from the f­ uture husband’s relatives. The bride wealth offered at betrothal signified that the ­family members of the ­f uture husband ­were glad that a ­woman of good reputation was marrying their son. Her own clan and wider ­family usually reciprocated l­ ater by providing the marriage feast as a sign of ac­cep­tance and re­spect. Yet on Guadalcanal, with its matrilineal socie­ties, the bride wealth has never been the sole consideration. A ­woman also carries the honor and bloodline of her ­family. She is regarded as the ­future of the clan ­because she ­will give birth to children of that same clan: a w ­ oman’s “value” is that, through her, her clan and that of her bro­th­ers w ­ ill stay alive. Males cannot reproduce their clan and so are regarded as the “dead line,” whereas ­women are the “life line.”  ­Until about 1925, should a ­woman stray from premarital virtue, at least in some Guadalcanal socie­ties, she risked not only expulsion and shame but also relegation to some years of prostitution to young men for the benefit of the village pimp or big man who might marry her off ­later when she aged. This watchfulness over w ­ omen, however, was most marked on Malaita. ­There, when a young w ­ oman moved outside her village she was usually accompanied by a boy or trusted male relatives; this chaperoning also occurred in some parts of

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Guadalcanal.2 Some other socie­ties—­for example, ­those of Makira (San Cristobal), Santa Ana, and the Reef Islands—­were less concerned if a ­woman engaged in premarital sex, but individual circumstances, such as the ­family, wealth, and status of both the man and the ­woman, determined societal tolerance of that ­be­hav­ior.

War Comes to the Solomon Islands When the Pacific War broke out, the British, unlike the Australians in Papua and New Guinea, had no military force of their own to defend the Solomons, but relied on a small unit of Australians based at Tulagi; this unit was forced to withdraw in the face of the advancing Japa­nese military. Much of the expatriate population did the same, except for a few missionaries, planters, and the district officers who took on military rank, went “bush,” and assisted as coastwatchers (­under the aegis of the Australian Navy) and ­later with the recruiting of Solomon Islands male ­labor for the Americans. In the eyes of the ­people, such a retreat lowered the status not only of the white settlers but also of the administration and some of the Christian missions. Unopposed, the Japa­nese took Tulagi and north Guadalcanal in early May 1942 and even established a small unit on Malaita where the remnant administration was hiding in the hills. They started construction of an airfield on the flat flood plain of north Guadalcanal and a seaplane base at Tulagi (see Map 9.1). This infrastructure would provide them with the ability to strike farther south, say, into New Caledonia where the U.S. forces ­were already fortifying a major base. Although the defeat of the Japa­nese navy by Allied Forces at the ­Battle of the Coral Sea on 11 May 1942 stymied their strategy to use Guadalcanal as a base to cut off the sea route between Australia and the United States, the airfield t­ here still remained a threat to the Americans. In August 1942, to prevent it from operating, the United States sent in a force of marines to capture Tulagi and the airfield area on Guadalcanal. For the rest of that year this was the scene of bloody battles fought by more than 100,000 men on the land, in the air, and on the seas of the “Slot” between Savo, the Florida Islands, and Guadalcanal.3

War’s Children At their peak in December 1943, ­t here ­were more than 124,000 U.S. ser­v ice personnel in the Solomon Islands; they w ­ ere concentrated in coastal bases west of Malaita. This number was well in excess of the entire indigenous population.4 However, in spite of the huge numbers of young foreign men in the main islands,

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t­ here w ­ ere very few children born of U.S. ser­vicemen in the Solomon Islands. Opportunities for socializing w ­ ere rare. Early in 1942, the Solomons administration warned coastal villagers to head for the interior b ­ ecause the Japa­nese ­were coming. Missionaries generally echoed this warning. Most villagers, once they saw the terrifying scale of combat in August 1942 when the Americans invaded Tulagi and Guadalcanal, certainly heeded this advice. Some on north Guadalcanal moved back as far as ten miles from the coast.5 All around Guadalcanal and in other coastal battlegrounds many of ­t hose who had fled inland during the main fighting ­were poorly nourished b ­ ecause they had no accessible food gardens, w ­ ere afraid of lighting fires, and had ­little shelter. Some, especially the old and the very young, perished.6 Even in comparatively safe areas, the p ­ eople ­were not strong or healthy, as the Americans noted on north Guadalcanal a­ fter the worst of the fighting was over: ­ ere was a native village some distance inland whose inhabitants came Th down to see who the new visitors w ­ ere. The villagers looked skinny and poorly fed; some ­were suffering from a variety of sores and skin lesions. . . . ​ The ­women could hardly be described as South Seas beauties, and ­t here was no prob­lem in restraining the men from making acquaintances with the female population.7 In addition, the b ­ attle sites w ­ ere not conducive to conviviality with civilians. ­ ere w Th ­ ere no true urban centers in the Solomons. The very small capital, Tulagi, once peopled with administrative officers and Chinese traders, was taken over by the Japa­nese and then by the Americans. Soon ­after their arrival, the Americans commandeered any small structures built by the expatriates as an adjunct to operations. Even when the U.S. forces established their bases, they put in place regulations that limited unsupervised contact between their men and the local ­people. Villagers too close to the American bases could also suffer in Japa­nese bombing raids. The colonial administration and the military removed t­ hose villagers who had not already fled, though men of the Solomon Islands ­Labor Corps ­were stationed closer to the military camps. Another reason for this relocation was that islanders w ­ ere seen as disease carriers and a threat to the health of the troops and thus the success of the military mission.8 Well a­ fter the expulsion of the Japa­nese many hundreds of villagers on the north coast of Guadalcanal suffered from being moved out of harm’s way ­because the north coast became not only a huge holding base for supplies but also combat training grounds for the military before they went farther north.9 ­After the Americans drove out the Japa­ nese, local leaders and headmen reported any unwanted parties of ser­v icemen

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visiting villages without permission to their military superiors or the colonial officials. To preserve good relations with the local p ­ eople, this type of unauthorized visiting was quickly stopped.10 Where one U.S. ser­v iceman or small numbers of isolated men, however, w ­ ere in regular, close contact with village p ­ eople over some time—up to a period of several months—­there ­were opportunities for greater interaction. North of Malaita, three American flyers, one badly wounded, crashed on a reef of Sikaiana, a Polynesian settlement in August 1942, and remained ­there for several days ­until rescued. Oral tradition made it clear that they ­were very much admired by the young ­women, but their relatively short stay, it seems, did not result in offspring.11 A pi­lot who survived the crash of his plane is said to have been on Santa Ana Island for more than a month and fathered a male child ­there, who is now deceased. From the New Hebrides command the Americans established an outpost of coastwatchers at Graciosa Bay on Santa Cruz (Nendo/Ndende) in the eastern islands of the Solomons (see Map 9.1). This was an unhealthy site and the station was closed. The Americans then located another station on the Reef Islands, above Mohawk Bay, where the men “enjoyed close and friendly relations with the two nearest villages.” In October 1942, a Japa­nese submarine came into the bay and was attacked by American aircraft. In response, Japa­nese aircraft strafed the coastwatchers’ station, but no one was hurt. Soon a­ fter, the U.S. command withdrew ­these men, one of whom had fathered a ­daugh­ter to “one of the young ­women of Nenubo.” He made no contact subsequently.12 She can be seen in the photo­graph (see Figure 9.1) taken by District Officer James Tedder in the early 1950s, but I was not able to journey t­ here and back to speak with this ­woman in the time I had in the Solomon Islands. I was able to locate two more children fathered by Americans. One man on New Georgia was said to be mentally fragile, so I did not interview him. The other one was on Rennell Island. During the war, American airmen, believing that Polynesian ­women of Rennell w ­ ere more obliging and attractive than the Melanesians, made the island and its huge lake a target for seaplane “crashes” and forced landings, but t­ hese visits rarely lasted long.13 A garrison of marines, however, was stationed ­t here for almost a year, and one marine at least left ­behind a child.14 That person’s f­ amily did not want details revealed. Even when families preferred to keep such information private, t­ hese part-­ American children w ­ ere so rare that communities knew about them. On Guadalcanal, some older residents recalled that when U.S. ser­v icemen visited inland villages they spoke to the headmen or other male leaders, not the ­women. The el­derly residents I met knew of only one such part-­A merican child. Several directed me to one f­amily. Like most of the few children of Americans and Solomon Islands ­women, this child came from a relationship that flourished away

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Figure 9.1. ­Daugh­ter of a U.S. ser­v iceman at Nenubo, Reef Island, center right facing camera, c. 1952. (Photographer: James Tedder)

from a base area, in a quiet pocket that the war had bypassed. But when the battles for the Solomon Islands first began in August 1942, much of the north and northwest coast of the big island of Guadalcanal was anything but quiet.

Off the Radar By late 1941 the Japa­nese imperial forces ­were advancing with amazing speed southward to Rabaul, New Britain. Once captured and fortified, this became a major air and naval base, supporting movement to the Solomon Islands. When the Japa­nese started bombing Tulagi in early 1942, the staff at the Catholic mission at Tangarare on the west coast of Guadalcanal prepared to “go bush” in case the worst happened, and they had two shelters built at a small place about a half-­ mile inland, called Tsupuna. Nonetheless, the mission at Tangarare continued to function as a religious center, school, and medical post.15 In mid-1942 the British administrative officer hiding in the mountains ordered the ­people to move inland and to refuse to work for the Japa­nese. However, the influential Marist priest, ­Father Emery de Klerk (see Figure 9.2), who was head of the Tangarare mission,

Map 9.1. Solomon Islands, with villages on west Guadalcanal and Reef Islands. The Lungga area is now the site of the postwar capital, Honiara.

The Solomon Islands: Off the Radar   235

advised coastal ­people in his area—­encompassing much of the west coast south of the main Catholic mission at Visale—­not to move ­because in their new surroundings they could suffer from exposure and hunger. Instead, they should report the movements of the Japa­nese to him, and he would pass this information on to the Americans personally or via a runner to a coastwatcher inland.16 Both Japa­nese and U.S. planes and ships w ­ ere regularly seen along the west coast as the ­battle for the north coast and its airfield continued.17 The Japa­nese soon took over Visale, forcing the mission personnel—­t he aged bishop, nuns, priests, and bro­t h­ers—as well as some schoolchildren to flee south to Tangarare; some hid in Tsupuna.18 A month l­ater, in early October 1942, the Americans sent a vessel to evacuate them all, but ­Father de Klerk saw it as his duty as a priest and de facto medical officer to remain and assist his congregation.19 Several coastal villagers did move inland, but the Japa­nese ­were patrolling parts of the rugged interior too.20 By late 1942 the American forces, having captured the Japa­nese airstrip on north Guadalcanal in August, pushed west where they and some local guerrillas, some u ­ nder the command of de Klerk, gradually picked off Japa­nese patrols and stragglers or forced them out. First with a British commission and then with an American one, the peripatetic de Klerk played a major role in recruiting local scouts and carriers for the Americans, planning operations, and sheltering crashed airmen, as well as keeping the worried ­people safe and opposed to the Japa­nese during this harrowing time.21 Although the Japa­nese on Guadalcanal had been driven out and farther west, their air attacks from Rabaul continued, focusing on the expanding U.S. airfields and Allied base on the north coast. Therefore in early 1943 the  U.S. ­authorities asked the New Zealand Air Force to supplement the existing U.S. radar installations with additional radar equipment, which would have taken too long for the Americans to ship. In the west of Guadalcanal the Americans had set up two radar units to trace the movements of Japa­nese planes that came in around the Russell Islands and crossed west Guadalcanal from the south to get to the north coast where the Allied Forces w ­ ere concentrated. One U.S. radar unit was established at Kobau in the south of Beaufort Bay in west Guadalcanal, not far from the Catholic mission at Tangarare, in late January 1943; soon ­after, another station was set up at Cape Esperance to the north (see Map 9.1).22 In ­t hese locations ­were also American garrison troops, units of the 25th Infantry. African Americans from the 24th Infantry (Separate) replaced them in August 1943, months a­ fter the Japa­nese forces had retreated from Guadalcanal in disarray in February.23 In August, the New Zealand radar operators finally began installing a station between the two  U.S. ones. Following the advice of ­Father de Klerk, then a newly commissioned officer in the  U.S. military, the New Zealanders

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Figure 9.2. ­Father Emery de Klerk with friends. (Walter Lord, Lonely Vigil: Coastwatchers of the Solomons. Reproduced with permission of trustees of the Walter Lord estate, Gilman School, Baltimore, Mary­land, and Hocken Collections, Uare Taoka o Hakena, University of Otago, Dunedin.)

selected a site at Kunjo, West Cape (or Peila). The station began operation in mid-­ November 1943. The American units at Cape Esperance and at Beaufort Bay moved out of Guadalcanal in February 1944.24 At West Cape, the 46th Seabees (Construction Battalions) had carved out a short road before the station was manned; soon ­after, the 61st Seabees continued constructing a recreation center, library, and hospital, as well as connecting the buildings to a ­water supply. The original “negro guard” ­were probably members of the 24th Infantry.25 Another guard unit consisting of some men from the 298th Infantry Division, originally the Hawaiian National Guard, seems to have arrived

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­later.26 It seems this unit was not supposed to come to Guadalcanal, but instead was to remain in Hawai‘i to defend it. However, some elements ­were assigned to the 24th Infantry and ended up on Guadalcanal in February 1944; they returned to Hawai‘i in November.27 The New Zealanders of Radar Unit 58 (code name: Saturn), led by Pi­lot Officer J. Russell, appreciated the work of “­t hese men, nearly all natives of Hawaii” who or­ga­nized camp hygiene and built a small airstrip, which unfortunately was ­later deemed unsuitable for the aircraft that ­were in operation. ­These Americans included some of Filipino ancestry. Descendants of mi­grant workers from the Philippines who came to the Hawai‘i plantations in the late nineteenth ­century, they introduced the New Zealanders to cock fighting.28 Although it was soon operational, the radar unit found that e­ nemy aircraft activity “was practically non-­existent.”29 With Rabaul rendered in­effec­tive in terms of its air power as a consequence of U.S. bombing raids, the worst of the conflict was over on Guadalcanal. Operations moved farther to the west and north. In this isolated outpost at West Cape every­one had time on his hands. ­Until some Japa­nese bombs fell near the radar camp, the U.S. and New Zealand air forces, as well as the U.S. Navy, used a small islet (Nuhukiki) off West Cape as a target for bombing and strafing practice. The New Zealanders and Hawaiian Americans also w ­ ere interested in using explosives—­for fishing. 30 To relieve the monotony, during much of late 1943 and early 1944 ser­vicemen from this base as well as farther afield visited the Eu­ro­pean caretaker at a plantation, located forty miles north, and the hospitable ­Father de Klerk at the Catholic mission to the south.31 Appreciative of the work of de Klerk, especially his actions in saving crashed pi­lots, a regular parade of Americans from the main base visited Tangarare. By the time the war ended he had counted more than two thousand overseas visitors at the mission station.32 At the New Zealand base, the military command sent the men the odd movie, but in the main they had to amuse themselves.33 The men received three bottles of American beer a week, but the New Zealanders did not like it and instead made their own “jungle juice.” ­Until they left in February 1945,34 with time to spare, the Allied personnel at the radar station w ­ ere glad to go on trading excursions to neighboring villages to barter for fresh fruit and vegetables. The local p ­ eople ­were content to be in their villages and be safe. It was during this time in 1944 that a young Paulo Cruz came to the village of Koqava in Kopau Harbor, just south of West Cape, and met a lively teenager, Letisia.35 Letisia is a remarkable w ­ oman. At age eighty-­eight, she sat beside her fourth husband and many of her descendants in Koqava and talked with me, assisted by her granddaughter, Theresa Haeo (see Figure 9.3).

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Figure 9.3. Theresa Haeo with her grand­mother, Letisia, 2010. (Photographer: Lyn Haywood)

This is Letisia’s story: Before the war came the government told every­one the war would come. They said to hide in the bush. ­A fter the Japa­nese came the government said to all the village p ­ eople [had] to run away and hide in the bush. Once the Americans came all the p ­ eople should return home. ­There was still fighting. The Americans came to get the Japa­nese out. Once the Americans w ­ ere in the area then the p ­ eople could come out from hiding. When the Americans came the war was on and fighting continued ­after they arrived. During the fighting the ­people went to the bush, but when the Americans arrived the p ­ eople came out of the bush. The Japa­nese did not come to this village. The Japa­nese came by sea to another village on the other side called Veuru. When the United States force arrived they asked the leaders or big men for permission. Then when they allowed them to stay, the leaders set up security places or positions where the Japa­nese could not enter. They stayed first at Kobau—­k nown as the Radar Station, then Kunjo [north of Koqava]. When they ­were at Kunjo base they did not come to stay ­here. But some came to buy food, talk with the ­people and to secure the area.

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Letisia met this American b ­ ecause he usually came around this village. Some p ­ eople around h ­ ere trained this Filipino man in the language. And when he had learned to speak the language he came and talked with Letisia. At that time she did not speak tok pisen (Solomon Island pidgin). So all trained him in the Ghari language. He came and talked. The men taught him and at the time Letisia was a very young girl. And t­ here ­were a lot of young men h ­ ere interested in her, but she showed no interest in them. So the boys they said, “You do not like us, you like white man.” When the white man came she talked to him in our language. The village boys did not like it. His name was Paulo Cruz—­Paul Cruz. He was a sergeant. The Americans w ­ ere coast watchers, radio operators and allied forces including New Zealanders, Australians, and Fijians. They came to stop the Japa­nese . . . ​ they did other ser­v ices as well such as building a road, providing medical ser ­v ices. Affection grew between Paulo and Letisia, and Letisia became pregnant. Although a child conceived and born outside of marriage is never “illegitimate” in the eyes of the Guadalcanal ­people ­because his or her clan membership  is traced through the m ­ other, the disruption of the regular pro­cess of marriage is still a cause for concern. The child eventually comes ­under the authority of the ­mother’s bro­t h­ers who are of the same clan as the m ­ other. Usually, the man who fathered the child is expected to offer  some form of compensation to the ­women’s clan and parents of the pregnant w ­ oman, even if he intends to marry her.36 Paulo provided the compensation, and despite their initial anger, her relatives ­were happy for the relationship to continue. Theresa explained: He was still ­here when she was about two months pregnant. So Paul knew [about the baby]. She was born [in 1945] ­after he went away. He was happy b ­ ecause he said that he would take the child back to Amer­i­ca. He said they had to go back and he would like to take Letisia back to US. But she did not want to go. She was very sorry [to see him leave]. He was sad too. Her ­mother and ­father ­were happy that child was born. They helped her to look ­after the baby girl. At the time Paul left, Letisia, says Theresa, was a practical w ­ oman and still young: When the Americans had gone she was about two months pregnant and she married a man from her village. The two of them stayed together and

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then the child was born and every­one was happy and they looked ­a fter them. No prob­lem, every­one was happy. She was sad that man [Paul] left. She cried a­ fter him. But he could not stay. He was a Filipino. Letisia is not sure what part of Amer­i­ca but she said that he said Hawai‘i. They called him a Filipino and some said he was from Hawai‘i. Letisia gave birth to a ­daugh­ter, Basilisa Galiu (see Figure 9.4), now a ­w idow in her sixties, yet still very energetic and full of life. Her ­mother, Letisia, had another five children: four sons and a deceased ­daugh­ter. Basilisa lives with her ­family to the west of Honiara, the capital on the central north coast. We discussed her life. BG: My ­mother married a local man. He kept me. As I grew up and knew him, he was loving to me. His name was Kanuto. He is dead now. JB: Did your m ­ other ever tell you anything about your ­father, the man from American army? How did she meet him? BG: She told me a l­ittle bit. When the war came t­ hese ­people came and stayed with us at West Cape at Kunjo. ­There is a small island nearby called Nuhukiki. Well this boy and girl, I think this boy he loved my ­mother so he came over ­here [to Koqava]. This is the story I was told. He was h ­ ere when she was pregnant but he went back to Amer­i­ca. They all moved back. My m ­ other said he gave some things for me but other p ­ eople spoiled them; they did not give ­t hese to us; they did not give it to my m ­ other. I do not know why they did that; they are all dead now. Only me left, they all dead. When I was a bit grown up and I learned about it. The p ­ eople ­here told me. My m ­ other was not h ­ ere then my [step] f­ ather’s ­people told me. I looked at myself and brother and sister—­I looked dif­ fer­ent from them. They told me a lot but I cannot add much more. Yes I was a bit scared, a bit frightened. I felt the same as ­others but I did not look the same. They would say I was not like them. They said that my ­father was from dif­fer­ent ­people, not same as them, he was dif­ fer­ent. I said that was alright. This is how I was born ­here. So it is OK. I went to school at Tangarare. He [stepfather Kanuto] took me to the Sisters and ­Father of the church at Tangarare. My husband was happy to marry me. My children they see me as dif­fer­ent but they know our story. But we just live like every­one in our community. My children are dif­fer­ent. Some look like me and some look like their ­father. We two stayed together and w ­ ere happy. My husband is dead.

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JB: Do you ever think about the American? Would you like to know more about him? BG: Yes we r­ eally want to know more about him and his f­ amily. I think he is dead. We did not know much or how to find out more as we had ­little schooling. JB: How about your f­ amily? How many children do you have? BG: Plenty and very impor­tant children! [Laughs]. I have fourteen very lovely children—­seven girls and seven boys. I am a hard worker.37 JB: Dif­fer­ent blood makes you strong? BG: I am a ­woman of this island too. Eh! You asked about my ­father if I wanted to know—if you find out anything about my ­father that would be good. Did he go to the Philippines or what? Maybe he is dead. Maybe he was killed. To ­these two strong Guadalcanal ­women, their village and its war­time visitors ­ ere not props and actors off stage from the main campaign—­a campaign that w has a huge library of books about it, yet hardly a sentence on this New Zealand radar outpost and its attendant  U.S. garrison. For them, the war­time visitors

Figure 9.4. Basilisa on north Guadalcanal, 2010. (Photographer: Lyn Haywood)

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­ ere the main event, the focus of a major part of their emotional lives, a feature of w their history and, for Basilisa, part of her genealogy and that of her several descendants.

So What? Some question the reliability of oral history especially in nonliterate socie­ties. Memory is fluid over time and, of course, influenced by personal factors not only at the time—as are written records—­but also subsequently. Yet the stories of ­these two ­women, Letisia and Basilisa, raised many questions for me. I had spent months on the south or Weather Coast (Tasi Mauri) of Guadalcanal in the 1970s and 1980s and walked its length a number of times, though I had not visited Tangarare. I had read many colonial rec­ords, both government and nongovernment documents, on this area and other parts of the island. In the 2000s I had also consulted military rec­ords in several countries for a book on the environmental effects of the war on the South Pacific. What Letisia and Basilisa told me was new, although I did know that F ­ ather de Klerk stayed on at Tangarare and did coastwatching at ­great personal risk. I had no knowledge of radar stations along this coast. Meeting Letisia and Basilisa sent me on a search. An old truism is that the victors write the histories; yet it also seems true that ­t hose victors who, in spite of courage and commitment, play a minor and, in this case, a mainly redundant part in the conflict do not feature in the standard war histories. References to the New Zealand base and even the U.S. bases on west Guadalcanal ­were hidden in privately published accounts written by members of units such as the radar operators in New Zealand; they ­were not found in the official histories. Without Emery de Klerk’s diary, t­ hese connections would have been difficult to trace. Yet the essence of what the scant written rec­ord reveals is present in the ­women’s stories. Unlike the gaze of the military or the pragmatic warrior priest, the w ­ omen’s perspective tells us how this global war touched their lives in what is still ­today considered to be an isolated part of Guadalcanal, let alone the world. In spite of several attempts, I have not found any path to the elusive Paulo Cruz from Hawai‘i, but he is still remembered in Kobau, and his name is not forgotten by his descendants. In our conversation, Theresa Haeo specifically asked me to pass on this message from her ­mother Basilisa: “My ­father has a ­daugh­ter and grandchildren in the Solomon Islands. If you can find my f­ ather or any of his children or relatives, tell them that my children, grandchildren and I want to know about them. We look forward to seeing them.”

C HA P T E R T E N

Marike Koe The American Children of the Cook Islands rosemary anderson

In late 1941, as the ­enemy advanced across the Pacific, Allied strategists feared the Japa­nese would occupy U.S. bases along the Pacific line of communication. In this event, New Zealand was envisaged as an alternative rear supply base, and a series of airfields ­were proposed to secure ferry routes from Hawai‘i through to New Zealand. In March 1942, the U.S. Army Air Forces (USAAF) began reconnaissance flights of the projected route, and army engineers visited thirteen potential sites. Having learned from difficulties already encountered in the Pacific, certain criteria dictated the choice of islands. Logistically, they required good natu­ral harbors or lagoons, as well as elevated land ­free from flooding during the violent storms that lashed the area. Three sites w ­ ere selected for development as Naval Air Transport System bases: Tongatabu in the Tonga group, a protectorate of G ­ reat Britain, and two of the fifteen islands of the Cook group, which was a de­pen­dency of New Zealand.1

New Zealand’s Northern Frontier Penrhyn (or Tongareva) is the largest and northernmost land mass of the Cook Islands. A ring of coral stretches forty-­eight miles (77 km) around numerous low-­ lying islets (motu) and islands, most of which are awash during storms.2 One elongated and slightly elevated islet, known as Moananui Island, was large enough to accommodate a substantial runway while maintaining a much-­needed cover of trees alongside it.3 A large lagoon with two entrances offered land-­locked shelter for vessels; this was a rare asset in the region and was often the refuge of trading schooners during the hurricane season.4 Once a famous pearl island of the Pacific, exports had fallen in recent times, and it was anticipated that at least seventy-­five men from a population of five hundred could be recruited as laborers to help construct the runway.5 An active local ­labor force was considered vital to military plans, ­because American workmen had already proven temperamentally unsuited to this task, “largely due to the foreign environment . . . ​and confinement in a small area without amusement and recreation.” 6 243

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Aitutaki, some 684 miles (1,100 km) to the south, is often described as an “­ almost atoll.” A barrier reef encloses a large lagoon, which contains several small islets and a larger island, which is volcanic in origin. Its fertile soils ­were capable of producing large quantities of fruit and vegetables for export, but commerce had been hindered ­here for some years by sporadic shipping calls and poor access through the reef.7 One relatively flat area at Amuri on the northern tip had potential, and the USAAF was confident that the New Zealand government would provide skilled equipment operators to grade and compact runways on the site. With a “native population” of around two thousand, Aitutaki promised a supply of workers to clear land and help construct the base.8 The indigenous p ­ eople of ­t hese islands are Cook Island Māori, Polynesians closely related to the peoples of Tahiti and nearby islands.9 They also share a close relationship with New Zealand Māori, and according to oral tradition, Rarotonga, the largest island in the group, served as a starting point for Māori migration to New Zealand.10 Trading links ­were established between ­t hese countries in the 1860s, and the islands ­were taken ­under a British protectorate in 1888.11 In 1901, the Cook Islands became New Zealand’s first South Pacific island colony; however, the indigenous ­people retained land owner­ship through hereditary title.12 A resident commissioner controlled islands affairs from Rarotonga (see Map 10.1), and resident agents ­were appointed to the populated outlying islands. Th ­ ese officials w ­ ere assisted by island councils comprised of local ariki (chiefs) and other nominated members, but the chiefs, though respected, no longer held real power.13 Cook Islanders w ­ ere patriotic British subjects, and five hundred men from a population of less than nine thousand had answered the call to empire during World War I. Island men who went to New Zealand also joined the New Zealand Māori Battalion during World War II and fought alongside their compatriots on distant Eu­ro­pean battlefields.14 More lobbied for an official military unit from their own islands to support the Allies, but the New Zealand government did not support this request.15 In light of this loyalty, New Zealand administrators assumed ­t here would be no objections to the use of land for Allied military purposes during w ­ ar­time.16

Allied Invasions In the early years of the war, life in the islands remained quiet and predictable. Only the occasional tropical storm or visiting ship interrupted daily routines, and most lived comfortably on the produce of the land and sea.17 Interactions between ­these scattered islands ­were limited, apart from schooners, which plied their trade throughout.18 Radio stations provided essential communications, and connec-

Map 10.1. Aitutaki and Penrhyn (Tongareva), Cook Islands, c. 1943.

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tions to other countries depended on a monthly steamer ser­v ice to and from New Zealand.19 Donald Long, an American ser­viceman who manned the weather station on Penrhyn in 1945, believes the Cook Island p ­ eople ­were relatively sheltered from happenings in the outside world before the “Allied invasion”; however, as war advanced closer to their shores, they knew enough to be fearful of the Japa­nese.20 When a plane flew above Penrhyn in March 1942, it was the first aircraft that most islanders had ever seen. They l­ ater told Long how they “took to the bush” in terror and only emerged when it had dis­appeared from sight. The same scene of panic is recalled on Aitutaki, where Kaiei Charlie, from the village of Amuri, was not alone in believing the Japa­nese ­were about to attack (see Map 10.1).21 ­There was g­ reat relief when the American star was sighted on the side of the plane, and they learned their islands w ­ ere being surveyed as potential sites for military bases. Kapatiau remembers when “some of the big ­people” from the army came to “look over the place,” before a small advance contingent of Americans arrived to begin clearing the airfield sites.22 A party of New Zealand engineers and local laborers joined them.23 In all, eight months elapsed before the garrisons arrived, and the ­people of Aitutaki ­were taken unawares when large numbers of soldiers and trucks began landing on the wharf at Arutanga (see Map 10.1).24 The ship had lain at sea beyond the reef, and its arrival had gone unnoticed. Tera chuckled as she recalled her fear, hiding ­behind a tree and watching as the soldiers marched ­toward Araura.25 She quickly ran home to tell her ­father, who assured her ­t here was nothing to fear from the Americans. They had arrived “to look a­ fter the ­people on the island b ­ ecause of the Japa­nese.” This quiet invasion was staged by the thousand U.S. army troops tasked with completing the airfield and constructing the base. As Amuri Field hastily took shape, two-­t hirds of Aitutaki’s able-­bodied men ­were employed as laborers—up to four hundred at the height of developments.26 Coral reefs w ­ ere blasted in the southeastern part of the lagoon to create a seaplane landing area, and with similar haste, local workers on Penrhyn assisted the one thousand ser­v icemen to develop the airfield and a seaplane base on the eastern side of the atoll.27 By early 1943, facilities ­were in place for the Naval Air Transport Ser­v ice, and naval personnel joined USAAF airfield garrisons on both islands. Intensive fighting on Guadalcanal averted Japa­nese threats, and the main contingents on Aitutaki and Penrhyn left one year ­after their arrival. However, ­t hese bases continued to play an impor­tant role as refueling stops for fighter and supply aircraft being ferried down to the South and Southwest Pacific, and between two and three hundred troops remained on the bases, maintaining ser­v ices throughout the war.28 Sta-

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tioned on the most isolated of the American outposts in the Pacific, the occupiers often had plenty of time on their hands and l­ ittle to entertain them.29 ­These w ­ ere not the first of their countrymen to experience the safe harbors of Penrhyn or the bounteous provisions of Aitutaki. Since the early nineteenth ­century, the rich whaling grounds of the Pacific have attracted hundreds of ships, the majority sailing from New ­England ports. They carried crews of up to thirty men, “a mixed bag comprised not only of New En­glanders, but also American Indians, runaway slaves, renegade British sailors and other Eu­ro­pe­ans of diverse nationalities and backgrounds.”30 By 1850, up to seven hundred whaling vessels ranged the Pacific, and with voyages lasting up to three years, stops w ­ ere made at vari­ous islands to take on fresh supplies of food, ­water, and firewood. ­After many arduous months at sea, the crews welcomed some relaxation and entertainment; most sought alcohol and the com­pany of obliging ­women.31 Liaisons between visitors and island ­women soon gave rise to imaginative perceptions of Eastern Polynesia as the realm of “­free love,” and w ­ omen who accepted gifts ­were perceived as prostitutes by some observers. However, cultural interpretations suggest ­t hese transactions ­were not motivated solely by material gain.32 At this time, many Polynesian ­women believed that super­natu­ral powers could be derived from encounters with foreigners, and in­de­pen­dent ­women of the lower ranks w ­ ere perfectly at liberty to offer themselves in this way. In some instances, ­t hese favors ­were regarded as a public duty to provide hospitality to guests.33 As missionary influence strengthened in Tahiti, seafarers sought refuge in more remote islands, and although Cook Island anchorages did not develop the lurid reputations of whaling ports in Hawai‘i and Tahiti, most islands in the group w ­ ere visited by explorers, w ­ halers, and traders during the nineteenth ­century.34 Visits to the northern atolls w ­ ere sporadic, however, and ­until the 1850s, Penrhyn was reputedly “the terror of all navigators.”35 Reports of the “savage state of the natives” curtailed the zeal of William Gill, who was based with the London Missionary Society (LMS) at Rarotonga from 1845 to 1860. He described the incident that eventually ended this hostility. A trading ship, sorely in need of supplies, attempted to land a crew, and a “native of New Zealand” ventured on shore to explain the reason for their visit. He was set upon and brutally killed, and Gill recounted the events that followed: Not long ­after this cruel deed, a blight came over the cocoa-­nut trees of the island and the “sacred men” among the tribe affirmed this was a judgment for the murder of the stranger; and the p ­ eople became so impressed

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with this affliction that they resolved not to lay violent hands any more on foreigners who should come to them.36 Fortunately, this incident occurred before 1853, when the San Francisco brig Chatham was wrecked on the reef. The islanders treated the castaways kindly for many months. The trader,  E.  H. Lamont, ­later wrote of his adoption by the community and “marriage” to three island w ­ omen.37 The following year, the white man’s prestige was further enhanced when the LMS introduced Chris­tian­ity, but this new found trust had devastating consequences. In the early 1860s, some 472 islanders, from a population of around 700, ­were duped or kidnapped by Peruvian slave traders. They ­were destined to die as slaves in exile, and the decimated population strug­gled in the face of prevailing famine and introduced diseases.38 ­These conditions forced o ­ thers to accept legitimate recruitment to plantations in Tahiti, and when William Gill visited in 1863, he found only eighty-­eight ­people and an island devoid of working-­aged adults. 39 Accepting foreigners and “outside blood” now seemed essential to survival. Whaling ships often replenished supplies in the southern islands, and a ge­ne­ tic legacy of that time has recently been discovered. In 1995, a child of Cook Island origin was diagnosed with sickle cell disease, a condition that occurs in approximately 8 ­percent of the African American population. This disease derived from an American ancestor who migrated to Ma‘uke (see Map 10.1) in the 1820s, and in all probability this man arrived on a whaling ship.40 In the year 1843 alone, thirty-­five whaling vessels had called at Aitutaki, where islanders actively bartered for desirable goods.41 Inevitably, numerous children ­were born of intimate relationships between visiting seafarers and island w ­ omen, but not all foreigners sailed away again. Over the course of the nineteenth c­ entury, numerous deserters and castaways ­were absorbed into island communities, a presence reflected in the high number of “mixed-­race” marriages in existence by the end of the ­century.42 Foreigners ­were attracted to the tropical and idyllic lifestyle in the islands, but in real­ity, it was often a precarious existence. Food crops ­were susceptible to storm damage, pestilence, and disease, and the islanders w ­ ere defenseless against the diseases introduced by the newcomers. For more than seventy years the population was devastated by epidemics of measles, dysentery, influenza, and other ailments, and during this time, Rarotonga’s population declined by almost 70 ­percent. No precise population data exist for Aitutaki during the nineteenth ­century, but the resident LMS missionary reported regular outbreaks of disease.43 By 1891, it was believed that population decline in the Cook Islands had stopped, and “with very fertile land now lying waste and useless,” Frederick Moss, the first

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British resident agent, encouraged immigration.44 Ideal candidates, he suggested, ­were Christian Japa­nese, who could be introduced in the same way as w ­ ere the Asiatic populations of Fiji and Tahiti. He anticipated they would rapidly increase production from the land and that intermarriage “would improve the native race.” 45 However, Moss soon realized the level of antipathy ­toward the local Chinese residents and abandoned the idea in f­ avor of Eu­ro­pean immigrants, though very few obliged ­because land was scarce and trea­sured by the island ­people.46

Kia orana, Welcome The Cook Island ­people ­were grateful for the American occupation during World War II, both for protection the Americans provided from the Japa­nese and for the opportunities their presence afforded. On this basis, the U.S. garrisons w ­ ere assured of a warm welcome to the Cook Islands.47 The Americans found the islanders “intelligent and generous” and provided employment in vari­ous support roles.48 Soldiers initially made private arrangements with local ­women to wash their clothing, and about five hundred islanders earned money in this way.49 When a steam laundry was installed at the Amuri base, forty ­women ­were employed ­t here full-­t ime.50 About one hundred island men found regular employment, and even children over the age of twelve could earn money by cleaning rifles, polishing shoes, and ­running errands. It seemed as if every­one worked for the Americans, and t­ hese wage-­earning opportunities ­were considered “a tremendous boon.”51 The ser­v icemen ­were never discouraged from mingling freely with the island ­people during their spare time, and interactions ­were reported as polite and friendly, with no apparent problems of drunkenness or vio­lence.52 Bearing gifts and novelties from the PX, “the boys” w ­ ere welcomed into island homes like part of the ­family, and according to Long, this level of hospitality never waned.53 This sense of camaraderie was evident when commanding officers visited Rarotonga in 1943. As the report of this event noted, The outstanding feature of the visit was the extremely cordial attitude of every­one on the Island ­toward the Americans. Officially and personally ­every member of the Administration endeavored to make our stay as pleasant as pos­si­ble and to reach agreements as desired by us in regard to ­every ­matter. This same attitude prevailed on business matters with ­every person we met, w ­ hether Eu­ro­pean or Maori. It was even carried to the point where one of the Native (Maori) chiefs, a member of the Island Council, stated in a public speech that the Islanders w ­ ere anxious to serve

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the United States; that the New Zealand Government had not called them; and that they now offered their ser­v ices to the United States.54 Although communal activities, such as picnics and sports, ­were seldom or­ga­ nized between the military and local p ­ eople, friendships soon developed between 55 ­people of all ages. The islanders enjoyed trying new foods and on occasion treated their visitors to feasts of local fare (see Figure 10.1). Movie theaters set up at vari­ous locations provided welcome entertainment, and cowboy films soon became popu­lar. 56 Long believes the ser­v icemen enjoyed this opportunity to share “civilization,” and what­ever was done to make the p ­ eople’s lives happier and easier was genuinely appreciated.57 The Americans considered Cook Island girls “lovely even by Hollywood standards”; inevitably, they w ­ ere much sought a­ fter for com­pany, which officers admitted was a g­ reat boost to morale.58 According to Long, the island elders ­were quite lenient when girlfriends w ­ ere sought among their young ­women, and generally perceived no danger from ­t hese hordes of friendly young men. In his time,

Figure  10.1. Americans enjoy a feast of local food at Aitutaki, March  1943. (EX. 111-­SC238513, NA)

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the men ­were strongly discouraged from forming serious relationships and advised not to divulge their home addresses. He suspects that, throughout the duration of the bases, any who mentioned marriage ­were shipped out at the earliest opportunity. As in other countries where American ser­v icemen ­were stationed, local men did grow quietly resentful, especially when passed over for a visiting soldier.59 Competition was certainly fierce. Island men ­were outnumbered by two to one while the main troop contingent was stationed at Aitutaki, and about eight to one on Penrhyn. Long suspects that even, with a small American presence, some of the Penrhyn boys “would like to have got us into the ­water and drowned us.” 60 This resentment was seldom openly expressed, however. Kaiei recalls only one instance on Aitutaki when local youths chased and threatened an American suitor. He turned around, pushed them back, and then went on his way as usual. Other­w ise, island men, both young and old, generally had a good rapport with the ser­v icemen. However, not all island residents welcomed the changing tone of island life, and some ­were deeply offended by the activities they witnessed. Young ­women ­were often guests at the bases, where they entertained with traditional island dances, shared a meal, and watched the latest movies. The soldiers reciprocated by teaching the latest American dance moves, such as the jitterbug, at or­ga ­n ized weekly dances.61 Older residents also found new interests, and many American dollars changed hands across illegal gambling tables.62 One disapproving Aitutakian reported the p ­ eople ­were “dancing and playing games to make them happy,” and implored the local priest to pray for a return to their holy faith; other­w ise “­t here ­w ill be big troubles.” 63 Donald Long was told of some prostitution in Penrhyn, and this was certainly the assessment of the vigilant ­local Catholic priest, ­Father Davids.64 Given ­t here ­were more than eight times as many men as ­women on the island in the first year of the occupation, Long suspects some ­women arrived from Tahiti and Honolulu for this purpose.65 The ser­ vicemen had ways of engineering the unauthorized inter-­island movement of ­people on airplanes.66 ­Father Davids was incensed to learn of ­women being transported to the base on trucks, at all hours of the night, and declared it a “red-­ hot spot.” He railed against the base commander for allowing this degradation.67 Most relationships between island ­women and American ser­v icemen, however, evolved through the everyday interactions of island life. Tera was seventeen when a young Italian American named Nick began “hanging around” her home (see Figure 10.2). They walked and talked, and attended the movies and dances together. Tera’s f­ ather had no objections to her American boyfriend. In his opinion, the island ­people ­were too closely related, and he

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Figure  10.2. Nicholas Marconi, a cook in the  U.S. Army, was stationed on Aitutaki for more than a year. (­Family collection)

welcomed some “new blood” in the f­ amily. Nick stayed ­until about 9 or 10 o ­ ’clock in the eve­ning, when a bus would arrive to return the men to the base. He asked his sister to send rings and other gifts for Tera, and she believed they would eventually marry. ­After a year-­long relationship, Nick was returned to the United States, and she cried on the beach as the ship sailed out of sight. Soon afterward, she realized she was expecting a baby. An army medic monitored her health and kindly sent for maternity dresses, while Tera fervently hoped for Nick’s return. She l­ater regretted not learning more about his background for the sake of her ­daugh­ter Maria (see Figure 10.3). Kapatiau’s ­father was less happy when the soldiers came to visit her. He pushed them away from the ­house, refused to let them in, and reported them to the police and Island Council. His apprehensions may have related to the five hundred African American ser­v icemen stationed in the vicinity, an opposition shared in some other quarters. Resident Commissioner Hugh Ayson discretely relayed reservations to the U.S. military command about ­t hese soldiers’ presence within his jurisdiction, but declined to register any official protest. The commanding officers agreed to take t­ hese objections into account in any ­f uture reduction of the forces, promising that, if pos­si­ble, “the Negro troops would be eliminated” from

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Figure 10.3. Maria Akuhata and her ­mother Tera. (Maria Akuhata private collection)

the Cook Islands.68 They certainly w ­ ere among the first evacuated in November 1943 a­ fter the base was constructed.69 Most island ­people ­were less discriminatory. They observed the strict racial segregation of the U.S. military with some interest, and some ­later told Long how the African Americans on Aitutaki ­were given “a hard time” by white soldiers when working at close proximity at the airfield or on the wharf. White soldiers expected this prejudice to extend into island society, telling Tera and her friends not to attend the “black dances” held on dif­fer­ent nights from theirs. The girls found the be­hav­ior of both groups perfectly acceptable and strug­g led to understand this attitude. They attended the “black dances” regardless, and some of the white soldiers became angry and refused to talk to them. One w ­ oman ­remembered their disapproval on another occasion. When a group of African Americans was sighted in the distance, a white ser­v iceman quipped, “Look, the black fish are coming down the reef.” The girls replied, “That’s alright, we ­don’t mind,” but w ­ ere quickly rebuffed with this comment: “Oh, we do mind . . . ​we ­don’t like black fish coming down ­here.”70

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Kaiei was nineteen years old when Lee Moore, an African American ser­ viceman from Detroit, befriended her. He came to her h ­ ouse looking for someone to do his laundry and helped her fetch w ­ ater from the well. He continued to visit regularly, sometimes bringing candy for the ­family, and her parents always made him feel welcomed. Kaiei and Lee would go walking, with her two younger sisters tagging along, and Lee enjoyed this escape from the tensions of military life. He spoke of marriage and gave Kaiei a ring; when she became pregnant, he asked that the child be named a­ fter him. He wrote several times ­after returning to the States, telling Kaiei how he longed to meet his son and have them join him. His sister sent clothing and diapers for the baby, and ­people said, “­Aren’t you the lucky one.” Many commented how Baby Lee looked just like his ­father, but ­t hese reminders grew bittersweet as time passed and Kaiei heard nothing further about traveling to the States. Lee’s sister continued to send parcels, but Kaiei, unaware of the official and ­legal barriers to her reunion with Lee, was left feeling resentful and betrayed.

No Child Is Ostracized About sixty children ­were fathered by U.S. ser­v icemen in the Cook Islands during World War II. Given the influx of “new blood” from the early nineteenth ­century, ­these island socie­ties had long since devised means of incorporating mixed-­race children into existing ­family structures. The offspring of fathers who “married in” w ­ ere entitled to land based on their m ­ other’s lineage. 71 Cook Island society permitted a considerable degree of premarital freedom and illegitimacy was not a grave social offense, so provisions of land extended to children born outside of stable relationships.72 The mothers’ extended ­family absorbed ex-­ nuptial children, who became members of large h ­ ouse­holds that accommodated up to four generations. Childrearing was regarded as a cooperative effort of the relatives and community: the child belonged to every­one and vice versa. The ­mother might remain the primary caregiver, or alternatively, a member of the ­family would informally foster or adopt the child. This “feeding parent” accepted responsibility for nurturing, nourishing, and educating the child.73 This special, but not exclusive, relationship gave the child an expanded sense of identity, rather than a new one.74 ­These arrangements varied between ­family and place, but the tamariki ‘āngai (­adopted children) of both Aitutaki and Penrhyn w ­ ere traditionally given preferential status over natal children. Generally, this aroused l­ ittle animosity.75 Secrecy sometimes shrouded the adoption of children born outside of socially recognized marriages, particularly for t­ hose a­ dopted into unrelated families or where the

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adopting parents had no birth children of their own. This secrecy derived from the spiritual concept of mana, which encompasses elements of authority, influence, prestige, and power. ­Because the mana of the adopting ­family transferred to the child, to hearken back to biological origins was to disrespect or dishonor that ­family. The ­adopted child soon learned such references ­were tapu, or forbidden, and many w ­ ere past childhood when they learned about their natu­ral ­family.76 When Tera gave birth to her baby girl, she “­didn’t look quite like an Islander . . . ​ she was a real blond . . . ​­little, skinny and white.” Maria always knew her ­father was an American ser­v iceman; this was common knowledge on Aitutaki, and she would often hear, “Marike koe” (­you’re an American).77 She remembers quite a few children like her and believed grandparents then “must have been excited to have some fairer looking kids.” Her fair hair set her apart, and she always felt special b ­ ecause of it. Her grand­father would not allow her hair to be cut, for fear it would grow in darker, and guarded her when ­people came around, hoping to snip a l­ittle bit off to use to make fishing lures. ­After the war, an American still stationed at the base advised Tera to “try and get to New Zealand,” as “this w ­ ill be a better place for you.” She already knew about t­ hese possibilities from a sister who lived and worked t­ here. When Maria was four, Tera left her in the care of ­family and departed for New Zealand to work as a nanny. This was a course followed by a number of young Cook Island w ­ omen left in this situation, and the money and clothing they sent back to island families w ­ ere an impor­tant means of support during the postwar period.78 New Zealand government officials never intended that ­t hese families would shoulder the financial burden of children born as a result of war, and the resident commissioner made it clear that the U.S. military must accept some responsibility. The army did supply condoms, principally as protection against sexually transmitted diseases, but according to Long, few deigned to use them. Commanders had agreed that where an American soldier admitted to being the ­father of a child or where paternity could be proven, pressure would be brought to bear on the f­ather to establish a trust fund with the resident agent. Given island conditions, $300 was deemed sufficient to support the child u ­ ntil the age of twelve. This outlay posed no ­great hardship, ­because this sum could be built up quickly, given “present pay and lack of expenditures.”79 Hugh Hickling, the resident agent at Aitutaki, reported, however, that the question of maintenance was never officially settled and negotiations ceased once the Americans left. The soldiers involved had entered into voluntary agreements, “but have not been heard from since.” Some arrangements ­were made on a private basis, and as an adult, Viriama Tuapou was given several hundred pounds and a photo­graph of her ­father. ­These had been left

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Figure 10.4. Arthur Beren Sr. (center) with Mere Taunga and other friends, c. 1945, Aitutaki Island. (Burns and Beren families’ collection)

in the safekeeping of her grand­father.80 Donald Long was also told how “some of the boys left money for their children” on Penrhyn. A few men sent support to their partners a­ fter the war. Arthur’s f­ ather sent back goods and cash to his m ­ other, Mere (Martha) Taunga, u ­ ntil the demands of one of her male relatives became excessive. Nonetheless, Arthur Beren Sr. never forgot this child and told his ­later children in the United States that they had a half-­brother in the Cook Islands (see Figure 10.4) (see the Epilogue).81 Long agrees that papa‘a (white) grandchildren w ­ ere “put on a pedestal” and believes they ­were readily accepted ­because most islanders already had some Eu­ ro­pean ancestry. One man he knew was initially annoyed about his ­daugh­ter’s Jewish boyfriend, but l­ater trea­sured his “­little Jew.” Miriama Dol grew up at Ureia on Aitutaki and believes war babies like her ­were perfectly acceptable to their communities: “no child is ostracized ­because of that . . . ​­we’re just part of the ­family.”82 Mary Ruggieri, from the village of Tautu, always knew who her f­ ather was. From a young age, her m ­ other showed her his photo and spoke about her “grand­mother Lucy” and “Aunty Mary” in the States. She realizes now that the ­whole of Aitutaki knew which children had American fathers, but few suffered

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any form of rejection.83 However, some hostility did surface through the inevitable teasing and jibes of children at school: Mary was sometimes called puti, (bastard or illegitimate child), mostly by children, but sometimes by adults as well. This teasing was upsetting, but the love and ac­cep­tance of her extended ­family acted as a buffer against this unpleasantness. The “war children” tended to achieve well at school, and many excelled in sports and athletics. Jackie Puna, one of t­ hose children, observed their collective treatment in situations where t­ hese abilities ­were used as markers of difference.84 Envious children might call them names such as “Gringo” or “Long John,” but the taunt of tupiti Marike (stupid American) was especially confusing for children too young to understand the implications.85 ­Those dubbed “American” wondered ­whether this “was some kind of curse” or implied some wrongdoing on their part. Jackie was told to ignore this name-­calling, but her ­mother and grand­mother ­were quick to compensate for any hurts. She was given special privileges and shown off to visitors and is thankful her cousins living in the same ­house­hold did not resent this favorable treatment. Instead, they took extra care of her, carry­ing her about and holding her safely between them when they w ­ ere all riding a h ­ orse. It appears some cosseted “American” children like Jackie w ­ ere teased only ­because they w ­ ere overprotected. Lavished with love and affection, Teina Williams was treated like a “Princess” for eleven years.86 Her feeding parents barely allowed her out of their sight, and she was teased when her Papa carried her to and from school. Her true parentage was open knowledge, but in this loving environment, she gave ­little thought to her absent m ­ other and American ­father. However, her grand­father insisted she hear how honorably her f­ ather had behaved t­ oward the f­ amily. Scott had come to him when he learned Te Auparetea was pregnant and expressed the wish to marry her. ­Because this was not permitted, he promised to return when released from the military. True to his word, Scott sent letters and a blanket for the baby and made plans for his f­ uture with Te Auparetea. However, she had already chosen a new life in New Zealand, and eventually Scott stopped writing to her ­family. For many years, Teina blamed her m ­ other for depriving her of a f­ ather, and her relentless pestering soured their relationship. Her ­mother explained how it hurt to remember that time and refused to talk about it, b ­ ecause she had long since “swallowed her pride.” Teina still finds it embarrassing that Scott’s name does not appear on her birth certificate, and she just says, “My ­father is American.” This requires l­ittle explanation in the islands; “Ah, y­ ou’re one of t­ hose . . . ​I’m one of ­t hose.”

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Fathers: Lost and Found The p ­ eople of Aitutaki w ­ ere overjoyed when Harold Benson returned to the island about five years ­after the war, and many gathered to greet him when he arrived. During his visit he took many photographs of the mamas (older ­women) he knew from his time ­t here and many of the children. He told six-­year-­old Francis Gifford that he was a friend of her ­father.87 She wanted to ask her ­mother about this, but Reura was living in New Zealand by this time. Ten years elapsed before she learned the story of her birth, and how her f­ ather Leonard had left the completed forms for her birth registration with the resident agent. He was being shipped out as Reura was giving birth, and some of the mamas co-­opted a nurse and army jeep to rush the baby to the airfield so he might see his child. They arrived too late as the plane was just taking off. Annie Maoate had l­ittle information about her f­ather and feared that any search would lead to disappointment.88 Her m ­ other Tuta‘i had exchanged letters with Arthur, her American, for some time ­after the war, but lost contact ­after she moved to New Zealand. On a visit to Aitutaki in 1998, Annie was shown a letter, which had arrived at the post office, from a former American ser­v iceman who was inquiring about ­people he knew ­t here. Her ­mother’s name was mentioned, and Annie was “on top of the world” when she realized this was her ­father. Arthur had often wondered what became of his island child and vowed to return one day. He had married and raised a ­family, and only ­after his wife’s death did he find out about flights to Aitutaki. With a visit in mind, he sent off a letter in the hope of making contact. It was a very special day for Annie when Arthur returned to the island to meet her. She made it clear from the beginning that she bore no ill feelings, ­because hers was a happy childhood, and he need not feel guilty. Annie’s life-­long dream was to one day pick up her birth certificate and find her f­ather’s name written ­t here, and Arthur was happy to make this a real­ity. ­These details ­were added to the rec­ord forty-­t hree years ­after her birth. Arthur and Tuta‘i also met, both for old time’s sake and b ­ ecause Arthur believed this reunion was impor­tant for their ­daugh­ter. It proved both therapeutic and well timed, ­because Tuta‘i died five weeks l­ ater. Before returning for a second visit, Arthur deci­ded to tell his grownup children about his secret war­time romance, and they “all screamed and at first ­couldn’t believe it.” Afterward, they asked many questions, and in time, they all met Annie, during visits with their ­father and when she and her ­family traveled to the United States. She knows that none of this would have happened if Arthur had not taken the initiative, and even if she could have tracked her f­ ather down,

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she would have been hesitant to interfere in the life of another f­amily. This has made their meeting all the more wonderful. Miriama grew up in the knowledge of her parent’s relationship on Aitutaki during the war. Her f­ather’s photo­g raph was proudly displayed in her grand­ parents’ home, and her m ­ other answered all her questions: “she r­eally helped me . . . ​she held nothing back.” Roimata was sixteen when she met twenty-­one-­ year-­old Eugene. Her parents welcomed him into their home, and in his spare time, he joined in ­family activities, riding the ­family’s ­horse and caring for the animals. He learned Roimata was expecting a baby before he left for Guadalcanal and was the last to board the aircraft. He left his handkerchief hanging out the door of the plane as a farewell gesture. Roimata received several letters from him before she was told he had been killed in action, and when Miriama was christened, a black bow was sewn onto her gown in re­spect for her ­father. Miriama was pleased when a genealogist friend offered to search for more information about Eugene and his f­amily. This search revealed some unexpected surprises. He had indeed been a casualty of war, but had only been wounded. He had returned to the United States to his wife, whom he had married two weeks before leaving on overseas ser­v ice; he died only six years before this search was conducted. A professional researcher traced his two sons, but only one was willing to have contact with Miriama. They shared information and ­family photographs and visited their f­ ather’s grave together. Neither resents their f­ ather’s actions, ­because both understand that in the uncertainties of war­time “you take love where you can.” ­Today, Miriama is philosophical and content: “it happened,” and she is a product of that time. Knowing that her f­ amily puzzle has been solved has set her mind at rest. Positive outcomes such as Annie and Miriama had are clearly more likely where families have openly discussed the child’s paternity. Bermy Ariihee was often called the Marike tamaine (American girl) in her locality on Penrhyn, but was never teased or made to feel ashamed.89 Secure in the love of her ­family, she never asked about her f­ ather, and no one offered any information. Only when she married did she become curious, but given the lack of information, she could not even begin a search. O ­ thers continue to resist their curiosity, b ­ ecause some feeding children believe it is tapu (forbidden) to discuss their biological origins. John Tearetoa respects this prohibition out of re­spect for the grandparents who lovingly provided for him and shielded him from gossip as a child.90 Josephine Lockington, who feels that the positive influence of her feeding parents throughout her life far outweighs the need to know her American identity, shares this understanding.91 She was upset when her children learned the circumstances of

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her birth from a relative and acknowledges it is a very emotional issue for them. They do not share the implied lack of permission she has accepted, but any search they may contemplate has been severely disadvantaged by the silence maintained across the years.

Hurts and Heartaches Before World War II, islanders had ­little need for cash. Cultivated coconut palms, fruits, taro, and vegetables formed the staple diet, and additional plantings allowed a ­little cash cropping. This income was sufficient to buy the extras that islanders had grown accustomed to, including Eu­ro­pean foodstuffs such as canned meat, flour, rice and sugar. The Allied occupation severely disrupted this established economy.92 A New Zealand journalist reported the “fantastic outpouring of money in the purchase of souvenirs, hiring of ­labor and general frenzied spending” and found it ironic that “the greatly increased buying power of the native has brought about a grievous state of economic instability.”93 Islanders readily abandoned ­family plantations for more immediate rewards, gained ­either through employment with the military or the manufacture of curios for sale.94 Some astute traders sent bulk supplies of “hula skirts” to kin working in Auckland for sale to the Americans on leave or stationed ­t here. The ­people of Manihiki sent large quantities of goods some 222 miles (358.19 km) across the ocean to Penrhyn to supplement a thriving market.95 Trade also prospered at Aitutaki, where locals bartered intensely with U.S. aircrews stopping over to refuel.96 Meanwhile, neglected growing areas became susceptible to pests and diseases, and the reliance on “foreign” foods increased.97 Only in the postwar era ­were the economic consequences of this war­time interval fully realized.98 Short-­term prosperity and dependence on imported food ­were potentially devastating for Penrhyn, a fragile atoll environment where existence was tenuous at the best of times. Although the New Zealand government had supported a coordinated effort to supply food to isolated islands during war­ time, officials appeared unaware of the potential plight of the ­people ­a fter the war.99 Instead, it was reported that the p ­ eople of Penrhyn and Aitutaki ­were “settling back satisfactorily into their normal habits of life.” Few had a­ dopted “a false standard of living,” ­because ­t here ­were too few consumer goods to spend their earnings on. ­Because only two islands of the group had been occupied, New Zealand officials believed that “the economic and social effects of this cultural impact ­were therefore limited.”100 The emotional trauma surrounding the births of some sixty American children and the sudden loss of their fathers seems to have largely escaped the notice,

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or interest, of officialdom once the Americans left. This time was difficult for many of the mothers, and not all the children had easy lives, although most would develop ways of coping with their difference. As the Marike tamaine (American girl) in her f­amily, Helen Raeina was pampered throughout her childhood on Penrhyn.101 She trea­sures a photo­graph of her American grand­mother left for her by her ­father, Tom Johnson. Her island grand­mother told her the story of her parents’ relationship and how her ­father chose his ­daugh­ter’s name. When Tom learned he was being shipped out, he requested an army transport to bring Ito to the base to say goodbye. This request arrived too late, and Ito was so upset she refused to talk about this for many years. Helen believes her m ­ other was traumatized by this experience of being pregnant and not having the opportunity to say goodbye. A ­ fter that, “every­thing sort of changed . . . ​the happiness . . . ​just changed from ­t here.” Jack Oran believes the war­time experience for w ­ omen was “swept u ­ nder the mat” and forgotten in Penrhyn.102 His early years t­ here ­were difficult and harsh. The closure of the base spelled the end to the islander’s lucrative employment, as well as to the con­ve­nient food and rations from the PX that the Americans passed on to their ­women and their families. ­There was ­little left to sustain the ­people or to buy the goods now regarded as essentials. Moreover, a major food and cash source had been lost when 16,400 coconut trees w ­ ere cut down to make way for the airfield. In spite of the New Zealand government’s compensation, which soon was spent,103 many islanders faced with deteriorating health and starvation had no choice but to leave. Jack was taken to Rarotonga at the age of four, but even ­there it was “survival of the fittest.” His f­ amily members ­were effectively “foreigners,” with no access to land to grow food, and they often went hungry. Jack was taunted with names such as “beanstalk” and “white boy” and was constantly fighting to defend himself. Nooroa Tuaiti, the son of an African American ser­v iceman, remembers the aggression he experienced while growing up in the village of Vaipae on Aitutaki (see Map 10.1).104 Some of the boys called him a “black bastard,” and they bullied and beat him ­because of his athletic prowess. His wife Lucy grew up in the same village, and she believes the African American boys could not avoid fighting, as they w ­ ere constantly picked on b ­ ecause their physical strength and sporting ability set them apart. Nooroa sensed a growing camaraderie between the “black negro fellows” and believes even the white American children took some strength from their shared difference. This helped alleviate any discrimination that existed. Nooroa emerged from his childhood unscathed and happily bears the nickname “Nat,” ­after Nat King Cole. He retains a strong Cook Island identity and is thankful for the way his grand­father passed on the skills that make island

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life enjoyable. Nat never asked questions about his paternity and gives ­little thought to his American side. Even so, he admits he would have liked to meet his ­father. Alfred Morris was shocked when he learned the man who raised him was not his biological ­father.105 For thirteen years, his fairer skin and ginger hair had marked him as dif­fer­ent, and he was overindulged and treated as special. When he learned his difference was derived from an American ­father, he was overwhelmed by a sense of rejection. He could not understand why his f­ ather had not returned to marry his ­mother, in the same way that his American ­uncle, Donald Long, did.106 Alfred eventually realized that bitterness was clouding his happiness and made a conscious decision to move on with his life. Only with maturity could he understand and accept how difficult this situation may have been for his ­father. This man is never far from his thoughts, and Alfred has tried to locate him, without success. He continues to seek information in the belief that he and his ­family have a right to know. Richard Hewitt had a good relationship with the man he knew as his ­father and only learned his true paternity at the age of nine “­because ­people talk.”107 His ­mother refused to answer his questions, but when he was thirteen he learned he had been named ­after his American ­father. Unsurprisingly, to keep ­family harmony, mothers w ­ ere often less willing to discuss their “American” child’s paternity a­ fter they had married and a stepfather was present. When the resident agent and school principal on Aitutaki received letters of inquiry from Jackie Puna’s American ­father, her stepfather tore them up in a fit of rage. Once or twice a year, a large metal box would arrive for her ­mother, with clothing and shoes from the United States, but u ­ nless it was quickly spirited away to o ­ thers, her stepfather would throw every­t hing on a bonfire. Her ­mother was certainly never able to wear that clothing. Blue Nelio pleaded with his ­mother to reveal the name of his African American ­father, but to no avail.108 Left in the care of a cruel and abusive grand­father, he had good reason to dream of a better f­ather figure. He was forced to work hard and was punished for the slightest reason, and his cousins w ­ ere encouraged to perpetuate this bullying. An ­u ncle once had to intervene to save him from a serious beating, and a neighbor threatened to report this abuse to the police. As a child, some p ­ eople addressed him with taunts of “hey, you bloody nigger,” but Blue had no idea what this meant. Only ­later, when he overheard ­people talking about how his f­ ather had died, did his paternity become a source of pride and strength. In spite of his early disadvantages, Blue overcame life’s battles, and ­today he is proud to acknowledge his African American “slave heritage.” Things may have been better had his ­father been around, but he enjoys his life nonetheless.

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Lee Moore recalls the shoes and neckties sent by an aunt in Detroit.109 This clothing set him apart from the other children at church, who ­were perhaps a ­little in awe of him b ­ ecause his f­ather “was not like theirs.” His grand­father told the ­family they must be extra kind to Lee and never harm him, b ­ ecause his f­ather came from a far-­away country. For a time, ­t here was a “type of re­spect,” but this changed as Lee grew older and his grand­father was no longer around. He could always rely on his ­mother and grand­mother for support, but his uncles ­were poor roles models and took ­little interest in him. He longed for a mentor, a ­father figure to encourage and protect him. Lee once wrote a letter to his ­father in the United States, enclosed his photo­graph and sent it off. At ten years of age, he was too young to understand that his hopes of making contact ­were unrealistic. As he grew older, Lee internalized this personal anguish, and only in his late teens did he find solace, through a personal faith which helped fill the void in his life. ­Today, Lee is proud to be known as the son of an African American ser­ viceman, given that nation’s defense of the Pacific and its status in the world. When visiting the United States, he was overwhelmed by a sense of familiarity; it felt like “this is where I belong.” He finds himself drawn to American ­music, especially the blues and spirituals, and longs to meet his other ­family, “just to see my own blood.” However, with no birth date for his f­ather or army serial number, the search for f­ amily seems almost futile (see Figure 10.5). Maria joined her m ­ other in New Zealand when she was eleven years old, and in private moments Tera spoke to her of her relationship with Nick, to help her ­daugh­ter understand about her ­father. When Maria ­later worked in an Italian cafe she was asked which part of Italy she came from. She explained that her ­father was an Italian American, but as a war baby, she knew ­little more. She has been forced to accept that she is unlikely to ever meet her ­father, but she would dearly love to know about her American ­family, even if they choose not to acknowledge the relationship. This knowledge is also impor­tant to her f­amily members, who have searched without success. Although this is disappointing, “we just carry on,” and Maria continues to view her life experiences positively. Forced to grow up quickly without her ­mother, she became a survivor: “I tried to adapt . . . ​I’m in­de­ pen­dent too . . . ​move on and do things . . . ​can cope.” Francis has always trea­sured the jewelry Leonard gave her ­mother, Reura, and when her first son was born, Reura asked that he be named a­ fter his American grand­father. Inquires in the United States revealed Leonard may already have died; this was disappointing for Francis and a prospect for which she was unprepared. She was very excited when an acquaintance from Aitutaki gave her a photo­graph of Leonard taken ­there during the war, and this has fueled her ­family’s desire to learn more about the American side of the f­ amily. The void that Francis feels is shared by her children, who wish to learn not only their ancestry, but their

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Figure 10.5. Lee Clinton Moore and his ­mother Kaiei, 2010. (Photographer: Marsa Dodson)

f­ amily medical history as well. They consider this vitally impor­tant for the sake of present and ­f uture generations. When Mary Ruggieri was a child she took her identity from her ­mother, and was known as Mary Nooroa Kavana u ­ ntil the age of thirteen. Only when she applied for her birth certificate to travel for further education in Rarotonga did she discover her ­legal surname was Ruggieri. Her ­mother met Michael while working in the laundry at the base, and although they ­were forbidden to marry, on the day he left Aitutaki he gave her a wedding ring, along with a signet ring for his unborn child. Sadly, ­t hese rings are no longer in Mary’s possession, but she still has another priceless item—­a photo­graph of her parents taken just before her ­father’s departure that day. Mary believes she was “one of the lucky ones” ­because of the kind of person her m ­ other was. She always did her best and compensated for the lack of a ­father. Francis can still visualize some of the ­women who had children with the Americans, who “never married ­after that, just lived in relationships.” She observed that the “American” children ­were sometimes treated differently, “like an outsider” when their mothers did marry.

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Mary’s own life has not been without complications and stresses, and it still hurts to remember some aspects of her childhood. She has often wondered ­whether her biological ­father could have protected her from ­t hese troubles and as she strug­gled to provide for her ­family, she speculated how his emotional and material support might have eased life’s burdens. When Mary was thirty-­seven years old, a relative found a pos­si­ble address for her f­ather in the United States, and Mary sent a letter and photographs. She was pleasantly surprised to be woken at midnight by a phone call from her ­father Michael. He ­later sent her a birthday card and said he would rent a private mailbox so they could continue to communicate. Perhaps the risk of having this relationship discovered proved too difficult for him, ­because she never heard from him again.

The Polynesian Way Lt. Col. John Harrington never resumed civilian life in the United States ­a fter serving four years in the Pacific (see Figure 10.6). His d ­ augh­ter Coral told the story of his leaving Aitutaki and traveling only as far as Honolulu before resolving to return to the islands.110 He had lost interest in his business back home and deci­ded to leave the socializing and city cocktail parties b ­ ehind him forever. He took his discharge papers and traveled to Wellington, where he coordinated the transfer of U.S. supplies to the New Zealand government. From ­there he made his way back to Aitutaki, where he was reacquainted with Myra McCulloch, a Cook Islander and former nurse to the American troops on the island (see Figure 10.7).111 They built a comfortable home on Aitutaki, where John managed the flying boat base at Akaiami Island (see Map 10.1). This base was then used as a refueling stop for domestic seaplane ser­v ices across the Pacific. John gained the reputation of an honest entrepreneur, designing and building the equipment needed for this isolated island role. Visitors w ­ ere also impressed by the modern American drug store he set up ­t here and the many and varied ser­v ices he could offer.112 Donald Long was another man who returned to the islands ­after his discharge from the military. He was determined to make his way back to Helen, his island sweetheart, but with waiting lists of up to a year for some air and shipping ser­ vices, it was a slow and difficult pro­cess. He was fortunate to arrange travel as far as Honolulu and found work ­there while he awaited an opportunity to sail to Penrhyn. When the captain of a yacht agreed to take him ­t here, he sent a tele­gram to Helen to tell her he was on his way back, and the wireless operator on Penrhyn was too excited to keep this news secret. Within an hour word had spread around the island, but nobody believed Long would actually return. When the boat was sighted, every­one gathered on the beach to welcome him, but the resident agent

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Figure 10.6. John Harrington pictured in uniform during World War II. (Coral Tereu private collection)

was unwilling to allow him ashore. The official port of entry to the Cook Islands was at Rarotonga, seven hundred miles from Penrhyn, but in the excitement of the moment, officialdom bowed to public pressure and “every­thing was smoothed over.” Helen’s ­mother was jubilant, ­because every­one had told her “he’s lying, he ­won’t come back.” When Donald and Helen married about two weeks ­later, ­t here was a community-­w ide cele­bration, and “all the girls with American babies got together and gave a special reception, which was very nice.” Their son Roland has always felt the island ­people ­were im­mensely proud of Long, ­because he was the only American who ever came back.113

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Figure  10.7. Hugh Hickling, resident agent of Aitutaki during World War II, with Cook Islands nurse Myra McCulloch, who was ­later to marry John Harrington. (Coral Tereu private collection)

The  U.S. bases on Aitutaki and Penrhyn remained in full operation u ­ ntil September 1944 and then continued in a limited capacity for another two years.114 The ­enemy never attacked the Cook Islands, and the war years are recalled as an exciting, rather than a devastating, part of island history.115 Memorable friendships w ­ ere made, and t­here was g­ reat sadness when the Americans departed. Long heard of many islanders who sat down and wept, as they would for the loss of their own children. Kapatiau remembers the farewell bonfires on the beach and the scene at her home, where her friends gathered to commiserate and support one another. Her f­ ather took pity on the heart-­broken girls and provided a feast in the hope of cheering them up. Her soldier, like many o ­ thers, had wished to marry, but this was forbidden, and the hopelessness of her situation became increasingly apparent. In the aftermath, Kapatiau was teased by some island men, who insultingly suggested she would now need to look in their direction again.

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When Donald Long reflects on the war years, he can understand how much the American ser­vicemen missed their f­ amily and girlfriends back home, but prefers not to dwell on the married men who talked about their wives while g­ oing out with local girls. Some merely viewed this as an opportunity for a quick romance, ­because that “was the world as it was in war­time.” He has no doubt this friendly “invasion” changed the outlook of island ­people, but “we did them more good than we did harm,” and most gained from this experience. The luxuries of “civilization” ­were certainly missed when the bases closed. He believes it was inevitable the p ­ eople would subsequently grow dissatisfied with their lot, especially the young. The entire population of some villages left ­after the war, seeking employment and a dif­fer­ent lifestyle in New Zealand, and he knows of few who returned to live permanently in the islands. The numbers leaving ­were a ­great loss to ­t hose who remained, but this exodus “was bound to come,” ­because the islands could not remain isolated forever. A steady population recovery since the turn of the twentieth ­century placed pressure on natu­ral resources, and the gradual emergence of an attractive l­ abor market in New Zealand drew many away.116 No ­matter where their lives have taken them, the “American children” of Aitutaki and Penrhyn retain a strong sense of island identity. Names given them by their American fathers have drawn attention to their histories; for example, Goldy Goldie often has had to explain he is a product of war.117 Grover Harmon has talked with many Americans, and when discussing his origins, they have assumed their island communities would have ostracized the children of the U.S. ser ­v icemen.118 He explains this was not the case in the Cook Islands, where “the local ­people ­really looked up to the Americans ­because they ­were ­t here to protect them.” ­After the war, the New Zealand government found it “of interest to rec­ord that a number of Maoris [of Cook Islands] failed to submit claims for compensation in re­spect of loss of trees and crops destroyed for roads and other projects.”119 An American writer readily attributed this failure to seek compensation to a “feeling of loyalty and the desire to give up something for the Allied cause,” which was considered more impor­tant than their economic loss.120 ­There is no doubt the Americans w ­ ere greatly admired, but in real­ity, most of their adult offspring feel this association by blood has neither helped nor hindered their lives.121 Few American daughters express any attraction ­toward American culture, but when Josephine watches a war movie, she always wonders what her ­father went through. Girls removed from close ­family, in par­tic­u ­lar ­t hose sent for further education in Rarotonga, ­were perhaps more susceptible to exploitation and abuse, but on the ­whole, most “American children” ­were well treated and lived lives f­ ree from shame.122 Few have experienced problems in regard to hereditary

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rights to their m ­ other’s ­family land, and the ac­cep­tance and love of extended ­family have enabled most to cope well in life. Grandparents appear to have played a particularly impor­tant role in cultivating a healthy sense of self-­worth in their “American” grandchildren. ­Those “American children” who w ­ ere separated from the nurture and warmth of extended ­family ­were less fortunate. Arthur Beren remembers his first eleven years on Aitutaki as a very happy part of his life, ­because ­every child ­there “is absolutely adored” and lovingly corrected by the older ­people. This changed drastically when he was taken to Australia.123 As the “only brown face in a sea of white,” he had to work hard to do well both in education and sports and to gain ac­cep­tance and approval in his new society. Shirley Bolus’s ­mother traveled from Rarotonga to work in New Zealand during the war, where she met and married an American ser­v iceman stationed ­t here.124 Their relationship found­ered when he returned to active ser­v ice. Growing up in New Zealand, Shirley’s childhood was devoid of the affirmation given to children like her in the islands. Her stepfather was kind, but his f­amily referred to her as “the American girl.” She had no firm sense of ­belonging to ­either Eu­ro­pean or Cook Island Māori, and when a friend’s f­ather called her a “half-­breed,” her ­mother’s explanation left her feeling “dirty” and ­embarrassed. Regardless of their circumstances, the “American children” who participated in this proj­ect ­were happy to acknowledge their mixed ancestry, yet admitted to a sense of emptiness where pieces of the f­ amily puzzle ­were missing. Only learning about their ­father’s side of the ­family could fill this void, and some felt this deficit more acutely than ­others. Boys deprived of a positive ­father figure while growing up w ­ ere more likely to feel angry, hurt, or abandoned, but with maturity, most developed a pride in their origins. This outlook was almost certainly enhanced by the Cook Islanders’ debt of gratitude to the Americans. Francis Gifford was told they w ­ ere saved from being “wiped out by the enemies,” and Miriama believes this opinion has not changed over the years: “the p ­ eople of Aitutaki loved the Americans, they honestly did . . . ​they never spoke anything bad about them.” She has seen photographs taken during that time of the young girls who ­were entertaining the troops. They ­were dancing, and “it was just natu­ral . . . ​that’s the Polynesian way as a w ­ hole.” As for being a child of the war, “we had a lovely childhood, protected, loved and trea­sured.” With few exceptions, this is the experience of the “American children” of the Cook Islands, who w ­ ere enveloped within a culture where their difference was celebrated, rather than denigrated.

C HA P T E R E L E V E N

On the Atolls Gilbert Islands judith a. bennett

Located astride the Equator, the necklace of atolls once called the Gilbert and ­Ellice Islands became a British possession at the end of the nineteenth c­ entury. In 1970, when po­liti­cal in­de­pen­dence was ­under consideration, the two archipelagos deci­ded to separate, mainly ­because the Gilbertese ­people ­were Micronesian and the Ellice Islands ­people ­were Polynesian. The former joint colony became the separate states of Kiribati (1979) and Tuvalu (1978). Before the war with Japan, in terms of land area and population, t­hese scattered islands w ­ ere the smallest of Britain’s colonies in the Western Pacific with the exception of tiny Pitcairn Island. The Gilbert Islands ­were the more populous, at about 26,500 residents, including just over two hundred Eu­ro­pe­a ns and nine hundred Chinese, with most of t­ hese foreigners on Banaba (Ocean Island) working in phosphate mining. The sea was and is always part of the Gilbertese landscape and lives. Almost all the atolls are at a maximum elevation of about two to three meters above sea level, and they sit with the ocean on one side and the lagoon on the other. Once Christianization began in the mid-­ nineteenth ­ century and local fighting ­decreased, this level topography allowed for good paths between villages and, by the 1930s, encouraged the widespread use of bicycles. Although the encompassing maritime environment provides rich protein from the fishery, the land has ­little real soil, just leaf fall humus and coral grit, so many plant va­ri­e­ties common on high islands do not thrive or are very hard to grow. The main plant foods are babai or swamp taro (Cyrtosperma merkusii), breadfruit, pandanus fruit, bananas, and the ubiquitous coconut. The coconut palm also provides toddy, which is rich in vitamin B, though the fermented or sour form can induce intoxication. In good seasons, the ­people made some copra, which before the war was mainly sold to agents of Australia-­based companies, Burns Philp and On Chong (owned by W. R. Carpenters from 1935). Despite all t­hese natu­ral resources, life was sometimes precarious on t­hese l­ittle coral atolls, ­because drought often reduced food supplies from the land, forcing

270

On the Atolls: Gilbert Islands   271

men to seek employment and cash elsewhere. Some worked in mining on the higher island of Banaba (see Map 11.1), but this was hard, unappealing work.1 Although some of the atolls ­were battlefields during the war, their peoples, unlike say, ­t hose of the Solomon Islands, had no vast, mountainous hinterland at hand for escape and shelter. Some did manage to remove themselves from invaders by moving at low tide to a nearby islet, traveling to an obscure swampy corner on a larger atoll, or sailing to more distant ones, but they risked being shot at sea by the protagonists. Often too, they had no vessels in which to exit ­because the Japa­nese had wrecked them. They sheltered from bombing raids as best they could, but t­ here ­were few secure hiding places. On Butaritari (Makin) for example, Japa­nese planes in August 1942 bombed the village of Keuea in retaliation for the island’s supposed support of a group of American marines known as Carlson’s raiders, who had landed secretly to destroy a base t­ here and divert Japa­nese resources from the Solomon Islands (see Map 11.2). Forty-­eight village p ­ eople died and many w ­ ere injured. As well as occupying Butaritari, the Japa­nese took over Banaba and Abemama and, in October 1942, began fortifying Betio on south Tarawa and constructing an airfield ­there. Betio ­people relocated on the nearby islets of north Tarawa (see Map 11.3). Before the Japa­nese had arrived, the New Zealand government in July 1941 had sent coastwatchers and radio operators to fifteen of the atolls of the Gilbert and Ellice Islands. With few places to hide, ­t hese men ­were soon discovered by the Japa­nese and imprisoned or executed. In November 1943, a massive armada of U.S. ships converged on Betio. Within a few days the island fell to the Americans, ­after a b ­ attle leaving more than 4,700 Japa­nese and 1,000 American dead. Abemama and Butaritari with their small garrisons soon capitulated. The Americans, however, left Banaba to “wither on the vine,” bypassing it on their advance north. It was not reoccupied ­until September 1945 at war’s end. By then, the Japa­nese commander had executed 150 Gilbertese men who had been working ­t here when the Japa­nese took over. To the United States, the atolls of Tarawa, Butaritari, and Abemama ­were “unsinkable aircraft carriers” that provided sites for airfield and base construction needed to mount the campaign north into the Marshall Islands and Marianas.2 Americans on south Tarawa interacted l­ ittle with Gilbertese ­women ­because small, battered Betio—­virtually stripped of all vegetation—­held the main garrison, which was expanding the Japa­nese airfield.3 Male Gilbertese ­labor was ferried down from the northern islets of Tarawa atoll and beyond. ­There ­were no American ­women on Tarawa ­until 1944 when twelve army nurses arrived at the hospital, about two miles to the east of Betio on Bikenibeu islet, near the new Mullinix airfield.

Map 11.1. Modern Kiribati (formerly Gilbert Islands) and Tuvalu (formerly Ellice Islands).

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Map 11.2. Bikati and Butaritari (often called Makin by the Americans), with war­time defense installations in the south.

Although American men had written home about the difficult conditions on the atolls as well as the “topless Gilbertese native girls” who appeared in the Life magazine issue of 17 April 1944, it was the photographs showing the nurses and officers playing tennis and swimming in the lagoon that upset the wives and girlfriends of the ser­v icemen based ­t here. Th ­ ere was “Hell to pay,” but most wives, except t­hose of the officers, could be reassured b ­ ecause the nurses lived and worked in “officer territory,” and enlisted men could not date officers—­a rank

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given to all female naval nurses. Moreover, their quarters ­were fenced in and guards posted. Most enlisted ser­vicemen never saw t­ hese ­women u ­ nless they w ­ ere hospitalized, though the few who did “went slack-­jawed for a while.” 4 With the need for vari­ous military installations and hospitals, the occupation spilled over to other parts of Tarawa where ­t here ­were villages and opportunities to meet local p ­ eople (see Map 11.3). Compared to Abemama and Butaritari, however, both the civilian authority and the military on Tarawa more strictly enforced

Map 11.3. Tarawa, c. 1943.

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rules regarding interactions.5 The military made it clear that “any man found guilty of sexual inter-­course with any native w ­ ill be given punishment in full mea­sure, as prescribed by Summary Court.” 6 Separation of the Gilbertese from the Americans was always difficult b ­ ecause of the numbers of Americans involved, the smallness of the islands, and the presence of a network of roads often improved by the Americans. On Abemama, for example, t­ here ­were eight hundred local p ­ eople and eight thousand Americans. The Americans built nineteen miles of coral surfaced roads that aided the movement of ­people as well as supplies.7 ­Here and on all the atolls, t­ here was no urban space as, say, in New Zealand, New Caledonia, or Fiji where bored troops might be entertained as well as contained to some extent. Commanders on Abemama realized that this island was overcrowded with troops. In early 1944, as the United States was driving north to the Marshall Islands, the Army Air Force wanted to relocate the third Air Ser­v ice Support Squadron (ASSRON) from Funafuti in the Ellice Islands to Abemama, but the naval commander ­t here refused “due to the fact that t­ here ­were already too many soldiers on the island.”8 To obviate conflicts, some areas had been declared officially out of bounds for the troops. While Gilbertese men worked for the Americans, the sweet-­smelling ­women made equivalent money d ­ oing American laundry and selling local craft work.9 Several Abemama ­women thus got to meet Americans regularly ­under the washing line (see Figure 11.1). ­These young men found that “the ­people ­were moral and clean . . . ​t he girls did not wear any clothing above the waist, and of course we thought that was much better than Dorothy Lamour and her sarong . . . ​t hey had long black hair and beautiful teeth.”10 At the start of the occupation, the U.S. command made it clear to ser­v icemen that “if the military did not punish them for hanky panky, native laws would,” as it seems they did when one over-­amorous sergeant was found with his head cut off. The command attributed the killing to a stray Japa­nese, but this account “was a crock,” ­because all twenty-­five Japa­nese of the original garrison ­were already dead.11 In time though, poor military leadership on Abemama resulted in complaints of Americans molesting w ­ omen, stealing from their ­houses and, on one occasion, dancers being forced to put on shows on a Sunday, which to t­ hese Christian ­people was a sacred day. On Butaritari, high-­ranking Americans ­were involved in parties in the main village of Ukiangang that sometimes led to incidents of drunkenness and “prostitution.”12 Even so, the Americans ­were well liked for their friendliness and open-­ handedness, particularly on Butaritari (see Figure 11.2) and Tarawa. The Americans also liked the ­people: “The men and boys are quite handsome, strong and healthy, while the ­women though not so pretty, are not ugly even by our standards.

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Figure 11.1. Gilbertese ­women ­doing washing for the Americans. (Peter McQuarrie collection)

Their skin is very dark brown; they smile and laugh a lot.”13 So popu­lar and generous ­were the Americans that many on Butaritari and Tarawa lobbied for them to stay on ­after the war to replace the staid and parsimonious British; however, high-­ level ­orders from military and civilian authorities soon quashed this proposal.14 Once the Americans left, the Gilbertese settled back into the old rhythms of life. But the memory of a dif­fer­ent world lingered for some time. So did a small U.S. Coast Guard garrison to man the radio and ­later the radar station at Bikati islet in northwest Butaritari u ­ ntil mid-1951. This American military presence was reinforced well into the 1960s by U.S. Coast Guard personnel conducting vari­ous hydrographic and geodetic surveys throughout the islands.15 Some of ­t hese men also left children without fathers.

Meeting the Americans Before World War II, most Gilbertese knew something about ­people from distant places. Over the generations since the early nineteenth ­century, whaling ships from the United States had called, and a variety of Eu­ro­pean nationals, Whites and African Americans, and Chinese had come to trade or had been marooned

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Figure 11.2. A GI of the 27th Infantry Division giving C rations, containing cookies and candy, to “Makin Mary” and friends, Butaritari, 23 November 1943, soon a­ fter U.S. forces captured the island from the Japa­nese. (RG 111-­SC 182989, NA)

in the islands. Several settled, married, and had many descendants.16 In the seasons of drought, to take pressure off local resources and earn money for trade goods, many Gilbertese had left their islands from the 1860s to the mid-1890s to work mainly on plantations in Samoa, Fiji, Hawai‘i, Queensland, and even Central Amer­i­ca.17 So i-­matang or foreigners w ­ ere not novel. But ­until the Pacific war, never had so many of them—­a lmost all male—­a rrived in such ­great ships and with so many material goods and equipment. As in Bora Bora, the Samoan ­Islands, Wallis Island, and Aitutaki, all the U.S. forces ­were “white” in the Gilbert Islands.18 Gilbertese ­people ­were curious about ­these wealthy newcomers; some got to know the visitors intimately. Of the eleven participants in this study, a few had no idea how their American ­father became acquainted with their ­mother. Many of t­ hose who did know had not been told this information directly by their mothers, but instead by relatives. Norah’s m ­ other met her American somewhere on Tarawa just as the forces ­were exiting at war’s end and ­people had begun to move around more freely.19 Since the U.S. Navy had relinquished the garrison mid-1945, he was most likely

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an army man. But Norah knows l­ittle of their meeting: “I am not sure. When I was taken [at two years of age] by my adoptive parents they tried to hide every­ thing from me about my parents. They would not tell me anything. So I do not know.” Tiam of Abemama, via his son-­in-­law Kimaere Nabaruru, had a similar experience:20 Nothing. Nobody told him [Tiam]. I heard that one day she [Tiam’s ­mother, Kobutana] was out fishing with the American and he was standing in deeper w ­ ater, but she was out of her depth. She told me when they tried to find the fish she depended on his strength so he must have been taller than her. . . . ​His ­mother was given the “plate” [identity disc or dog tag] of the ­father with his name and his number on it. But she gave it away in fear the Americans would come and get her son. . . . ​His ­mother told me that [pregnant] w ­ omen ­were called by the Americans to come to their camp to see the American doctor. All the w ­ omen had a rec­ord of check-­ ups. That is how they—­t he children—­were given their names before the ­women gave birth. Ann Wally from Butaritari also knew l­ ittle about her ­father:21 My m ­ other would say when I asked her, “­Don’t you say that and d ­ on’t you ask that question again.” She [her ­mother] said, “Your real ­father, the American knows that you are h ­ ere, but he does not care about you, so do not think about it.” I found out from friends, in par­tic­u­lar the twins who ­were relatives of my m ­ other, who w ­ ere friends of my real f­ ather; they w ­ ere the ones who gave me a photo of my ­father [subsequently lost]. They said they knew my f­ ather and that is how my m ­ other, Nei Tiri met the American guy back in 1945. When I went back to Butaritari, I asked one of the twins for my real ­father’s address and he said it was written in a book that his ­daugh­ter took to school and somehow that page got ripped off (see Figure 11.3). Callista Murdoch, Ann Wally’s ­daugh­ter, added:22 However, when her m ­ other, Nei Tirinteuea came over to spend some time with us in the Solomons . . . ​back in the late 80s, I actually asked her, “Grandma Nei Tiri, do you remember anything about Mum’s ­father?” And then Mum said, “Do you not want your grandchildren to know about their grand­father?” . . . ​I asked her, “Grandma, what did Mum’s

On the Atolls: Gilbert Islands   279

Figure 11.3. A faded image of an American ­father: Wally, the ­father of Ann with friends, between two other ser­v icemen. (Private collection)

f­ ather look like?” Then she goes, “See your M ­ other, she looks exactly like him.” Ann’s f­ ather did leave an address and some personal items with her ­mother; however, a fire in the h ­ ouse where ­these items ­were kept destroyed that tenuous link. Several knew more about how their American f­ather met their m ­ other. Mwaati, from Abemama, was born in mid-1945, to Tevengantaake.23 She explained, “The Americans used to come to see a Gilbertese man called Eria who could understand En­glish and so translate for them. The Americans came sometimes to trade for goods (see Figure 11.4). My m ­ other met my f­ ather through Eria who was a relative of my ­mother.” Her ­mother, Tevengantaake, told her that her ­father’s name was Barba or Barber. He gave Tevengantaake his name and address on a piece of paper, but she, like some ­others, such as Tiam’s ­mother, ­later destroyed it ­because they feared the Americans would come for the children to send them off to another American war.

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Figure 11.4. Marine Sergeant Hughes R. Michael [Iowa] (right) and Sgt. Walter C. Cockrane, combat correspondents, barter for souvenirs with a ­family at Abemama, 20 December 1943. (127 GW 1239, 68866, NA)

Maria on Butaritari learned of her ­father’s name via a female relative. He was a medic on Bikati whom the local ­people called “Dr. Palmer.”24 She does not know how her f­ ather met her m ­ other; perhaps he came to her village to minister to the ills of the p ­ eople, just as Ellewies Foon’s ­father did a year ­later. Ellewies’ ­mother met her ­father, Gerald Edward Moore, on Butaritari in about 1949 when he was stationed on Bikati (see Figure 11.5):25 My Mum was very young and in the Kiribati (Gilbertese) culture girls ­were not allowed to go out, but my f­ ather used to play guitar and used to go to the village, and I think my Mum was young and attractive and he started to visit my grand­father and he liked to sit and play guitar. So he started teaching my Mum how to play guitar, and I think that is how they got connected from playing ­music. My Mum played guitar beautifully, so I think that my ­father taught my Mum.

On the Atolls: Gilbert Islands   281

Figure 11.5. Gerald Edward Moore, ­father of Ellewies Foon. (­Family collection)

Of Loving Men and Transients In former times, Gilbertese men who had children outside of marriage ­were expected to ­either adopt them or provide them with some assets, such as land.26 If this did not occur, female children particularly suffered ­because when the ­mother died her lands reverted to the males in the f­ amily, so that the m ­ other’s portion to any d ­ augh­ter was very small or non­ex­is­tent. This in turn made it hard for such a child to contract a good marriage ­because she would have a very “meager dowry.”27

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Figure 11.6. Second from left, Luci, ­daugh­ter of Nei Teretia Namanoku of Butaritari, with relatives, c. 1980s. (­Family collection)

Americans did not own any land in the islands and ­were more governed by their own customs than ­those of the Gilbertese. Yet, a few of the American fathers formed deep relationships with their Gilbertese partners and wanted to help their children. Luci’s f­ ather, Patrick Weicker, seems to have served in the army. Luci was born in mid-1945 to Nei Teretia Namanoku from Butaritari (see Figure 11.6). B ­ ecause Luci died in 2006, Luci’s ­daugh­ter, Bantieang Tooki, was interviewed with the help of David Norah who translated.28 Patrick cared about this d ­ augh­ter, born ­after he left the islands. He wrote back that he wanted his d ­ augh­ter to be named Luci. He also sent parcels to her from the United States ­until she was about twelve years of age. The f­ amily believed that about this time he died in the Solomon Islands from where he sent his last parcel, but this location is very unlikely, b ­ ecause inquiries by researchers have found no trace of his being stationed t­ here. In his last posting he sent “documents” and photographs but Luci’s half-­brother took ­t hese things and they w ­ ere lost. Zita’s ­father, Robati, was named ­a fter his U.S. ­father, Captain Robert Lopez, who left Abemama before he was born. Zita, who keeps a worn and creased photo­g raph of her American grand­father (see Figure 11.7), confirmed the fol-

On the Atolls: Gilbert Islands   283

Figure 11.7. Robert Lopez or Kapen Robati. (­Family collection)

lowing with her f­ather, who now lives on Kiritimati (Christmas) Island (see Map 11.1):29 Before he (Lopez) left he made arrangements with Sister Mella who was at the Catholic Mission. If the child was born a boy he should be named a­ fter him, Robert. If the child was born a girl she should be named a­ fter his sister, Helen. Also before he left he gave Sister Mella a photo of himself (see Figure 11.7) and asked Sister Mella to give it to the child when he or she grew up. He also asked Sr Mella that he or she should be baptized. My

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f­ ather also said that he received parcels from his f­ ather while he was growing up, he was told that a parcel was from his f­ ather, he can still remember the contents of the parcel, clothing, like shirts, shorts, hats, ­etc. He forgets when the parcels stopped coming. When my f­ather was 12 years old he went to St Joseph’s College on Abaiang Island. Sister Mella was at the school and she gave the photo to my ­father and told him about his ­father. . . . ​He was told that ­t here was a farewell song composed by the village p ­ eople for his ­father and he can still remember a line which says, “Tia kabo Kapen Robati” or “Goodbye Captain Robati”. My ­father said that his ­father was Mexican.30 Emeri’s American grand­father, John Bradley, was stationed at Bikati, Butaritari.31 Her ­father, Donald John, who was born on 1 February 1951, knew that his ­father and m ­ other ­were living on the islet of Bikati, presumably in 1950: When my grand­mother was with this American guy they w ­ ere living on the small island and they built a ­house. ­There is a concrete (slab) left ­t here. I visited t­ here once and an old man told me, “­There, your grand­father was staying with your grand­mother.” The floor was left. ­Because he left he poured kerosene and they burnt this ­house. I asked my grand­mother and she said that he did not want her staying t­ here with another man. So he took my grand­mother to her parents on Butaritari. He told my grand­mother he planned to come back. Maybe things happened. My grand­mother said he ­really liked the baby. Not like the other Americans where they give a lady . . . ​t hey get her pregnant and then they ­can’t afford to stay back for the baby. He kept on asking for the contract to be extended for more time, if he could stay on longer. That is where my ­father Donald was born. . . . ​[my grand­mother] mentioned that some Americans would arrive and then finish their contract (posting) . . . ​and ­others would come. . . . ​this American asked for more—to extend his contract so he can see the baby. And when she gave birth he went. The baby was baptized a Catholic. He told my grand­mother that he left a lot of information about contacts and then he said when the war [the Korean War] was over he would come back and get the baby. The information—­some of my relatives got jealous and kept the note. This was in an aluminium [sic] box and we like to keep every­t hing in them, but my grand­mother could not read, but she kept it. Maybe she thought when my f­ ather (Donald) grew up he would look for his ­family. But my grand­mother got sick, she was very ill and they [relatives] took every­t hing from her and they

On the Atolls: Gilbert Islands   285

took it to Banaba. Banaba is a long way. When she got well it was all gone with the ­people ­t here. Ellewies Foon’s ­father was given only twenty-­four hours to leave when the Coast Guard found out that he and Ellewies’ ­mother ­were having a baby; before he left, he rushed to sort out arrangements for the support of his child. He left a signet ring for his child, as well as his address with directions, and made a w ­ ill, which other Americans witnessed. This w ­ ill was left with Ellewies’ ­mother to take to the Catholic priest with whom he made this arrangement. But the ­mother did not send the ­will to the priest ­because, as Ellewies said, reflecting the bigotry of the times, “my Mum was a Methodist, a Protestant, and in t­ hose days it was very hard for a Protestant to go to a Catholic priest ­because they do not communicate.” An American man still stationed ­t here at Bikati and one of the witnesses to the ­will then visited her ­mother and asked for both the ­w ill and the signet ring, telling her that he was g­ oing to write to the f­ ather’s ­family. When she l­ater asked for them back, he said that the rats had eaten them. Her ­father, Gerald Edward Moore, also asked the priest to write to his ­family, if anything happened to him, and to let them know when the baby was born. He left instructions with her m ­ other for the baby’s name: a boy was to be called Edward and a girl was to be Eloise. In Hawai‘i, her ­father left money with a com­pany agent to forward monthly parcels according to Ellewies’ age. ­These packages stopped when she was about seven years old. He also left money in care of one of the traders, and this, supplemented with funds from her grandparents, paid for Ellewies’ schooling. In spite of her f­ amily being Protestant, her grandparents sent her to the Catholic boarding school on the island and ­later at Taborio on north Tarawa (see Map 11.3). Ellewies (see Figure 11.8) is appreciative that her ­father made it pos­si­ble for her to attend school: My ­mother always said he was a good man. Smart, handsome, entertaining. He always went into the village and gave ­people medi­cation and if he found ­people do not have food he would go and give it to them. And he was not rough like some American boys. . . . ​He’s Irish, dark hair with blue eyes, from New York. My name Eloise (Ellewies) came from their f­ amily name. I think I am quite fortunate ­because few girls from other parts of Butaritari with American fathers did not r­ eally make it to school b ­ ecause nobody wanted to send them to school. Some ­were not well looked a­ fter.

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Figure  11.8. Ellewies Foon, 2010, Fiji. Her ­father was Gerald Edward Moore. (­Family collection)

Of all the fathers, other than a ­couple who left their names, it was only ­t hose of Ellewies, Luci, and Robati who gave assistance or maintained contact a­ fter they left. Of course, some of the other fathers may have become casualties on the northward advance during the war, but of the seven who never got back to their former partners, it appears that some at least simply did not care to make the ­effort.

Of Virgins and Remnants: Ataeinaine and nikiranroro Of the eleven w ­ omen who had babies with American ser­v icemen, only four had been virgins or ataeinaine prior to their involvement with their respective American partner. All the o ­ thers had been married, ­were separated or divorced, or had at least one child. At that time, in t­ hose socie­ties of Kiribati directly affected by war, a very high value was placed on a ­woman’s virginity before marriage, which was attested in the marriage act itself.32 Even virtuous ­women of a marriageable age who w ­ ere without husbands for some years w ­ ere in danger of being thought of as dishonorable (often negatively labeled as ibenao, which literally translates as

On the Atolls: Gilbert Islands   287

“a fishing line that struggles to catch fish”) and consequently presumed available to men who sought them out for extramarital affairs, much to the disgust of other ­women. Tragically, ­women who had been raped ­were labeled automatically as nikiranroro, along with other ­women who ­were non-­v irgins and unmarried.33 Society considered them to be “loose” w ­ omen, and they often suffered social exclusion and rebuffs. Some nikiranroro, however, did not see themselves this way, placing a high value on their in­de­pen­dence.34 In time, many nikiranroro went on to lead normal lives within their village communities. Factors that contributed to their being accepted ­were their engaging in good be­hav­ior expected of ataeinaine or older girls and young ­women— hard work in the chores that prepared them for the role of a capable wife and ­mother—­combined with a good and respectable ­family background. Thus a ­woman who was not a virgin might still make a marriage, depending on the support of her ­family, a tolerant or desperate suitor, and her demonstrated exemplary be­hav­ior. Generally speaking, it was not hard for nikiranroro to have lasting relationships as long as the man was their equal in that he also was separated, divorced, unmarried but with at least one child, or widowed. In rare cases, an unattached man could end up with a nikiranroro by choice and against the ­w ill of his ­family. Alternatively, his f­ amily might accept a w ­ oman, despite being nikiranroro, b ­ ecause she possessed qualities that would enhance the welfare of their ­family. But ­there still was the risk of being ridiculed by a jealous or resentful husband, so much so that some w ­ omen who had been with an American passed children on to o ­ thers in the f­ amily. This is not to say that some of t­ hese relatives did not welcome the child, but without traditional adoption it could mean that they could not always keep the child with the same certainty as their own.35 Ellewies’ ­mother was unmarried and seventeen when she met her twenty-­ four-­year old American, Gerald Moore on Butaritari, and gave birth at eigh­teen: My mum was very young and in the Kiribati culture girls ­were not allowed to go out. When my grand­mother found out that my ­mother was pregnant she was very angry, as it’s a shame for the ­family especially that my mum is the only d ­ augh­ter and still very young. She found out when my mum was almost seven months. When I was born my grandparents w ­ ere so happy and forgave my mum. My mum always stayed at home u ­ ntil she married. I always had time for my mum, even though I am with my grand­ parents; my mum’s h ­ ouse was just next door to my grandparents so from school I could go and visit her. I was very fortunate to have r­ eally good grandparents. I always feel that my stepfather was jealous of me, and of course my mum had a hard time from that. I think that when my stepfather sees me

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he can see the other man. My grandparents adored me and I am so lucky for that. When I was three my mum married again. I was told that the Americans that ­were still in the camp came and told my mum that my f­ather had passed away, but for some reason I never ­really believed this. It could be their way too to say to her, carry on with your life. Bantieang stated that Luci’s ­mother, Nei Teretia, had not married before she was born and that Luci was the firstborn of her ­mother. It was only ­after she was told that Patrick Weicker was dead that Nei Teretia married and had more children, but her parents brought Luci up in the same village, a pattern of fostering that was quite common in most islands.36 Fair-­skinned Luci was fully aware of who she was, b ­ ecause her grand­mother had told her. Mwaati from Abemama was the first child of her ­mother, Tevengantaake. She said, My m ­ other’s parents and ­family approved of the relationship. In their culture strangers are well received. Th ­ ere w ­ ere no conflicts or upsets about this. My ­father was a good man and when Tevengantaake was pregnant he accepted it. She and her parents took care of me, so did the rest of the ­family. The rest of the community accepted it. My ­mother married ­later. My m ­ other’s sister also had a child (Tiam) with an American ­father. From the same island, Tiam’s ­mother, Kabutana, had no other children, although subsequent to his birth she did marry. Her husband was good to Tiam. Her f­ amily also accepted this only child, as they had Mwaati. In this f­ amily at least the relationships that the ­women had with the American men ­were helpful to the entire ­family, so some of the social sanctions ­were less strictly observed. As described earlier, Zita’s ­father, Robati, also had an American ­father on Abemama. His ­mother had already given birth to two children by dif­fer­ent fathers. She married ­later and gave birth to several sons, leaving ­little emotional room or support for this l­ittle boy and his older siblings. Zita explained how Robati ­survived: My ­father grew up and went to school on the island. . . . ​W hen my ­father was twelve years old he went to St. Joseph’s College at Abaiang (see Map 11.1). He stayed t­ here and e­ very time he goes fishing he brings back the fish for his school fees. No one was looking ­a fter him. He looked ­a fter himself when he was at school. During the break he would go and fish to pay his fees. His stepfather was not ­really good to him and the elder brother and the sister.

On the Atolls: Gilbert Islands   289

As mentioned earlier, Emiri’s f­ ather, Donald John, is the child of John Bradley, who was stationed at Bikati, Butaritari (Map 11.2) in 1950, as part of a U.S. Coast Guard communications unit. Donald John’s ­mother had experienced a brief, unhappy marriage, said Emiri: She married before she met the Americans but she was very young. It was an arranged marriage to a local guy and he was very old. She was thirteen and she left her husband, with a baby. Then she met this American guy (by whom she had a son, not Donald John). Then she stayed with another man, a relative, then the American (Donald John) and then no more Americans. We say, “Why do you have all ­t hese babies?” It is not ­really good, not accepted in a community, such w ­ omen are considered a bit loose. ­These children are fair-­skinned but ­t here is no ­father to raise them. Then they give their babies to relatives, but when babies are brought up by o ­ thers, you do not r­ eally know the treatment that they are getting in that f­ amily. So we do not think it is good. Th ­ ese children sometimes have to work hard. My ­father when he was growing up had to work very hard. He was a very hard working guy when he grew up. He (Donald John) did not have much schooling. My grand­mother married ­later on. When she was about to marry they sent my ­father to my grand­mother’s half-­sister. She, the half-­sister, had a husband, they looked a­ fter my dad u ­ ntil he was about ten years old then the (birth) ­mother and her husband came and took him away to another island. He was crying and in tears. Maria was also a child of another postwar American stationed at Bikati. Her ­mother got pregnant by three dif­fer­ent Americans, which certainly put her and the children in a problematic social category. Maria was the first child, born in 1949. The second miscarried, and the third died at eleven years from complications with diabetes. She said, “My ­mother never married. I lived with my grand­ mother in the same village as my m ­ other. I d ­ on’t go with my m ­ other, I go with my grannie.” O ­ thers attested to the relative poverty such fatherless children suffered. Tebwebwe, whose ­mother, Temarewe, lived on Nonouti, was born in 1965.37 Her f­ather seems to have been a crew member of e­ ither the USNS Sgt. Curtis Shoup or its associated vessel, the Harris Curtis (LST-822).38 Another American from one of ­t hese ships had left a ­woman with a child on Nanumea, one of the Ellice Islands or modern-­day Tuvalu.39 The Americans w ­ ere conducting geodesic and geomagnetic surveys to enable the safe passage of U.S. nuclear-­powered submarines or, in official jargon, “to support the nation’s missile and space projects.” 40

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Temarewe, before she gave birth to Tebwebwe, had been married and had four children with one man, but had divorced him before meeting her American. Temarewe did not marry again, and she bought up Tebwebwe with the help of her ­family. Although ­t hose who did not find a husband w ­ ere almost certainly classified as the “remnants,” not all ­women who had been involved with an American suffered permanently; several recouped most of their reputation with marriage, and some did so completely. Ann Wally’s young m ­ other on Butaritari had given birth before meeting the American, the f­ ather of her second child. A ­ fter the Americans left she married the f­ ather of her first child and had several more children and a very happy marriage. Her husband was a loving man with “a big heart” who looked a­ fter all the children of his wife. Ann also married well, ­after a three-­year engagement, into the Murdoch ­family. Before she passed away in 2012, she and her children w ­ ere ­doing well in the Solomon Islands where they have a small ­business.41

Growing Up Given that some U.S.-­fathered children ­were well cared for by their ­mother or other relatives, how ­were they dif­fer­ent from other children born on the island? ­Those whose mothers did not remarry, by and large, seem to have had more problems. If the ­mother married, some gained a caring foster f­ ather, yet we know of at least one American-­fathered child who was pushed out of the nest by the m ­ other’s new husband. ­Others, if given some assistance from the wider ­family, managed to do well in life. Even so, many still felt the absence of a true f­ ather. At the time, the position of the “half-­caste” was fraught with ambiguity, b ­ ecause some in that category whose foreign fathers ­were present in the islands received more education and material benefits than the average Gilbertese, so could attract resentment if they publicly identified with say, their Eu­ro­pean or Chinese side more than their Gilbertese side. Thus, ­those children of Americans suffered not only the lack of a ­father but also wore the mark of mixed ancestry that on occasion provoked some antipathy. Their saving grace, however, was that they had ­little choice but to identify with their Gilbertese relatives. Tebwebwe of Nonouti was never teased or made fun of by other children, but was embarrassed by the lack of one of her parents. She felt envious of other children who “had a f­ ather to bring them up.” Hers had simply sailed away in peacetime, so had ­little excuse for leaving her ­mother. Emiri’s ­father, Donald John, was also teased: “­People would say about him: ­t here’s that American guy.” Emiri said that when he was young he “had to learn

On the Atolls: Gilbert Islands   291

local skills. He would have been better to learn something at school. And then my brother grows up like my ­father—he did not want to go to school. My ­father wanted him to go. My f­ ather supported me to go, as he said I was a girl and could not do the heavy jobs.” Donald John’s support enabled Emiri to gradu­ate with a degree from the University of the South Pacific, and she now teaches high school. Unlike some, Robati Lopez, the f­ ather of Zita (see Figure 11.9), was not teased for his looks. His American ­father, Robert Lopez, seems to have had an olive complexion, which was to be expected if he had Mexican ancestry. But on Robati’s ­mother’s side ­there ­were already some Eu­ro­pean ancestors, including George McGhie Murdoch from Scotland, a well-­k nown trader and, l­ater from 1898 to 1916, a government agent “who virtually governed Abemama, Kuria, Aranuka, Nonouti and Tabiteuea.” 42 Murdoch married twice to Gilbertese ­women, with one of his sons killed in World War I at Gallipoli, Turkey. A ­daugh­ter of his, Agnes, was the w ­ idow of a leading chief, Timbinoka II, who died in 1935. Agnes or­ga­nized the laundry ­women for the Americans on Abemama, and they considered her a remarkable and sophisticated w ­ oman. She believed the children born

Figure  11.9. Zita Robati Lopez, granddaughter of Captain Robert Lopez, 2010. (­Family ­collection)

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to the local ­women by Americans would introduce “new blood.” As a child, Agnes had traveled with her ­father to Guatemala where he was an overseer of the Gilbertese ­labor on coffee plantations in the 1890s.43 She then spent eight years in the United States, attending St. Gertrude’s Acad­emy in Rio Vista, California, and then returned and married in the Gilberts.44 Thus the mark of mixed ancestry as well as culture was evident in this ­family well before the war. Although Robati and his wife separated and he seems to have had a ­couple of subsequent partners, he clearly cared for his children: Zita graduated as a teacher; her sister Rotika earned a BSc from the University of the South Pacific and is now teaching on Kiritimati (Christmas Island). Perhaps Robati’s hard life as a child made him restless. He worked in Nauru in phosphate mining and now earns money fishing on the large atoll of Kiritimati. Maria on Butaritari was sometimes teased for being dif­fer­ent; she was taller and had fairer skin than o ­ thers. She often became angry about being teased for her looks. She was lucky enough to go to the Catholic primary school. In the early twentieth ­century, the missionary sister, ­Mother Isabelle of the Daughters of the Sacred Heart on Butaritari, had set up a special boarding school for girls with Eu­ ro­pean or Chinese fathers from all over the island group. Their fathers wanted a good education for their children and paid their fees, a compassionate enterprise at the time but one that set such children apart from their peers.45 It seems that the Sisters continued this tradition of compassion and realized a far more pressing need in the case of fatherless Maria: they selected her to go to the Catholic Teachers’ College and seven years l­ ater to receive additional training at a government college on Tarawa. This gave Maria a real start in life, helped her marry well, and then give her five children a good education. Ann Wally also from Butaritari was also teased b ­ ecause she was dif­fer­ent (see Figure 11.10). She explained, My m ­ other did not want me to go (to school). When the Catholic Sisters came back to Butaritari from Tarawa and discovered I was staying at home and did not go to school, they asked my parents if I could stay with them so they could educate me. I went to school with the Catholic Sisters on Butaritari. I stayed with them for about two years. When I was in primary school, when playing with other children, if they did something to me, like tease me, I would say, “I am g­ oing to tell my f­ ather” and they would say, “You have no ­father, you have no ­father! Timan is not your ­father.” I would get confused and when I went home and asked my ­mother as to why the children said that to me and if it was true that Timan is not my ­father, my m ­ other would say, “­Don’t you say that and ­don’t you ask that

On the Atolls: Gilbert Islands   293

Figure 11.10. The late Ann Wally with one of her daughters, Louisa, 2010, Honiara. (Photographer: Lyn Haywood)

question again.” . . . ​It was not a good feeling to be dif­fer­ent, and I did not like it when ­people would ask me why I was dif­fer­ent. The adults and the f­ amily ­were very good to me. And then one of my aunts came to me and said, “I would like you to come with me, we are ­going to the Marshall Islands.” So I went with my Aunty to Tarawa; I think this was in 1964. I ended up staying with my Aunt and ­family in Tarawa for two years, the ship we w ­ ere supposed to travel on came to Tarawa two years ­later. So when in Tarawa during ­t hose two years, I started working for my ­uncle’s cinema—he had a shop and a cinema, so I worked t­ here during the two years of waiting. The ship we went on came to the Solomons first before g­ oing to the Marshall Islands, so my aunt and u ­ ncle deci­ded to go to the Solomons instead as my ­u ncle had a sister in the Solomons . . . ​Eventually I was enrolled at a school. Posts and Telegraphs had a training school, so I went to school t­ here. The only ­t hing I knew was typing so the teacher let me enroll and so ­later I got a job on the teleprinter and typed tele­grams, so I stayed ­t here ­until the next year. Feisty Ellewies, in business with her late husband Peter for some years in Fiji, rejoices in her mixed origins:

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For me I always felt special. No kid ever called me names b ­ ecause I had an American ­father. The Kiribati ­people are quite nice ­people. In Kiribati we (American kids) w ­ ere treated fairly. For me, even with my children, I always feel I am part American. I know I am Kiribati but ­there is something in me that, if anyone talks about (Americans), I stick up for them. I am more from Kiribati, but I live h ­ ere (in Fiji) b ­ ecause I have been h ­ ere for a long time and that is where my late husband lived. I am not angry about my ­father, the only t­ hing that I always wished for when I was l­ittle was that he would come one day. But deep down in my genes or what­ever, maybe I carry my ­father’s spirit, or maybe my ­father died and his spirit lives in me, to be strong. I am very verbal and if I ­don’t like something I just say, and so are my children. They are very smart and w ­ ill fight for their rights. I have always been like that. When I was in boarding school (Kiribati girls are very shy) and if the nuns said anything or asked questions I always had an answer so I was called “Miss In­de­pen­dent.” I ­w ill say anything so long as I know it is right. Even my m ­ other always wondered about me, “You ­don’t behave like other Kiribati girls,” and I said, “Well, M ­ other, you must remember my ­father is not Kiribati; I carry his genes too you know!” According to her son Frank, Mwaati of Abemama experienced “no sense of being an outsider or of being mocked or teased. Her grandparents ­were very religious and this seemed to help. As she grew up she began to won­der about her ­father. She misses not knowing him.” A ­ fter she married the f­ amily went to Banaba to work. But Mwaati’s greatest sorrow was not the absence of a f­ather, but the death of four of her seven children. She had a set of triplets, born at seven months, with two incompletely formed. The survivor was put in an incubator, but a storm cut off the hospital’s electricity and the child died. Her last child, a d ­ augh­ter, died at age fourteen from diabetes, and “she nearly went crazy” at such an added loss.46 Tiam from Abemama did not feel dif­fer­ent, for ­t here ­were at least ten ­others like him on his island, though now three of them are deceased. When he grew up he went to Santo, New Hebrides (Vanuatu), to work for a planter, cutting copra. ­After four years ­t here he married a ­woman from home and returned to Vanuatu for another three years. He too has made a good marriage and has five children. Yet Annie Brown, also born in 1945 on Abemama, found life more challenging.47 Her son said, She became aware that her ­father was an American when she was about 4 or 5 years. ­People in the village labeled her an American girl. My ­mother had light skin and she was very Eu­ro­pean in her looks.

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Having an American ­father gave my ­mother a feeling of being incomplete. She could not have enjoyed the love and care of her ­father. In fact her f­ ather gave her m ­ other his full personal details, including his US address but that got lost. As her children we are labeled as half castes—­ sometimes American, especially when ­people are annoyed with us. The term “half caste” sounds discriminatory at certain times. Norah’s American looks completely determined her life trajectory. She was ­adopted—­informally it seems—by an Ellice Islands c­ ouple, Dr. Fa‘amoa Pine and his wife. This happened when she was about two, ­after she had formed a strong attachment to her m ­ other, Tekiebu Baberoti. As Norah recalled in 2010 (see ­Figure 11.11), They w ­ ere working on Onotoa so they saw me. Maybe they admitted me to the hospital with my m ­ other. They liked me, and said I was pretty and dif­fer­ent from the ­others. They asked my ­mother if they could take me as their ­daugh­ter ­because ­t hese ­people did not have any children. And they promised they would bring me up, they would send me to school. Yes, I go with them, go out with them, sometimes I saw her, but they ­don’t like her to come near me. Sometimes this lady wants to take me back and they ­were thinking they w ­ ere wasting their time growing me up. And again they think that if I find out they are not my real parents I might run away. They tried to keep me away from her. I did not even talk to her to get all the story. And then l­ater, when my ­father [adoptive] was eighty-­ something, he mentioned something. You know, he had a piece of paper he [her ­father] had given them with an address on but her [adoptive ­father] said, “I threw away the address. I d ­ on’t want you to know. But this is what was written on it. I forgot the initial. I do not remember the initial. All I know is Hughes.” He also mentioned Pennsylvania. That’s all he can remember from the paper. ­People always tell me that, that I looked dif­ fer­ent. They also told me I looked American. Once I came to my parents and told them this story and they said, “You never say that again.” The kids—­ why did they talk about this? I was afraid. I d ­ on’t want to say anything. They stayed with me u ­ ntil he [adoptive f­ ather] died in 2008. He was about 88. My [adoptive] m ­ other died in 1983. My birth ­mother had died in 1966. My parents sent me to school. It was very hard to send girls to be at boarding school. But I was lucky. The nuns, you know the Catholic nuns? They set up a boarding school in Taborio, right up the north (of Tarawa) ­there in 1955. Daughters of the Sacred Heart nuns. They went and talked to my ­adopted parents. They [her parents] d ­ on’t like Catholics ­because they

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are Protestants. Very hateful of the Sisters then! I am just lucky. I d ­ on’t know why they allowed me to go to this school. When the nuns came they took me from the road, but I went with a basketful of rubbish carry­ing it down to the sea. So when I came up again and went to [the] ­house and I just met them on the road on the way from the school t­ here and they went to the hospital at Abaokoro (north Tarawa). They came to the hospital. They said, “Who are your parents?” They took my hand and I was only about nine years old. My f­ ather was in the X-­ray room and when he opened the door and saw me the nuns holding my hand he was very surprised. In 1955 this happened. Sister said to me to prepare my things. She went to the [parents’] ­house and said not to worry about religion. Sister Aileen said, “She is too young to think about religion. When she grows up if she wants to be a Catholic she can choose. School first, religion ­after,” she told

Figure 11.11. Norah Talanga in 2010. (Photographer: Judith Bennett)

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my parents. “She ­w ill be ­f ree to decide ­later.” 48 So maybe ­a fter a month they prepared my things for the school. They let me go, and ­after fifteen months a tele­gram came that he [adoptive ­father] had to go to the outer islands. I had no one to stay with then, so they deci­ded to go and ask the Sisters if I can stay with them and no one can take me away. I would stay with them and not go to anybody for a holiday, just with them. So when they went they left me in 1955, seven years I stayed with the nuns. I was like that u ­ ntil they [parents] came back from Tuvalu (Ellice Islands). They went around to all the outer islands in Tuvalu. They worked one year each island d ­ oing the filariasis campaign. Then from one island to another ­until they pick up and finish and come back. I was at school ­until I completed form four, which was the highest grade then. Th ­ ere was no form five and six in t­ hose days. I stayed with them for a few months then I applied for a job in the government and I was chosen to be a clerical typist in 1965. So I worked for the government. I resigned when I was 55 years old. I worked for 32 years. Early in her ­career, the British administration selected Norah to go on a six-­ month training course offered at the East-­West Center in Honolulu. The big city of Honolulu was very dif­fer­ent from small town Betio, and it seems the experience was both overwhelming and lonely at times. Norah fell in love with a Yap man from Micronesia. Norah did not complete her course, b ­ ecause she became pregnant. Once again, a man determined her f­ uture: I came back and gave birth to a baby boy in 1968. So I waited for him [Yap man] for five years. ­Because he said he was coming. He was ­doing his university. Studying. When he completed he would come. But I waited t­ hose years and he did not come. I heard l­ater that one of my uncles wrote a letter to him and told him if he came to Kiribati he would be killed. My [adoptive] ­mother was very unhappy when I was pregnant. He, the u ­ ncle hid this from me. I did not know anything. So we lost contact and he [Yap man] did not write. But he said to my ­uncle, “Please take my card and give it to my son. Ask him to contact me at this address.” So they are in contact. I was looking for him [Yap man]. Why did he not write, why did he not come? So I lost hope. In 1973 I got married to a Tuvalu man. I had two more children—­girls. Norah’s children are well educated, and Norah seems content now that she is a grand­mother.

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Norah’s life draws together many threads of the Kiribati experience. Like most, she was aware she looked dif­fer­ent, and this was confusing to her. Perhaps from shame, her birth ­mother did not remarry and, like some ­others, then was not in the best position to care for her child’s needs. As in several other cases, male relatives hid or destroyed information that was rightly Norah’s; no doubt they thought they ­were ­doing the right ­thing, but her wishes ­were not considered. Once again, the Catholic Sisters went out of their way to educate a child of dual ethnic heritage though Norah remained a Protestant. Even when Norah was pregnant out of wedlock, she was faithful to the memory and promise of her Yap man ­until ­t here was no hope, a position some of the ­women of the previous generation experienced in relation to the Americans. This man, just as some of the American fathers, also tried to stay in contact, but, unlike the Americans, succeeded in keeping in touch with his son—­but, of course, in an era when communications ­were far easier. In one feature Norah was unique. She was the only one of all the children not to be a­ dopted or fostered by her kin. Robbed of almost all knowledge of her f­ ather and not permitted to get to know her birth m ­ other further, she was a lonely child, the only one in a small foreign Tuvaluan ­family in a country where almost all families have several children. In some ways the Catholic boarding school in the heart of Kiribati may have given her more of a sense of Kiribati identity and wider ­family, though she married a man from her adoptive parents’ country, Tuvalu. She eventually obtained her ­father’s surname, Hughes, but sadly, such a common American name is practically impossible to track.

Seeking Traces Most of the participants came to tell their stories not only to share their experiences but also with the hope of finding more about their American ancestor, to gain some connection and clarity about their origins. It seemed that participating in the proj­ect was the only way left to them to learn more. For some, their families had given them ­little except silence and secrets. Mothers too had sometimes destroyed rec­ords out of fear that the Americans would come for children to join the military in the weary succession of overseas wars the United States has fought—­a fear reinforced by the massive demonstrations of nuclear firepower in the U.S. trust territory of Micronesia and on Christmas (Kiritimati) and Malden Islands in the Gilbert group from 1946 to 1962. Male relatives took away documents, whereas o ­ thers ­were lost accidentally. Over the years, some U.S. descendants had done their best to discover more, but all hit a brick wall—­reluctance by American officials to make an effort to assist. Some of the Butaritari ­people ­were

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the most determined. Bantieang Tooki “even approached the President of the Republic of Kiribati. They [the f­ amily] tried in the 1970s but nothing happened.” Ellewies Foon recounts that in 1972, her request to the U.S. Coast Guard in Hawai‘i for information was met with a “no rec­ord of whereabouts.” In the late 1970s, a request to the U.S. Embassy in Suva resulted in a “no rec­ord” of her ­father serving in the U.S. Coast Guard. In 2010, a written request (to an address given her by the researchers) resulted in a report that he had died in 1986. In the following, Ellewies reflects the feelings of several of the participants in this research: My biggest regret in my life is not being able to make contact with my ­father despite all my efforts and I still do not know if I have half-­bro­t h­ers or sisters somewhere. He died when I was 36—­grown up. I would like to thank the researchers as this story of my life had no closure as I had years of denial from the American Coast Guard. Like any child, I need to know where I come from and the US Government denied this access. This research helps me realize I am not dif­fer­ent from quite a few ­people who have had the blessing of mixed parentage. ­After the death of her American f­ ather, Ann Wally, when living in the Solomon Islands, was told that ­t here was ­either a letter or a package in Tarawa for her. At the time she was pregnant for the first time and did not get back to Tarawa for three years. She followed up on this message and went to the archives in Kiribati, but could find nothing. Her husband wrote several well-­crafted letters to the U.S. Embassy in Papua New Guinea, but got no assistance. Norah Talanga thought that when the Americans came to Tarawa to celebrate the sixtieth anniversary of the fall of Betio in 2003, she might learn more so asked a high-­placed civil servant to help her and even asked some of the visiting U.S. naval personnel about her f­ ather, with no success. It is a natu­ral ­t hing to seek one’s origins. Yet both secrecy and social practices, as well as lack of knowledge of the byzantine pro­cesses of a foreign government, all created barriers for t­ hese war­t ime children seeking their American families. What t­ hese barriers suppressed was the opportunity to open new relationships and understanding. That is why ­t hese American descendants participated in this research. In this continuing remembrance of and search for “fathers past,” reconciliation and reunification remain remote, yet a possibility and always a hope.

Epilogue angela wanhalla, judith a. bennett, and rosemary anderson

World War II initiated a remarkable expansion of the U.S. military in the form of a formidable global network of military bases. In 1942 the United States operated two thousand military bases in more than one hundred countries, including in the South Pacific, giving the United States a significant global presence.1 In the pro­cess military structures and personnel w ­ ere exported into foreign territories, often yielding economic and geo-­political implications for the civilian communities in ­t hose places. Also exported into ­t hose territories ­were American laws, social codes, and practices relating to sex and race, which not only informed military control over the social lives of American ser­v icemen but also limited the possibilities for t­ hese men to legalize their relationships with local ­women. In addition to the po­liti­cal, economic, and territorial legacies of war, we also need to take account of the h ­ uman embodiment of Amer­i­ca’s global military presence: the “GI babies” born out of war in Eu­rope, Asia, and the Pacific, as well as in the postwar occupations of Japan and Germany and from the forces supporting nuclear testing in the Pacific. Tracing the fate of the children fathered by American troops with foreign ­women during World War II illuminates how the U.S. military presence was felt unevenly within host countries and how the social costs of their occupation fell more heavily on some than ­others, notably ­women and children. In tracing the stories of mothers, ser­vicemen, and their children in the South Pacific and New Zealand, t­ hose areas are drawn into a global story of American military imperialism. In ­every theater in which U.S. soldiers served during World War II they left ­behind children: some ­were abandoned and ­others ­adopted, but many ­were enveloped within the ­family where they w ­ ere much loved. In general, the children of American ser­v icemen born to indigenous mothers in South Pacific socie­ties, including New Zealand, did not suffer the im­mense social rejection experienced by Asian American children fathered by U.S. ser­v icemen in ­Korea, Japan, and the Philippines, nor the high rate of institutionalization of ­those “brown babies” born in ­England and occupied Germany. In the South Pacific the majority of children 300

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­ ere retained in the extended ­family, to be looked ­a fter by aunts, uncles, and w grandparents. In a small number of cases, where the m ­ other found herself without ­family support, only then did she look beyond the ­family for assistance—­ whether to a network of friends, ­women’s welfare organizations, the churches, and, as a last resort, the state or colonial administrators. Few attempted to seek financial support from the American forces, not only b ­ ecause many already had the necessary assistance from their f­amily but also ­because the burden of proof required by the U.S. military to prove paternity was extremely difficult to obtain and the pro­cesses confusing, particularly in socie­ties where literacy was not guaranteed. Although institutionalization may not have been a common feature of the South Pacific war children’s experience, it did not mean that all grew up in a happy home or that they w ­ ere fully aware of the circumstances of their birth. Like other GI babies, some of the South Pacific children born of war grew up in the shadow of considerable social stigma attached to illegitimacy or the lack of a ­biological f­ ather; this stigma often translated into a sense of f­ amily shame that helped authorize generational silences about paternity as w ­ omen understandably sought to forget the pain of a lost lover and move on with lives. Some of ­t hese young ­women may have been promised marriage by their American sweethearts and for ­others ­t hese ­were fleeting casual relationships; some engaged in commercial sex; and although the archival evidence is limited, ­t here ­were cases of sexual vio­lence committed against ­women in the South Pacific Command. ­Women, therefore, had much to overcome or forget: the horror of interpersonal vio­lence, the pain of losing a lover and the realization that they might not see him again, and the social stigma of associating with American ser­v icemen, which was often assumed to involve a commercial exchange. In general, the children grew up unaware of the consequences t­ hese war­time relationships had for their mothers and of the difficulties their ser­v icemen fathers faced in trying to re­unite the ­family, which a number attempted to do with limited success. Even so, the wider society often reminded such children of their lack of a ­father by negative, hurtful comments or childhood teasing for being dif­fer­ent. For ­t hese children, the ­human cost of the Pacific war has never ended. They are the embodiment of the Pacific war, but unlike in Germany and Japan, the South Pacific war children are now largely a forgotten and invisible group. Now grandparents, most of ­these war children have searched for their American ­father for de­cades in the hope of locating missing ­family connections. Over the course of our proj­ect some participants have had success in locating their U.S. relatives, but many o ­ thers are still searching for their elusive ­father; in an even more difficult quest, a few relatives in the United States still seek their half-­sibling, niece, or

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nephew in South Pacific places their American f­ ather or ­uncle often only spoke of vaguely. Recently several Pacific war children have connected with their American families and have learned just how much their fathers knew about the existence of a child in the South Pacific. Some knew they had a child ­t here, but took no interest or kept it a secret from their American wife and children. Yet given the fleeting nature of most war­time relationships, it is highly likely that many ser­v icemen never knew they fathered a child. When Maria from Aitutaki made contact with her new-­found sisters, who did not know of her existence, they ­immediately conferred and responded with g­ reat positivity and warmth (see ­Figure E.1). One newly found sibling said, Although I was surprised to find I have a sister halfway around the world I was not shocked. My ­father spoke of his time in the South Pacific. He considered it “paradise.” ­There was an article in a local Philadelphia paper about “Nicky Marconi teaching the native girls of the South Pacific how to jitterbug.” His time ­there was no secret. He also brought back many souvenirs, I remember some grass skirts, a grass dress, and necklaces; we wore them often on Halloween. I have a happy memory of a seashell-­ covered vase from my grandparents’ home; it was displayed on a shelf in a bedroom where I slept whenever I stayed at their ­house. My ­father also kept two pictures of himself and some natives; one girl who was present in both pictures he told us was his girlfriend “Baby.” I still have ­t hose pictures; they have been displayed on a wall in my home for many years before we found out about Maria. So when we received an e-­mail saying someone from New Zealand was looking for us we all thought, “Baby” must have had a baby!!! My first thought was of this child, ­woman, our half-­sister, growing up not knowing her ­father. I ­couldn’t imagine not knowing your parents for I grew up in a large, close knit, Italian ­family. I knew ­t here was only one right t­ hing to do and that would be to open our hearts and give this girl the information she deserved. As I began my communications with Maria my heart went out to her. She was so kind and so grateful. Grateful for us giving her something that belonged to her in the first place! I became excited for her as I went through old pictures of the ­family, pictures of her grandparents, aunts, uncles, and, of course, of her ­father. I was happy to provide her with pictures and information. I wanted to give her as complete a picture as I could of her f­ ather. When she sent us pictures of herself I was struck at the f­ amily resemblance; she looks so much like our grand­mother. You can see that Maria

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is a Marconi. Also Maria’s d ­ augh­ter shows a close resemblance to my younger sister Lisa. For Christmas we sent Maria a framed picture of our ­father, a portrait of him in his army uniform; she told me she cried when she saw it. That’s when it r­ eally hit me, how much it meant for her to put a face to the man who was her ­father. I think the “Mothers’ Darlings Proj­ect” is a wonderful and worthwhile proj­ect. The ser­v icemen must have made a huge impact on the ­women of the Cook Islands and e­ very child left b ­ ehind. Like I said before they have a right to know their fathers. I ­don’t believe that being contacted breached our privacy. I think it was done in a way that gave us a choice on how to ­handle the situation. Again, I think the rights of the children left ­behind are of utmost importance. Maria is our ­father’s ­daugh­ter and we have accepted her as ­family. It’s exciting to have a new sister.2 Maria’s story is a timely reminder that American ser­v icemen fathers cannot be easily lumped together as an undifferentiated group who all “abandoned” their children. For Maria, being able to build a relationship with her new ­family has helped her find closure, assisted by the fact that her American relatives, as Denise Marconi explains, “welcome Maria as a sister and love her. I hope we can continue to learn about each other and develop a strong bond. I think my dad would approve.” Some ser­v icemen wanted to marry their girlfriends, especially when a baby was on the way, and ­t here ­were a few who found a way to do so despite the U.S. military’s attempts to prohibit interracial marriages in overseas territories. A small number tried to make it back to the Pacific, but strug­gled ­because of the expenses involved in traveling ­t here, or their attempts to make contact ­after the war ­were unsuccessful or rebuffed. Like Maria, Arthur Beren had also been searching for his American f­ather on and off for de­cades. In 2011 he met his American f­ amily for the first time. That emotional first meeting was recorded on film for a documentary about the GI war babies of the South Pacific. Arthur’s story was also picked up by Tele­v i­sion New Zealand, which used some of that footage for a twenty-­minute story on the Sunday series about Arthur’s successful search for his American f­ ather. Sadly, Arthur’s f­ ather had passed away many years earlier, but he had never forgotten about his son. He had hoped to return to the Cook Islands ­after the war, but circumstances would not allow it. Arthur’s grandparents in the Cook Islands played a part in preventing this visit by refusing to pass on Arthur Se­nior’s letters to Martha (Mere). Their son, Arthur Beren, began searching for his American ser­v iceman ­father in his twenties (see chapter 10).

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Figure E.1. Lisa, Denise, and Carolyn, the American-­born daughters of Nicholas Marconi. (Marconi ­family collection)

Luckily his m ­ other had kept photographs and other mementoes from his f­ ather. Photographs vividly depict the ­human and emotional connection between young lovers forged during the Pacific war and are impor­tant evidence for children, ­because they document an intimate bond between their parents and offer visual testimony of ­family resemblances. For Arthur Beren, his ­mother’s photo­graph

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collection offered proof of his ­father’s love for his ­mother, which then he was able to share with U.S. relatives. When he met his American sisters, Reba and Jo Ann, in 2011, they revealed that they had known of their South Pacific brother since they ­were children: Arthur had never been his ­father’s secret. Of that emotional reunion, Reba says, “We found the brother that ­we’ve been missing.” They have forged a strong bond, keeping in touch several times a week through email and Skype and have begun to visit each other; Reba, Jo Ann, and her children recently traveled with Arthur to where their ­father had been stationed on Aitutaki (see Figure E.2). “My ­father never quit thinking about Martha (Mere) and her ­family and Arthur. I’m sure that he loved her. Arthur is so much like my ­father and I have told him that he just needs to look in the mirror and search inside himself to find my f­ ather and understand him. My f­ ather would have been so proud of him.”3 Having survived the war, men returned home to parents, wives, families, and girlfriends. This could be a difficult adjustment for them as well as their families, ­because the ser­v icemen came home having had experiences they could not or ­were unwilling to share. Th ­ ere w ­ ere things that a wife did not need to know.

Figure E.2. At Aitutaki where their ­father, Arthur Black Beren, was stationed in war­t ime, the Beren ­family in July 2012 remembers him. Arthur Beren and his Michigan-­based sisters, Reba Burns and Jo-­A nn Beren, with her children: daughters Andrel, the eldest, and Cara, and son Colton. (U.S. Beren ­family collection)

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However, Evie, the eighty-­nine-­year-­old niece of Dick, who was stationed in Fiji for part of the Pacific war, was happy to pass on details of his life to his Fijian ­daugh­ter. For Evie, finding another member of the f­ amily was a “lovely t­ hing,” allowing them time and opportunity to share memories and mementos. She believes Lila, to whom Dick was married at the time, would not have been happy to learn of her husband’s affair, but she would have accepted it as “a consequence of war.” Evie commended the Mothers’ Darlings proj­ect as another impor­tant step ­toward closure for all ­those affected by war, and we agreed, that not having walked in their shoes, we have no right to pass judgment on t­ hese experiences.4 War brought together young ­people who may other­w ise have never encountered each other. It was a strange and emotional time, during which p ­ eople made the most of their opportunities ­because no one knew what the next day would bring. For some American ser­v icemen this meant socializing “across the color line” and challenging the social codes and practices of their home state. For ­women in the host socie­ties, war offered not only the promise of love but also economic opportunity for them and often their families; for some, it also offered in­de­pen­dence and more social freedom, including the possibility of moving away from home and parental oversight, to the fabulous country of the United States. Of the relationships that existed outside the realm of commercial sex, even ­t hose that could be characterized as fleeting may not have been devoid of emotional intensity. ­Women’s decades-­long silence about this part of their life is evidence of the impact that a war­time relationship had on them, made more serious when a child was involved. With their mothers’ unwillingness to speak of the past and reveal information about the American ser­viceman ­father (sometimes ­because it could be personally embarrassing), war children are left wondering about their identity and their precise place within the ­family. Some have interpreted silences as attempts to deliberately hide the truth, as a betrayal, giving rise to feelings of anger and hurt. This was the case for Michael Gaeng, from New Zealand, who searched for his American ser­v iceman f­ather for de­cades in the hope of forming a tangible connection, something he did not have with his ­mother. During the 1990s, he had sent quite a few letters to Amer­i­ca and had a lot of replies saying “sorry, I d ­ on’t know, do you know his regimental number?” which I d ­ idn’t know. I think it was in 1999 that we received this final letter, and it was from the Marines. I threw it in the rubbish bin but Glennis [his wife] got it out. I opened the letter and the first t­ hing that dropped out was this small photo­graph of my Dad. Boy, we cried. I had for the first time in my life seen my Dad. It gave all his information: his name, birth date, his

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wife’s name, where they ­were living. I just ­couldn’t wait to make contact with them. Not knowing the time, we ­were 17 hours ahead, they gave a forwarding address but no phone number so I rang international who said it’s very early hours of the morning. The number was unlisted. Eventually I did get the phone number. I waited to ring at the appropriate time. It was nerve wracking. I had only one shot at it. I dial the number and get this American voice. I said, “Is this Kenneth Joseph Gaeng’s home?” “Yes.” “Was he born on the 22 March 1922?” “Yes.” “Is your m ­ other Rosemary?” “Yes.” I said, “I ­don’t know how to put this, but your ­father is also my ­father.” Greg, who was not well, gave me Daniel’s number, and I did exactly the same t­ hing I did to Greg. Th ­ ere was a big silence. He said, “God damn, are you guys for real?” We ­didn’t know, Glennis and I, that their ­mother had passed away six weeks earlier. I said, “Now that you know, and it’s not any easy ­thing to take in.” He said, “I’ve got to get all my other siblings together and w ­ e’ve got to talk about this.” I said, “We ­w ill write a letter and send you all the memorabilia from the triplets.” It ­wasn’t for three weeks that we got a reply, but it was unbelievable. We got a phone call from Daniel saying, “­There’s no doubt you guys are our bro­t h­ers. You look more like Dad than what we do.” So we started communicating and touching base and every­thing. In the year 2000, we saved up and did a trip to Amer­i­ca. They had the h ­ ouse on the market, but they took it off the market so that we could live in the h ­ ouse they ­were brought up in. That was brilliant. It brought me close. We knew them by phone and by email, but to physically see them . . . ​they had this big sign, “welcome home bro­t h­ers” in the St. Louis airport. We shared some wonderful times. We ­were t­ here for three weeks. They shared home movies with us. We went to the gravesite too, which was the saddest day for us. Every­body’s got to have a ­mother and a f­ ather. I wanted to know where I came from. It was like a jigsaw puzzle, and trying to fit the pieces into the puzzle was years and years of trying, but once we got to the gravesite the final piece fitted into the jigsaw puzzle. It was the end of a story.5 As Michael’s story demonstrates, most hope to obtain an emotional and tangible bond of connection. Margaret also speaks for many when she wrote, “To finally know that I belong to someone would be beyond my wildest dreams.” 6 Sadly, the number of children fathered in the South Pacific Command by American ser­v icemen is not known, but it is probably well more than four thousand. It is unlikely, however, that any accurate data w ­ ill ever be found, b ­ ecause both the U.S. military and the American Red Cross, which administered welfare support ser­v ices during war­time, rarely kept complete rec­ords, plus the U.S. military

308  Epilogue

administrators w ­ ere ­little interested in such matters. The same can be said for the governments in the occupied islands. Th ­ ese children, however, are the embodiment of the ­human cost of war. Like their mothers, their lives are marked by war, and they live with its legacies. For them, the war never ended; it is still unfolding as they search for their American f­ather. The “always a­ fter” of their stories ­continues.

Appendix 1

Chronology of arrival of U.S. forces in South Pacific bases (with Navy code names) American Samoa (Strawstack): 20 January 1942 Bora Bora (Bobcat): February 1942 New Caledonia (Poppy): 12 March 1942 New Hebrides [now Vanuatu], Efate (Roses): 18 March 1942; Espiritu Santo (Button): 28 May 1942 Western Samoa [now Samoa], Upolu (Strawhat) and Savai‘i (Strawman): 27 March 1942 Wallis Island (Strawboard): 1 May 1942 Tonga, Tongatapu (Bleacher): 9–15 May 1942 Fiji, Viti Levu (Fantan): June 1942 New Zealand, Auckland (Fulcrum) and Wellington (Longbow): 12–14 June 1942 Solomon Islands, Guadalcanal (Cactus): 7 August 1942 (fought against Japa­nese occupiers) Ellice Islands [now Tuvalu], (Fetlock): 2 October 1942 Cook Islands, Aitutaki (Lineout) and Tongareva/Penrhyn (Ostler): November 1942 Gilbert Islands [now Kiribati], Betio (Helen) and south Tarawa: 20–23 November 1943; Butaritari: 20–23 November 1943; Abemama (eight code names, depending on which islet): 24 November 1943 (fought against Japa­nese occupiers)

309

Appendix 2 A Research Guide to Finding ­Family rosemary anderson, judith a. bennett, and angela wanhalla As a way to close this collection, we offer some research advice by drawing attention to the range of sources and ser­v ices available to help you begin the search for your American ser­v iceman ­father. The Mothers’ Darlings website (www​.­otago​.­ac​.­nz​/­usfathers​/­) lists some useful books you may want to dip into as a starting point for your research. They provide an overview of the arc of the Pacific war, particularly U.S. deployment in the region, which w ­ ill help you pinpoint the locations of specific divisions and units. We suggest this information as a starting point b ­ ecause one of the most common questions we are asked is where to find a list of U.S. ser­v icemen and where they w ­ ere stationed. Such a list does not exist, and even if it did, it would be like looking for a needle in a haystack ­because you would be literally faced with thousands and thousands of names. Take (Western) Samoa, for instance. In addition to ­t hose stationed on ­t hose islands, least twelve thousand U.S. ser­v icemen passed through, some for only a few days while their ship was refueling or being repaired. It is difficult to trace ­those passing through, given the im­ mense unstructured mobility taking place in the Pacific during the war, which often went undocumented. Therefore, before you begin your search, you need to gather as much information as you possibly can about the ser­v iceman, including his full name, date, and place of birth; where he served and with whom; and in what branch of the U.S. Armed Forces. Was he in the U.S. Marine Corps, the U.S. Navy, or the U.S. Army, for instance? Be aware that during World War II, the United States did not have a separate air force: pi­lots and aircraft ­were attached to ­either the navy or the army. Other details about the serviceman—­his religion, what ­actual work he did, say, a military policeman, cook, or a radio operator—­are all leads that can help find links to his civilian life a­ fter the war. His ethnicity can also be a help: was he African American, Eu­ro­pean American, of Italian descent, or Filipino Hawaiian? Having only bits of information, such as a surname or nickname and ­little ­else to work with, is a major barrier to undertaking research in U.S. military rec­ords. Or the American ser­v iceman f­ ather may have a common name, like John Smith. 311

312  Appendices

Without a date and place of birth to narrow the search, ­t here is ­little hope for success. But do not be disheartened if you do not have all of the ser­v iceman’s details ­because even fragmentary information can assist in locating relatives in the United States: with the advent of the World Wide Web, researchers now have power­f ul search tools at their fingertips. We have found the subscription site, Ancestry​.­com, to be a valuable starting point for research, but to take full advantage of it, you ­w ill need as much detail about the ser­v iceman and his ­family as pos­si­ble. If you are in a position to make use of this subscription site, which you should be able to access through your local library, you w ­ ill find it of im­mense assistance b ­ ecause it holds a wealth of material that ­will help you trace your ­family, including  U.S. Army enlistment rec­ords, which w ­ ill give you an individual’s serial number. You w ­ ill need this number to apply for a ser­v iceman’s military ser­v ice rec­ord through the National Personnel Rec­ords Center (NPRC) in St.  Louis, Missouri. You can also search Ancestry​.­com by name for an individual’s Social Security number. With this piece of information you ­will be able to trace other vital rec­ords, such as details about place of birth and death. U.S. Census rec­ords are also hosted by Ancestry​.­com, and ­these are wonderful resources for locating other ­family members. Currently, census rec­ords up to 1940 can be accessed on this site. If you are not able to make use of online sources, many p ­ eople and organizations can assist you in your search. We recommend contacting your local genealogical society whose members can advise you on research strategies and tools, and possibly even assist you with the research itself. In the United States, if you know the year and place of birth then we recommend contacting the state library or state historical society for assistance or guidance with U.S.-­based rec­ ords. You might also place an advertisement in the local newspaper. We also recommend you contact the National Archives and Rec­ords Administration (NARA) whose holdings include military rec­ords relating to the Pacific war. Do be aware that a large number of military personnel files, now held in St. Louis, ­were destroyed in a fire, so it is likely that you may not be able to access ­t hese rec­ords. Access to them also requires proof of a blood relationship, which is difficult to obtain ­unless you have the specified documentation. Therefore we recommend you begin your search using online sources first, build up a body of information, and then try to locate U.S. relatives. Do not be discouraged if you discover many ­people with the same name. Rec­ord availability also varies from state to state, and it is impor­tant to remember that not e­ very set of rec­ords, including military rec­ords, is complete. When all e­ lse fails, ­t here is nothing to lose by trying a broad Google search b ­ ecause ­t here are increasing numbers of com-

Appendices  313

munity, personal, and interest group websites where veterans and their descendants contribute stories of war­time ser­v ice and experiences. You can also seek advice through international nonprofit organizations. Children ­were fathered by American ser­vicemen in the United Kingdom, Ireland, and throughout the Eu­ro­pean theater, as well as in Japan and the Philippines. Support groups and tracing ser­vices in t­ hese countries have been established in recent years to assist war babies to find their fathers. One website, GI trace (www​ .­gitrace​.­org), helps ­people find their GI fathers. It provides advice for researchers and an online message board. Transatlantic Children’s Enterprise (T. R. A. C. E.) (www​.­tracepw​.­org)—set up in 1986 by Pamela Winfield to help re­unite American ser­v iceman fathers with the British-­born children they left ­behind in World War II—is another useful resource. Another ­great resource is GI & International Family Search (www​.­giandfamilyinternationalsearch​.­com), established by a group of p ­ eople searching for their American ser­v iceman fathers. They run a Facebook page offering ­f ree support and advice to ­t hose in a similar situation and also provide information sheets that offer advice about the best websites to use, in addition to names of archives and individuals to contact for further assistance. When you do locate your ­family, GI & International ­Family Search has information sheets that advise how to make the initial approach and w ­ ill support you through that pro­cess. Although we live in a world where, ­because of the advent of the World Wide Web, information can be accessed in seconds, tracing an American ser­v iceman ­father is still a lengthy pro­cess. You ­w ill need to be patient and ­w ill have to make use of multiple websites and ser­v ices to find the information you need ­because no single website or archives holds all the answers. Many ­people have taken years, even de­cades, to locate their ­father, while ­others are just beginning the research journey. On a more positive note, more and more material is being put online, making the research pro­cess much easier than it once was, when writing letters, placing expensive international phone calls, or hiring a costly professional researcher ­were the only options. You are also now able to access more ser­v ices and organizations established primarily to provide advice and support to the ever-­ growing number of ­people looking for their American ser­v icemen fathers. We wish you well with your search and hope that you have a successful outcome, one that brings your and your ­family happiness and joy.

Notes

Prologue The epigraph for this book is drawn from Patrick Ness, The Crane Wife (Edinburgh: Canongate, 2013), 141–142.   1. ​Costello 1981; Bridge 2000; Crawford 2000; Lawrey 1982; Bennett 2009b.   2. ​Bennett 2009b, 179–197.

Introduction   1. ​The title references a New Zealand Māori proverb: “The old net is cast aside and the new net goes fishing” [Ka pu te ruha, ka hao te rangatahi].  2. ​ Bennett 2009b.   3. ​­Because of their ubiquity, their overall control of the Allied forces, and the huge numbers of Americans in comparison to New Zealand, Fijian and a relatively few Australian troops in the South Pacific theater, this proj­ect was limited to U.S. ser­v icemen. We encourage other researchers to pursue the relationships of other military men with indigenous w ­ omen, as we continue to get inquiries about t­ hese.   4. ​About forty indigenous w ­ omen, including t­ hose of mixed ancestry, from South Pacific socie­ties married American ser­v icemen. Of ­t hose, about fourteen w ­ ere from the island Pacific and the rest w ­ ere of Māori descent. Wanhalla and Buxton 2013, 139.   5. ​For an excellent summary of the major developments in the field see Thompson 2000.  6. ​ Parsons 2008.   7. ​I nternational adoption was regarded as one solution to the prob­lem of the GI war babies in the Cold War era. See Kim 2009, 855–879. For a discussion of U.S. policy t­oward ­t hese children see Gage 2007, 86–102. For a discussion of the politics of race and intimacy focusing on African American ser­v icemen see Green 2010.   8. ​Taylor 1986b, 1043; Labrum 2000, 144–157.   9. ​Kirch and Rallu 2007; Schoeffel 2011, 223–231; Marcus 1980; Gilson 1980, 124–125; Wilson 1969, 26–33, 57–58. 10. ​“Oh how the money rolls in,” sung to the tune of “My bonnie lies over the ocean,” is a well-­k nown bawdy song and has several versions. It was and is commonly sung at drinking parties by males. For apparently professional prostitutes, see Brown to Commanding General, 20 June 1943, Entry # P 90-­A1, RG 313, NA; Kushner 1984, 167–168, 170, 171. 11. ​We try to use this term “native” within the context of the times. T ­ oday, some p ­ eople, such as Samoans, do not like this term, whereas ­others such as native Hawaiians are more comfortable with it, but prefer the indigenous term of “Kanaka Maoli.”

315

316   Notes to Pages 7–11 12. ​Melville and Nancy Carr, 5 July 2013. See also Dorsett 2012, 60–61. 13. ​“The Seventieth Anniversary of the Arrival of US forces in New Zealand in WW II,” http://­newzealand​.­usembassy​.­gov​/­70​_­years​.­html; Ministry of Culture and Heritage, “The United States Marine Corps arrival in New Zealand,” http://­w ww​.­mch​.­govt​.­nz​/­news​-­events​ /­news​/­united​-­states​-­marine​-­corps​-­arrival​-­new​-­zealand; “Prime Minister to Welcome the US marines to New Zealand,” http://­w ww​.­beehive​.­govt​.­nz​/­release​/­prime​-­minister​-­welcome​-­us​ -­marines​-­nz (accessed 30 June 2013). 14. ​See, for example, “Fijian Soldiers Remembered,” Solomon Star Times, 10 July 2013, http://­w ww​.­solomontimes​.­com​/­news​/­fijian​-­soldiers​-­remembered​/­7757 (accessed 21 July 2013). 15. ​Seminal studies of war and memory include Fussell 1975 and Winter 2006. See also Radstone and Schwartz 2010 and Kasteiner 2002. 16. ​A NZAC is the acronym for Australian and New Zealand Army Corps, a force that fought with considerable, if futile, tenacity ­a fter landing in the wrong place following British command, at Gallipoli, Turkey, in 1915. 17. ​Bennett 2009b, 283–285; Bennett 2012. 18. ​Michener 1947; Michener 1992, 27–29; May 2011, 49. 19. ​Michener’s base histories include History of Tongatapu, c. 1945, Entry 183, Rec­ord Group (hereafter RG) 313, National Archives and Rec­ords Administration, College Park, Mary­land (hereafter NA), and History of the US Naval Station, Bora Bora, Society Islands, Microfilm NRS II-55, Archives, Naval Yards, Washington DC. 20. ​“James Michener.” The Economist, 30 Oct 1997. http://­w ww​.­economist​.­com​/­node​ /­104895 (accessed 14 May 2013). 21. ​It may be that Michener also knew of an adjacent island with a charming name. Ballalae was uninhabited, typhus ridden, and the site of the Japa­nese slaughter of British prisoners of war from Singapore. Most of them ­were members of the Royal Artillery. First taken to Rabaul as l­ abor, about five hundred w ­ ere then taken to Ballalae to build the airstrip. In March or June of 1943, about four hundred survivors w ­ ere killed and buried in a mass grave. “Rewarding research on Ballalae, Solomon Islands.” http://­w ww​.­cofepow​.­org​.­uk​/­pages​/­stories​_­rewarding​ _­research​.­htm (accessed 25 May 2013). 22. ​­There was no village of that name ­t here in the 1930s. The main village is Falamai. Michener 1992, 91; Census of Solomon Islands, 23 December 1931, Western Pacific High Commission (hereafter WPHC) 284/32, Western Pacific Archives (hereafter WPA), University of Auckland, New Zealand. 23. ​Some believe Ambae (Aoba) was the location of Bali Ha‘i. It is near Santo and h ­ oused resident schoolgirls and Anglican nuns, refugees from the Solomon Islands, but lacks the sexualized ambience of the idealized Bali Ha‘i. May 2011, 18, 33–35. In this par­t ic­u ­lar Tale, Michener’s geography was as elastic as his imagination. 24. ​Bennett 2009b, 11–48. 25. ​For a detailed study of the impact of Dorothy Lamour on U.S. perceptions see, Brawley and Dixon 2012. 26. ​Dunnigan and Nofi 1998, 742. 27. ​For examples, see Rasor 1996, 1997; Lee 1998; and Yoshida 2008. 28. ​Zelenietz 1991. For one example, see Frank 1990. An exception was a propagandist cele­bration of the unity of the British Empire in the island Pacific by [Harold Cooper], Among ­Those Present: the Official History of the Pacific Islands at War (1946). A similar publication, extolling the friendliness of the Americans, was journalist H. E. Lewis Priday’s The War from

Notes to Pages 12–14   317 Coconut Square: The Story of the Defence of the Island Bases of the South Pacific ([1945]). Both had been heavily censored. As late as 1995, some historians still saw no role for the indigenous ­people. See for example, Peattie 1995, 1. 29. ​See, generally, Perks and Thomson 2006. 30. ​Lindstrom 1996. Some mention of this is also in Geslin 1956. More general mention is made in Weeks 1987; Donner 1989; and Henningham 1994. For Micronesia, see Camacho 2011, which discusses, in part, the impact of Japa­nese sexual vio­lence on ­women on Guam. On the changing sociopo­liti­cal role of village ­women in war­time Micronesia see Poyer 1991; Falgout 1991; and Heine 1991. 31. ​For the southern Pacific, see Brookfield 1972; Horton 1975; Ravuvu 1974; Robinson 1981; Macdonald 1982, 143–166; Marama and Kaiuea 1984; Bennett 1987, 285–310; Laracy and White 1988; White, Gegeo, Atkin, and Watson-­Gegeo 1988; White and Lindstrom 1989; White 1991; Fifi‘i 1991; Gegeo 1991; Lal 1992; Laracy 1993; McQuarrie 1994, 2000; Scheps 1995; Dorman 1997; Firth 1997; Smith and Meehl 2004; Lowry 2006; Toyoda and Nelson 2006; and Mataia 2007. 32. ​Tongan ­women and their relationships with U.S. men and any children are only briefly mentioned in Helu 1998; Lafitani 1998; and Wood-­Ellem 1998. This also applies to an anthropological study of Samoa; see Mageo 2001, 58–80. The impact of the American ser­v icemen in Samoa is referenced in Shankman 2001. The most direct, honest ac­k nowl­edg­ment of war­time romances and children comes in a popu­lar account of Bora Bora; see Larson and du Prel 1995. Like Lindstrom, the Moons’ oral histories from Vanuatu (New Hebrides) provide glimpses of inter-­ethnic sexual encounters see Moon and Moon 1998, 104–106. Kennedy 2009, 209–210, 214–215, acknowledges the consequences of war­t ime relationships, reflecting the American view on society’s attitude to such children. In former Japa­nese Micronesia, children of ser­ vicemen, Japa­nese or American, ­either ­were non­ex­is­tent or unmentioned in Falgout, Poyer, and Carucci 2007 and Falgout, Poyer, and Carucci 2008, 217–218. 33. ​For examples, see Ericsson and Simonsen 2005; Lee 2011, 160–161; Rains, Rains, and Jarratt 2006; Winfield 2000; and Elder 2007. For Japan, see Takushi 2000; Hamilton 2012; and Shimabuku 2010. 34. ​Ellis 2006; Ellis 2009; Petty 2008. 35. ​Trouillot 1995, 99. 36. ​Bennett 2009b, 66–67. 37. ​Rose to District Officer, Betio, n.d. c, 24 December 1946, F 1/5/3, GEIC Series, National Archives of Kiribati (hereafter KNA), Tarawa. 38. ​Taylor 1986b, 1033–1034. 39. ​Meilinger 2010, 152–156. 40. ​King 1991, 57. 41. ​Huckin 2002. 42. ​Munholland 2005, 151–154. 43. ​Bennett 2009b, 34–35. 44. ​Munholland 2005, 151–154. 45. ​Bennett 2009b, 33–38, 164–168; Hastie and Marcantonio 1943, archive​.­lib​.­msu​.­edu​ /­DMC​/­Special%20Collections​/­ ​.­ ​.­ ​.­ ​​/­unitedstatesarmy​.­pdf (accessed 14 January 2011). 46. ​Eagon, Weekly Intelligence Report, Psychological, 25 September 1943, Entry # P 90-­D, RG 313, NA. 47. ​For Tonga, see Helu 1998, 80.

318   Notes to Pages 14–18 48. ​History of Tongatapu, c. 1945, Entry 183, RG 313, NA; History of Upolu, c. 1945, Box v. 13379, F. A12, RG 313—58B-3061, NA, San Bruno, California (hereafter SB); Thompson, Venereal disease-­South Pacific Area, Sept.1944—­Oct.1944, Entry 1012, RG 112, NA; Gordon to Commander, 29 October 1944, Box 8 (V.9701), RG 313–58–3440, NASB; Inspection report, Aitutaki, 28 February 1945, RG 313, NA. 49. ​Clear, Report No. 11, 11  June 1943, Annual Reports, Governor’s Office, RG 284, NASB. 50. ​Moyer to Secretary of the Navy, 30 June 1942, Governor’s Office, Series no 5, RG 284, NASB. 51. ​Raaths 1983, 65. 52. ​ Houser to Commander, 17  June 1946, AG’s Office; Spencer to Commander, 22 March 1946, Island Government Files 1946, RG 284, NASB. 53. ​Pascoe 2009. 54. ​Michener 1992, 48–50. 55. ​This reflects almost verbatim Garity, Report on Visit to Rarotonga, 6 August 1943, Entry 44463, RG 338, NA, suggesting that Priday had open access to military files. 56. ​Priday, “The Cook Islands,” draft manuscript, 31 July 1944, Entry 183, RG 313, NA; Priday [1945]. 57. ​Michener 1992, 50. 58. ​Report U.S. Forces in Aitutaki, 10 November 1943, IT 122/5/2 Part 1, Archives New Zealand, Wellington, New Zealand (hereafter ANZ); Annual Report Judicial Department, 30 June 1943, Governor’s Office, Series no. 5, RG 284, NASB. A similar pattern was evident elsewhere. See for Australia, “Divorce in Australia,” Eve­ning Post, 13 March 1944, 4. 59. ​Hickling, Report, 10 November 1943; Shanahan to Secretary, Island Territories, 24 July 1944; Tailby to Secretary, Island Territories, 10 October 1944, IT 1W2439 135, Part 1, ANZ; Bennett 2009b, 36. 60. ​Bennett 2009b, 157–197, 260–262; Gratten, Memo to the Administrator, 27 March 1943, Frederick James Henry Gratten, 1909–1983, Misc Papers, MS-­Papers-4879–059, Alexander Turnbull Library, National Library of New Zealand, Wellington. 61. ​J. G. Miller to MacDiamid, 17 July 1942, GA 0015, Presbyterian Archives, Knox College, Dunedin, New Zealand. 62. ​Robinson, Memo for the files, 4 January 1944, General File 1944, Attorney General’s Office, Island Government Files, American Samoa, RG 284, NASB; Liu‘anna 2004, ­277. 63. ​Wood-­Ellem 1999, 210. 64. ​McQuarrie 1994, 155. 65. ​Haubold and ­others, to Secretary of State, 4 June 194[6], Wellington Legation, 1946, Part 5, RG 84, NA. At the U.S. Legation in Wellington Warren dates the petition as “June 4, 1946,” whereas Haubold had dated it 1945, but internal evidence also indicates the correct date was 1946. 66. ​Hohn and Moon 2010; Shukert and Scibetta 1988; Reynolds 1995; Rose 1997; Khan 2012; and Zeiger 2010. 67. ​Cline to Bryan, 20 June 1942, Re marriage of enlisted men in US Army Forces in New Zealand, Entry P 90-­A 2, RG 313, NA; Dallard to Olding, 11  June 1942; Marston to ­Under-​ ­Secretary of Justice, New Zealand, 19 December 1942, Entry P 90-­A 2, RG 313, NA. 68. ​Dallard to Olding, 11 June 1942; Marston to ­Under-­Secretary of Justice, New Zealand, 19 December 1942, Entry P 90-­A 2, RG 313; Ostrander to Commanding General, 6 July

Notes to Pages 18–21   319 1943, General Correspondence 1942–1945, Box 271, Entry AI 339, RG 388, NA; McMahon: Marriage policy, 31 August 1944, encl., New Hebrides British Series (hereafter NHBS), MP 26/43, WPA. 69. ​Fuess, Memo: Permission to Marry, 2 May 1944, Auckland consulate, Vol. 9–10, RG 84, NA. Red Cross rec­ords state the time involved was “three months” not six. Smith, Report, 17 February 1944, and encl., Rec­ords of the American Red Cross, 900.11/6161, RG 200, NA. On the role of military chaplains, see Dorsett 2012, 87–88. 70. ​Commander, Nouméa to Commander, South Pacific, 29 May 1945, and enclosures, Box  319814, RG 313–58A-3254, NASB; Annex No 4 to G-2, Reports 40, 42, 44, 45, 48, 52, November-­December 1943; Annex No 2 to G-2 report No 105, 30 December 1944, Entry 44463, RG 388, NA. See, for US Intelligence in New Caledonia, Bennett 2004, 283–307. 71. ​For more generally about the Eu­ro­pean theater, see Fortune 2005 and Jacobs 2012. 72. ​Marston to U ­ nder-­Secretary of Justice, New Zealand, 19 December 1942; Dallard to Olding, 11 June 1943, Entry P 90-­A 2, RG 313 NA. 73. ​Pascoe 2009, 80–103, 118, 140–143, 145, 148. 74. ​Ibid., 119. 75. ​Ibid., 116, 119, 121–122, 129, 134, 139, 140–141. 76. ​Villazor 2011, 1368–1369. 77. ​Pascoe 2009, 196–198; Nationality Act of 1940, sec 303, 54 Stat.1137, 1940. 78. ​Boucher to Childs, 8 July, 14 August 1944; Childs to Boucher, 14 July 1944 and 19 August 1944; Childs to Secretary of State, 1 May 1944; Holmes to Patton, 9 January 1945, Auckland Consulate: General Rec­ords, 1944, RG 84 Foreign Ser­v ice Posts of the Department of State, NA. 79. ​For example, see Childs to Fuess, 13 June 1945, Foreign Ser­v ice Posts of the Department of State, Fiji Islands File 811.11, RG 84, NA. 80. ​Ota 2001, 215. 81. ​“War Marriages,” Auckland Star, 16  July 1943, 4; Pacific Islands Monthly, August 1943, 25. 82. ​“Bishop’s Ban,” Eve­ning Post, 22 July 1943, 4. 83. ​Bennett 2009b, 179–190. 84. ​The United States continued to control the Ryukyu Islands (Okinawa) ­until 1972 and had major military installations t­ here. 85. ​Ota 2000, 2001. 86. ​­T hese ­women ­were well supported by Joseph  R. Farrington,  U.S. senator from Hawai‘i, who championed bills to remove exclusionist race-­based immigration legislation. Riggs 1947. 87. ​Saada 2012, 183, 191, 197; Muckle 2012, 19. 88. ​It would seem that permission to marry depended on the specific commander and sometimes on w ­ hether the ­woman was already pregnant. 89. ​Childs to Fuess, 13 June 1945, Foreign Ser­v ice Posts of the Department of State, File 811.11, RG 84, NA. 90. ​Grossman 1943; Crown Solicitor to Secretary, External Affairs, 29 May 1945 and enclosures, 87/12/5, EA1 601, ANZ. In New Zealand, the Crown Law Office has one or more lawyers who advise the government and its offices on points of law. In the United States, the equivalent would be ­either a general counsel or a special counsel in the federal office of the solicitor general.

320   Notes to Pages 22–26   91. ​Stills to M. Coleman, 18 April 1949, Rec­ords of the American Red Cross, file 618.3, RG 200, NA.   92. ​Minutes of a meeting, Social case work problems arising from American Troops in Foreign Countries, 14 May 1947, Rec­ords of the American Red Cross, file 618.4, RG 200, NA; Grossman 1943.   93. ​Harold Martin, “The Marine Who Went Back,” Saturday Eve­ning Post, 4  October 1947, 18–19.   94. ​The New Zealand military worked on the same principles. An army private was about to marry a “half caste Fijian ­woman” but was sent back promptly to New Zealand. Newell 2008, 237.   95. ​Haubold and ­others, to Secretary of State, 4 June 194[6], US consul, Wellington Legation, 1946, RG 84, Part 5, NA.   96. ​Confidential source, email to Bennett, 17 September 2013.   97. ​Homer Willess, communication to Bennett, 2011.   98. ​It proved too difficult to make a living so the f­ amily migrated to Fresno, California, where “Princess” Malele and Karl raised their four children. A few o ­ thers came back to American Samoa, such as Harold R. Norrup, but also could not make a living, so took their families back to United States. Martin, “The Marine Who Went Back,”; Douglas Lovelace, “Beachcomber’s Life is not a Happy One,” The Eve­ning In­de­pen­dent, Florida, 8 July 1948, 5; Entries for Karl Lippe and Malele Lippe, see http://­search​.­a ncestry​.­com/ (accessed June 2013).   99. ​Secretary, Department of Island Affairs to Resident Commissioner, 30 January 1947, 4 June 1947 and enclosures, IT1 589, ANZ. 100. ​For Arthur Beren, see “Generation G.I.,” Sunday Program, 28 August 2011, TV1, New Zealand. 101. ​See Brawley and Dixon 2012 who never mention the word “love,” except for references to films, in regard to Pacific war­time relationships. See also Wood-­Ellem 1998; Liua‘ana 2004; Mageo 2001; Lindstrom 1996; and Munholland 2005. 102. ​Michener 1992, 40, 42–43, 52. 103. ​Metzger 1982, 32–33; [Michener], History of Tongatapu, c. 1945, Entry 183, RG 313, NA; [Michener], History of Upolu, Western Samoa, RG 313–58B-3061, NASB. 104. ​Michener 1992, 40. For further examples of social cooperation regarding cohabitation in Samoa and elsewhere, see [Michener], History of Tongatapu, c. 1945; [Michener], History of Upolu; Thompson, Venereal disease–­South Pacific Area; Inspection report, Aitutaki, 28 February 1945, RG 313, NA; Priday, The Cook Islands, draft manuscript, 31 July 1944; and Kushner 1984, 127, 140, 169, 173. 105. ​Gratten, Memo to the Administrator, 27 March 1943, MS-­Papers-4879–059, Alexander Turnbull Library. 106. ​Kennedy 2009, 187–193. 107. ​Tuiasosopo, District Fono 1945, Series 4, RG 284, NASB. 108. ​Haubold and ­others, to Secretary of State, 4 June 194[6], Warren to Haubold, 2 July 1946, Wellington Legation, 1946, Part 5, RG 84, NA. 109. ​[R. T. G. Patrick], War History 1939/1945, ITI W2439, 69/9/6, ANZ. Missionaries estimated the number on Upolu alone was 1,200. Stanner 1953, 327. 110. ​Michener 1947, 138. For Santo, see, Cline 2002, 271–272. 111. ​Price cited in MacGregor 1981, 118–119. 112. ​Ostrom to Commanding General, 12 April 1942, Entry 179, RG 313, NA.

Notes to Pages 26–29   321 113. ​Shanahan, Memo, 19 February 1943, AD1 1292; Ayson to Secretary, 3 February 1943, EA 1, 86/18/2 Pt 1, ANZ; Garity, Report on visit to Rarotonga, 6 August 1943, Entry 44463, RG 338, NA. 114. ​Armstrong to Colonial Secretary, 19 October 1944, British Consul Tonga series (hereafter BCT) 39/42, WPA. 115. ​W. Abbott to Secretary of State, 3 February 1943, Editorial, Fiji Times and Herald, 23 January 1943, File 820, Suva, Fiji, Vol. 53, Rec­ords of Foreign Ser­v ice Posts, RG 84, NA. 116. ​Gordon to Director of Naval Intelligence, 3 March 1944, MP 1254, Correspondence relating to coastwatchers, File 66, National Archives of Australia, Canberra. The Australian government did not want them in Australia e­ ither but had to agree to U.S. wishes, accommodating them in isolated country areas or less salubrious sectors of the cities. Saunders and Taylor 1995, 331–348. 117. ​White et al. 1988; Zelenietz and Saito 1989, 174. 118. ​Lindstrom 1996, 37; Davenport 1989, 271–272: De Burlo 1989, 307. 119. ​Dixon and Brawley ­2002. 120. ​Wood-­Ellem 1999, 206. 121. ​Bennett 2009b, 32. 122. ​Gillion 1977, 199. 123. ​Connell 1987, 95–99. 124. ​Moore 1981; Costello 1985; Darian-­Smith 1990; Bailey and Farber 1992; Gardiner 1992; Lake 1995; and Barker and Jackson 1996. 125. ​Montgomerie 2001; Taylor 1986b; Ebbott 1984; Fyfe 1995; Parr 2010; Trey 1972, 40–57; Golden 1991; and Gazeley 2008. 126. ​About thirty Tongans served with the New Zealanders and Fijians in the Solomon Islands. Bennett 2009b, 134–135, 140–142. About one hundred Samoans, Tongans, Cook Islanders, and Niueans joined the Māori Battalion in New Zealand and fought in Eu­rope. Mataia 2007. Around four hundred Kanaks and three hundred Tahitians served in North Africa and Eu­rope, and about 150 of the Kanaks served in New Caledonia and Wallis Island. Munholland  2005, 65, 67; Fisher 2013, 33. A Tahitian fought with the Australian Infantry Forces. Townsville Daily Bulletin, 11 February 1946, 4. 127. ​Gratten, Memo to the Administrator, 27 March 1943, MS-­Papers-4879–059, Alexander Turnbull Library. 128. ​Eagon, Weekly Intelligence report, Po­liti­cal, 9 October 1943, Entry # P 90-­D, RG 313, NA. 129. ​Gratten, Memo to the Administrator, 27 March 1943, MS-­Papers-4879–059, Alexander Turnbull Library; Wood-­Ellem 1998, 14, 17, 24. 130. ​See for example, Snow 1997, 180–202. 131. ​Bennett 2004. 132. ​Martin, “The Marine Who Went Back,” 18. 133. ​Ludwig, Po­liti­cal conditions in Western Samoa, 14 April 1945; Governor’s comments, 11 July 1945, Intelligence files, Box 2, Series 3, Governor’s Office, RG 284, NA; Ostrom to Commanding General, 26 July 1942, Entry 179, RG 313, NA; Bennett 2009b, 163, 169; Munholland 2005, 216–217. 134. ​Mea­sur­i ng Worth, http://­w ww​.­measuringworth​.­com​/­uscompare​/­relativevalue​.­php; Valor at Sea: Pay grades, http://­w ww​.­valoratsea​.­com​/­paygrade​.­htm. 135. ​McKay 1968, 91, 105, 112–113.

322   Notes to Pages 31–36 Chapter 1. Bora Bora   1. ​Larson and du Prel 1995, 5.   2. ​Giles 2004, 355–356; Michener 1992, 42.  3. ​ Tabu was filmed in Tahiti and on the small uninhabited islet of Tupua, in the lagoon west of mainland Bora Bora. The main actors ­were part-­Polynesians and Polynesians who ­were very attractive to a Western audience. Kushner 1984, 64; Brawley and Dixon 2012, 20–22.   4. ​Kushner 1984, 37.  5. ​Ibid., 121.   6. ​Michener 1992, 42.   7. ​Kushner 1984, 116.   8. ​Ibid., 28, 35, 81, 90, 110, 115.   9. ​Thompson, Report, Venereal Disease-­South Pacific Area, October 1945, Rec­ord Group (hereafter RG) 112, National Archives, College Park, Mary­land (hereafter NA). 10. ​[James A Michener] History of the US Naval Station, Bora Bora, Society Islands, c.1945, Microfilm NRS II-55, Archives, Naval Yards, Washington DC. 11. ​Ostrom to Commanding General, 12 April 1942, Entry 179, RG 313, NA; [Michener] History Bora Bora; Baume 1974, 1; Kushner 1984, 31, 32, 62, 86; Sailing Directions for Bora Bora, USS Sumner, RG 313–58–3402, NA San Bruno (hereafter SB). Dental caries seem to have become widespread ­a fter World War I due primarily to excessive consumption of refined sugar and flour. Before that, the teeth of the inhabitants of French Polynesia w ­ ere strong, white, and lacking decay. Acker and Moortgatt 1957, 112–113. 12. ​Ostrom to Chief of Staff, 4 July 1942; Ostrom to Commanding General, 12 April 1942, Entry 179, RG 313, NA. 13. ​Lestrade 1992a, 128, 1992b, 261, 272; [Michener] History Bora Bora; Michener 1992, 44. 14. ​Munster to Commanding Officer, 6 August 1945 and enclosures, RG 313–58–3233 NA SB; Bingham 1947, 196–198. 15. ​Robson 1942, 101, 110–11; [Michener] History Bora Bora. 16. ​Orstrom to Commanding General, 22 July 1942, Entry 178, RG 313, NA; Ostrom to Commanding General, 12 April 1942, Entry 179, RG 313, NA. 17. ​Kushner 1984, 126–127; [Michener] History Bora Bora. 18. ​Ibid., 109, 191; [Michener] History Bora Bora. 19. ​Shaforth to Secretary of the Navy, 26 February 1942, RG 313–58–3233, NASB. 20. ​Larson and du Prel 1995, 34–35; Kushner 1984, 34, 58; Lestrade 1992b, 272. 21. ​Lestrade 1992b, 272. 22. ​Sanford quoted in Aldrich 1993, 21. 23. ​Du Prel n.d. “Dorita” is a pseudonym. 24. ​Larson and du Prel 1995, 31. 25. ​Thompson, Report, Venereal Disease-­South Pacific Area, Oct 1945, RG 112, NA. 26. ​Michener 1992, 48. 27. ​Larson and du Prel 1995, 40. 28. ​Kushner 1984, 94. 29. ​Ibid., 151. 30. ​De Lambert to Secretary of State, 4 April 1944, RG 59, NA; Thompson, Report, Venereal Disease-­South Pacific Area, October 1945, RG 112, NA. 31. ​Kushner 1984, 125, 140.

Notes to Pages 36–44   323 32. ​Ibid., 164, 173. 33. ​[Michener] History Bora Bora. 34. ​Michener 1992, 48–50. 35. ​Author unknown, “The Bobcat Blues, or Coals from New ­Castle,” cited in Wiggens n.d. 36. ​Michener 1992, 48–50. 37. ​Du Prel n.d. “Michael (Mike) Shay” is a pseudonym. 38. ​Larson and du Prel 1995, 36; Michener 1992, 51. 39. ​Michener 1992, 47. 40. ​Giles 2004, 357. 41. ​­There ­were few, if any, in Tahiti and Bora Bora who did not have some “foreign” an­ cestor. Robson 1942, 107; McArthur 1966, 91–105. 42. ​Giles 2004, 358–359. 43. ​Moxie International, http://­w ww​.­moxie​-­intl​.­com​/­company​.­htm; for Frederick Harrison Giles and Tetua Giles, see http://­search​.­a ncestry​.­com/ (accessed June 2013). 44. ​Locals reminisce about south area’s Zombie Restaurant, 11 February 2010, Valley Community Newspapers Inc. www​.­valcomnews​.­com​/­​?­p ​=5­ 30 (accessed 23 April 2013). 45. ​Larson and du Prel 1995, 36. 46. ​Fred T. Haley, “How to Win a War: A Tale from the South Seas,” 1982, paper delivered to the Monday Club of Tacoma, Washington, cited in Larson and du Prel 1995, 39. 47. ​Du Prel n.d.. The first missionaries ­were from the London Missionary Society, which evangelized the island in the 1820s. 48. ​Bingham 1947, 201; Bennett 2009b, 164–165. 49. ​Du Prel n.d.; [Michener] History Bora Bora. 50. ​Picard, cited in Aldrich 1993, 21. 51. ​Du Prel, email to author, 18 December 2012. 52. ​Larson and du Prel 1995, 6–7; Michener 1992, 52.

Chapter 2. “­There Are No Commoners in Samoa”  1. ​ Mana is a spiritual, super­natu­ral, or sacred quality or force attached to a person, a group, or ­t hing.  2. ​ Suli [the heir to a f­ amily line, a member of the ­family].  3. ​ E lē o oe o se suli o le fisiga po‘o le fusiga—­o oe o le suli o le niusina. A Samoan meta­phor, which uses the dif­fer­ent layers of the coconut to refer to an individual’s place in one’s pedigree.  4. ​Fale tele [a big Samoan h ­ ouse].  5. ​ Tatau [traditional tattooing of the male’s body].   6. ​Tamasese 2008, 89. Fealoaloa‘i [mutually pay re­spect and reciprocating the same]. At the heart of this concept is the face-­to-­face relationship, showing that one is present.  7. ​ Siapo [traditional fabric of Samoa, made of mulberry bark]. It is normally decorated with Samoan designs and is used in pre­sen­ta­tions of gifts.   8. ​Kramer 1994 Vol I, 94.   9. ​Barnes and Hunt 2005; Meleisea and Schoeffel Meleisea 1987, 23. 10. ​Stair 1983, 129—135. 11. ​Gilson 1970, 30. 12. ​Kramer 1994, 34. 13. ​Buxton 1928, 103; Keesing 1937, 26.

324   Notes to Pages 44–57 14. ​Rowe 1930, 127. 15. ​D.C. Spencer to Commander, 22 March 1946, Attorney General’s Office, Island files, RG 284, NASB. 16. ​Michener 1992, 40. 17. ​Amerika Samoa Humanities Council 2009. 18. ​ E tino e tasi ae tulialo eseese [refers to the dif­fer­ent side of the same belly]. One side does not see the other side, but both are part of the same body. Pratt quotes the translation as “one ­people, but many minds.” 19. ​Kennedy 2009, 52. 20. ​Meleisea and Schoeffel Meleisea 1987, 137–138. 21. ​Kennedy 2009, 14, 151. 22. ​Wildenthal 1997, 267, 270–271. 23. ​Shankman 2001, 130–131; Rowe 1930, 133, 181, 310. 24. ​Kennedy 2009, 118, 190, 192–194. 25. ​Meleisea 1980. 26. ​Robson 1942, 63, 64. 27. ​Kennedy 2009, 199; Bennett 2004. 28. ​Franco 1991, 199. 29. ​Amerika Samoa Humanities Council 2009, 242; [Michener], History of US Naval Station, Upolu, Western Samoa, c. 1945 RG 313–58B-3061, NASB. 30. ​Ibid. 242. 31. ​Franco 1991, 173. 32. ​Ibid., 176. 33. ​Bennett 2009b. 34. ​U.S. Navy 1945, 145. 35. ​Ibid., 142. 36. ​Ibid., 148. See also Shankman 2001. 37. ​Liua‘ana 2004, 190; Meleisea 1980, 148. 38. ​Amerika Samoa Humanities Council 2009, 234. 39. ​Meleisea 1980, 143. 40. ​Alailima 1988, 234–239; Eustis 1979, 109. 41. ​Olsen 1976, 178–179. 42. ​Hudson and Hudson 1994, 16. 43. ​S. P., Vini Fou, Vaiala, interview by author, 21 July 2012. 44. ​Bennett 2009b, 33–37. 45. ​Davidson 1969, 46–47. 46. ​[Michener], History of US Naval Station, Upolu, Western Samoa, c. 1945 RG 313–58B3061, NA SB. 47. ​Inspector of Police to Sec to the Administration, 12 February 1946 and enclosures, Ex 38/1/2, IT1 287, Archives New Zealand (hereafter ANZ), Wellington. 48. ​Kennedy 2009, 98. 49. ​Haubold and ­others, to Sec. of State, 4 June 194[6], US consul, Wellington Legation, 1946, RG 84, Part 5, National Archives of the United States (hereafter NA), College Park, Mary­land. 50. ​Confidential source. “Masina” is a pseudonym. 51. ​Confidential source. “Tunamanaia” is a pseudonym. 52. ​Confidential source. “Mana” is a pseudonym.

Notes to Pages 58–84   325 53. ​Confidential source. “Kenneth” is a pseudonym. 54. ​Confidential source. “Aniva” is a pseudonym. 55. ​Marc T. Greene, “Samoa: Paradise of the South Seas,” New Zealand ­Woman’s Weekly, 6 December 1945. 56. ​Confidential source. “Dawn” is a pseudonym. 57. ​Confidential source. “Lae’i Faleata” is a pseudonym. 58. ​Confidential source. “Sulimoni Matagofie” is a pseudonym. 59. ​Confidential source. Both “Hakai” and “Ula” are pseudonyms. 60. ​ Fuki le sina [pulling gray hair off from the head]. 61. ​ Melomelois a derogatory word used to label children who w ­ ere fair-­skinned at this time. 62. ​ Saka [boiling taro or green bananas for the eve­ning meal]. A common chore for young boys in the late after­noon before they all congregate at the village open field for the sport of rugby. 63. ​Confidential source. “Vaea” is a pseudonym. 64. ​Confidential source. “Fatu” is a pseudonym. 65. ​En­glish translation of the song is by Dr. Featuna‘i B. Liua‘ana. 66. ​Haubold and ­others, to Secretary of State, 4 June 1945, US Consul, Wellington Legation, 1946, RG 84, Part 5, NA. 67. ​Confidential source. “Salafai,” the ­daugh­ter of “Salafai” (the mute). Both are pseudonyms. 68. ​Irwin 1965, 87. 69. ​Confidential source. “Vaaulimasao” is a pseudonym. 70. ​ Lau‘ava [Samoan funeral reception]. This practice is part of the osi-­aiga manifestation, which involves customary exchanges with families who come to show re­spect for the departed and to the other side of the aiga.

Chapter 3. New Caledonia   1. ​“37 French War Brides, Babies ­Here.” Article from unidentified San Francisco newspaper, written on the day that the USS Rutland arrived in San Francisco. The photocopy was given to me by Jeanne Paillard Lindsey, one of the brides who had been on the ship.   2. ​“First Noumea War Brides ­Here; See  U.S. as Haven.” Photocopy of article from an unidentified San Francisco newspaper—­likely the San Francisco Chronicle. The photocopy was given to me by Jeanne Paillard Lindsey. The abbreviation T/5 signifies Technician, 5th Grade, U.S. Army.   3. ​It is beyond the scope of this chapter to describe in detail the po­liti­cal or military situation in New Caledonia during World War II. Munholland 2005 provides an excellent overview of the turmoil in New Caledonia both before and ­a fter the arrival of American troops.   4. ​France laid claim to New Caledonia (French: Nouvelle-­Calédonie) in 1853; it remained a French colony ­until 1946, at which time its status became that of an Overseas Territory. Institut d’Emission d’Outre-­mer 2011, 19. Since 1988, New Caledonia has been governed ­under the terms of the Matignon Accords, which has ensured the progressive transfer of certain state powers to New Caledonia and the establishment of new governmental institutions. By 2018 at the latest, New Caledonian citizens ­w ill vote on the question of full in­de­pen­dence from France.   5. ​Thorough discussions of Australia’s role in the regime change in New Caledonia may be found in Lawrey 1982 and Munholland 2005.

326   Notes to Pages 84–89   6. ​Maurice Schwob, “New Caledonia’s position: ­Free French defence work well ­under way before our troops landed,” New York Times, 2 June 1943. Schwob was the representative in the United States of Admiral d’Argenlieu, ­Free French High Commissioner in the Pacific.   7. ​Minerals Yearbook 1941, 604, 610. Current estimates are that New Caledonia holds about 25 ­percent of the world’s nickel reserves. Wu 2010, 19.1–19.2.   8. ​Brou 1975, 176.   9. ​Lawry 1982, 58. 10. ​“Le 12 mars, en apercevant au télémètre, aux premières lueurs de l’aube, une vingtaine de mats du cote de la passé de Dumbéa, au-­delà du récif, je compris qu’il s’agissait d’une invasion. L’événement que l’on n’attendait pas de sitôt et que l’on craignait : l’ennemi se dévoilait. J’ai aussitôt donne l’alerte et téléphone aux autorités supérieurs. Mais quelle intense émotion suivie quelques minutes plus tard d’un réel soulagement quand nous apprîmes qu’il s’agissait d’une flotte alliée.” Quoted in Daly 2002, 142. 11. ​“Le débarquement fit sensation. Ce déploiement de forces extraordinaires, en un moment aussi critique, a marqué profondément tous les citadins. En huit jours de temps, des milliers d’hommes, en armes, à pied, en voitures et camions, sillonnèrent notre pe­tite île. Cette animation si soudaine et si exceptionnelle allait modifier notre existence.” Quoted in Daly 2002, 143. 12. ​Daly 1973, 18–19. 13. ​Brou 1975, 184. 14. ​Max Shekleton, email to author, 15 June 2013. 15. ​According to Daly 1973, 18–19. 16. ​Brou 1975, 169–170. 17. ​Ibid., 215–216. 18. ​Ibid., 170. 19. ​Special Ser­v ice Division 1943, 15. http://­ia700406 ​.­u s​.­a rchive​.­org ​/­12​/­items​/­Pocket​ Guide​ToNewCaledonia ​_­216​/­NewCal​.­pdf 20. ​Several of Lamour’s films are set in the Pacific, including The Hurricane (1937), Her Jungle Love (1939), and Aloma of the South Seas (1941). For a recent study of this topic, see Brawley and Dixon 2012. 21. ​Morris W. Jones, quoted in “Lieutenant Was Once a Private in Pacific,” Chicago Defender (National edition), 1 April 1944, 7. Jones calls the indigenous ­people “Tokinese” [sic], confusing the term for Viet­nam­ese residents, many of whom ­were immigrant indentured laborers, with the Pacific Islanders (Kanak) native to New Caledonia. 22. ​Landau 2002, 66. 23. ​For discussions of this topic, see Munholland  2005, 152, and Henningham 1994, 21–41. 24. ​“American Conduct Scored in Noumea: Governor of New Caledonia Assails Troop Discipline—­Charges are Disputed,” New York Times, 24 December 1943, 6. 25. ​“Our Achilles Heel,” Chicago Defender (National edition), 8 January 1944, 10. 26. ​Charley Cherokee, “National Grapevine,” Chicago Defender (National edition), 8 April 1944, 13. 27. ​Landau 2002, 67. 28. ​N. M. Kreiger, (Captain, U.S.M.C.) Memorandum, 18 January 1944, Subject: Solicitation for sexual relations with Javanese ­women, Rec­ords of the Foreign Ser­v ice Posts of the Department of State, US Consulate, Noumea, New Caledonia, RG 84, NA.

Notes to Pages 89–99   327 29. ​William H. Hastie, and Vito Marcantonio, Petition for Clemency and Brief in Support Thereof in the ­Matter of Frank Fisher, Jr. [and] in the ­Matter of Edward R. Loury. 1943. Court document presented to the Secretary of War. Reprinted by the ­Legal Defense and Educational Fund of the National Association for the Advancement of Colored ­People. http://­a rchive​.­lib​ .­msu​.­edu​/­DMC​/­A mRad​/­unitedstatesarmy​.­pdf. 30. ​ New York Times, 2 April 1944, 26. 31. ​“La Seconde Guerre mondiale entraîna l’arrivée de 200 Australiens, 18 000  Néo-­ Zélandais et un groupe sans cesse renouvelé d’environ 60 000 Américains. . . . ​Si l’on considère que la population calédonienne était d’environ 60 000 personnes, il est évident que des naissances plus ou moins visibles eurent lieu dans toutes les communautés.” Angleviel 2004, 18. 32. ​The first marriage between an American soldier, Florent Charles Laberge, and a New Caledonian ­woman, Yvonne Barthelemy, took place on 20 March 1943, just a year ­a fter the arrival of the American forces. Daly 2002, 233. Estimate of the total number of marriages provided by Ismet Kurtovitch, personal communication, 25 April 2013. 33. ​ Pacific Islands Monthly, September 1944, 7. 34. ​“Bishop’s Ban: Marriages with Americans,” Eve­ning Post (Wellington, New Zealand), 22 July 1943, 4. 35. ​Zeiger 2010, 131–132. 36. ​French colonial laws, particularly as they pertained to the categories of indigène and métis, ­were quite complex and varied from place to place and changed over time. See Saada 2012, 103, 111, 182–183, 191, 197, 200, 201; see Muckle 2012, 1–20, for a discussion of the laws as applied in New Caledonia at the time. This is in contrast to the American practice of automatically granting citizenship to anyone born on U.S. soil, a right granted u ­ nder the Constitution’s F ­ ourteenth Amendment, enacted in 1868 ­a fter the abolition of slavery. 37. ​R. Brow, Confidential Memorandum, 5 September 1945 and enclosures, Rec­ords of the Foreign Ser­v ice Posts of the Dept of State, U.S. Consulate, Noumea, New Caledonia, file 811–11, RG 84, NA. 38. ​According to official documents and to information supplied by her New Caledonian ­relatives. 39. ​Ehrhart-­K neher and Corne 1994, 265–266. 40. ​I requested more information on this statement, but no reply was received by the time this chapter went to ­press. 41. ​Ehrhart-­K neher and Corne 1994, 266. 42. ​According to ­family lore, information supplied by Eliane Ouilemon in December 2012. 43. ​[Government of New Caledonia] 1895, 65, 152. The full text of this publication may be found online through http://­books​.­google​.­com. 44. ​Isabelle Ouenghey’s last name, as spelled on Charles Pezron’s death certificate. 45. ​Isabelle Louise Pezron, Acte de Naissance. 46. ​Lionel Paillard, personal communication. 47. ​Teresa McQuerrey, “ ‘Remember This Date, It Could Be Im­por­tant’: Pearl Harbor Survivor Remembers ‘Day That ­Will Live in Infamy,’ ” Payson Roundup, 5 December 2002. http://­ www​.­paysonroundup​.­com​/­news​/­2002​/­dec​/­05​/­remember​_­t his​_­date​/­​?­print. 48. ​“La famille de la maman de Lionel (Isabelle) n’a jamais fréquenté la famille Paillard. La maman d’Isabelle est mélanésienne donc elle est de couleur.” Eliane Ouillemon, personal communication, 5 September 2006.

328   Notes to Pages 99–126 49. ​ “Son premier mari était très méchant. Elle est revenue habitait [sic] chez ma ­grand-­mère.” 50. ​Robert’s ­father, Nicholas, had emigrated from Italy in 1905. Robert’s ­mother, Evelyn Christy, was the ­daugh­ter of Welsh immigrants. Genealogical details located through Ancestry​ .­com database. 51. ​Robert Arthur Melina, documentation from Fort Snelling National Cemetery. 52. ​Margot Melina Tyson, interview by author, 2012. 53. ​“Autorisé par décision du Général de Brigade Rose.” 54. ​“Départ de Calédoniennes pour les Etats-­Unis.” Article from an unidentified New Caledonian newspaper. 55. ​“Ce n’est pas sans déchirement que se fit la séparation d’avec la famille et le pays. Par une délicatesse des autorités américains, les parents et amis purent assister au depart sur le quai et faire leurs derniers adieux.” 56. ​“First Noumea War Brides H ­ ere; See U.S. as Haven.” 57. ​“War Baby Born on Brides’ Ship Reaching S.F.” The photocopy was given to me by Jeanne Paillard Lindsay, who had been on the ship. 58. ​Per an entry in the 1948 Minneapolis City Directory, which gives Robert A. Melina’s address as 1601 Portland Ave­nue, along with his occupation, “Jan. Public Library.” 59. ​Margaret was originally named Dollee, ­a fter Robert’s sister who had died in childhood. Her name was l­ater changed to Margaret ­a fter she entered the foster care system. She went by the name Margo. She died on 3 November 2014. 60. ​The name of the man Roberta married is Roger Neubauer. 61. ​Roberta (Bobby) died in 1977 and Raymond (Rocky) died in 1998. 62. ​Deborah Melina. Undated letter in private collection.

Chapter 4. No Bali Ha‘i   1. ​Woodburn 1944, 63–64, 86–87; Rodman 2001, 37; MacClancy 1981, 95; Douglas and Douglas 1990, 121.   2. ​Heinl 1944, 229; Woodburn 1944, 63–64, 87.   3. ​Final Report, Special Ser­v ices activities on Espiritu Santo, 3 April 1946, Entry 427, RG 407, NA.   4. ​Navarro 1945, 43.   5. ​MacClancy 1981, 96; Kralovec 1945, 61–62; Rodman 2001, 179.   6. ​Woodburn 1944; Kralovec 1945, 63, 109–112, 263, 393, 427.   7. ​Thompson 1980.   8. ​Robson 1942, 142–143.   9.  Buckley​and Klugman 1983, 321–324; Thompson 1980. 10. ​Bennett 2014. 11. ​Robson 1942, 24, 28, 29, 31, 144–145: Blandy, Summary of Events of the War, 1 January to 31 December 1941, New Hebrides British Series (hereafter NHBS) 19/III, 7/20, WPHC, Western Pacific Archives, Special Collections, University of Auckland (hereafter WPA). 12. ​Meyerhoff 2002, 45–53; Adams 1986, 41–63; Bedford 1973, 30–37; Robson 1942, 24–31, 139–150; MacClancy 1981, 88. 13. ​MacClancy 1981, 95. 14. ​Kushner 1984, 164.

Notes to Pages 126–134   329 15. ​Kralovec 1945, 521, 528. 16. ​Lindstrom 1996, 13–18, 37. 17. ​Bennett 2009b, 38–41. 18. ​Paull, cited in Stone 1997, 62. 19. ​Lindstrom and Gwero 1998, 45–46, 68, 77, 104–195; Moon and Moon 1998, 25, 43–46, 68–69, 77. 20. ​Durham 2003, 32–33. 21. ​Kralovec 1945, 510; Merrylees to Boycott, 3 January, 1944, NHBS MP 26/43, WPA; District Agent to Boycott, 18 July 1944, NHBS MP 22/43, WPA. 22. ​Georgina Korah, interview by author, 14 August 2010. 23. ​Confidential source. “Louise” is a pseudonym. Interview by author, 17 August ­2010. 24. ​Robinson-­Marie Adèle, emails to author, 2012. 25. ​Confidential source. “Cecile” is a pseudonym. Interview by author, 22 August 2010. 26. ​Ambae is also often known as Aoba. 27. ​Shineberg 1999, 103–105. 28. ​Rosalina Marie Boetovo, interview by author, 18 August 2010. 29. ​Confidential source. 30. ​The common method of collecting the fruit involves the use of a bamboo pole. 31. ​Maurice Colardeau was a French planter. Part of his extensive land is now the site of the modern parliament near the former British Paddock, now In­de­pen­dence Park. Rodman 2001, 103, 122. 32. ​Birth entry for Michael Harris Anker​, http://­w ww​.­f reebmd​.­org​.­u k​/­cgi​/­information​.­pl​ ?­cite​=­%2FzEplidrCMR4ligvPQvBCA​&­scan​=­1 (accessed 26 February 2012); 1891 E ­ ngland Census, Entry Richard Anker, RG 12; Piece: 280; Folio 137; Page  31; GSU roll: 6095390. http://­ search​.­a ncestry​.­com​/­cqi-­bin/sse.dll?h=11755122&db=uki1891&indiv=try. 33. ​Electoral roll, London, 1902, Anker ­family, Class RG 12, Piece 335, Folio 74, Page 9. Copy supplied by Ruth Richardson, 1 February 2012. 34. ​H. Anker, New South Wales, unassisted immigrant passenger lists, 1908, http://­search​ .­a ncestry​.­com​/­cqi-­bin/sse.dll?h=4861722&db=NSWunassisted&indiv=try. 35. ​H. Anker, New South Wales, unassisted immigrant passenger lists, 1826–1922, 1909, http://­s earch​.­a ncestry​.­c om​/­c qi-­bin/sse.dll?h=4963060&db=NSWunassisted&indiv=try; 1910, http://­search​.­a ncestry​.­com​/­cqi-­bin/sse.dll?h=5039783&db=NSWunassisted&indiv=try; 1920, http://­search​.­ancestry​.­com​/­cqi-­bin/sse.dll?h=6864602&db=NSWunassisted&indiv=try, http://­s earch​ .­a ncestry​.­c om​/­c qi-­bin/sse.dll?h=6877646&db=NSWunassisted&indiv=try; http://­search​.­a ncestry​.­com​/­cqi-­bin/sse.dll?h=6882215&db=NSWunassisted&indiv=try. 36. ​ Pacific Islands Monthly, August 1959, 87, 101. 37. ​E ntry,  A. Anker, Anzac graves and memorials, http://­w ww​.­a nzacs​.­net​/­GRAVES​ /­C emeteries​/­M EMLonePine​_­A​_­C​.­htm; Anker, Personnel rec­ord, AABK 18805  W5520 0008885, ANZ, Wellington. This brother was named Samuel Albert Anker at birth in early 1890. Birth register, http://­search​.­ancestrylibrary​.­com​/­browse​/­v iew​.­aspx​?­dbid​= 8­ 912​& ­iid​= ­ONS​ _­B18901AZ​- ­0 013​& ­pid​= ­43673892​&­ssrc​=​­&­f n​= ­Samuel​+­A lbert​&­l n​=­A nker​& ­st​= ­g. ­These two had at least five other siblings in 1911. Census 1911, http://­search​.­a ncestry​.­com​/­cqi-­bin/sse.dll? h=3005775&db=1911England&indiv=try. 38. ​Death, Richard Anker, http://­w ww​.­freebmd​.­org​.­uk​/­cgi​/­information​.­pl​?­cite​= ­Crqb1Tc7%​ 2BcC5mxIexaRoAA​&­scan​=­1; ­England and Wales, National Probate Calendar (Index of Wills and Administrations), 1861–1941 for Richard Anker, March 1913, http://­search​.­a ncestrylibrary​

330   Notes to Pages 134–137 .­c om​/ ­browse​/­v iew​.­a spx​?­dbid​=1­ 904​&­i id​=3­ 1874 ​_ ­2 22968–00046​& ­pid​= 5­ 544665​&­s src​=​­&­f n​ =­R ichard​& ­l n​=­A nker​&­st​= ­g; for Eva Anker, 1923. http://­search​.­a ncestry​.­com​/­cqi-­bin/sse. dii?h=5571333&db=UK ProbateCal&indiv=try. 39. ​Harris Anker, 1914 Australian Federal Roll, http://­search​.­a ncestrylibrary​.­com​/­iexec​ ?­htx​=V ­ iew​& ­r ​= 5­ 542​&­dbid​=­1207​& ­i id​= ­R DAUS1901​_­100988​_­​_­0 015–00008​&­f n​= ­Harris​&­l n​ =­A nker​&­st​=­r& ​ ­ssrc​=­​& ­pid​= ­9408749. 40. ​ Pacific Islands Monthly, August 1959, 87. 41. ​H. Anker, 1920, New South Wales, unassisted immigrant passenger lists 1826–1922, http://­s earch​.­a ncestry​.­c om​/­c qi-­bin/sse.dii?h=6877646&db=NSWunassisted &indiv=try; http://­search​.­ancestry​.­com​/­cqi-­bin/sse.dii?h=6882215&db=NSWunassisted &indiv=try; http://­ search​.­ancestry​.­com​/­cqi-­bin/sse.dii?h=6864602&db=NSWunassisted &indiv=try (accessed 29 February 2012). 42. ​M. Anker to British Resident, 13 September 1929, NHBS 1/1/1/340/1929, WPA. 43. ​Ibid.; Pacific Islands Monthly, August 1959, 87, 101. 44. ​Marriage Certificate Anker and Tanner, Gippsland Victoria, 10 November 1913, Victoria Registry of Marriages; Sydney Morning Herald, 29 November 1930, 12; Gippsland Times, 20 July 1924, 4; M. Anker to British Resident, 13 September 1929, NHBS 1/1/1/340/1929,WPA. Details of his ­career on the Marsina and in Port Moresby kindly researched by John Spurway in Burns Philp rec­ords, Noel Butlin Archives, Australian National University, Canberra. Much of this information is located at N111/443 and N111/333c. 45. ​He leased land on mainland Santo from Burns Philp in a region where a major French com­pany also claimed the land. Maps enclosed in Hughes to Stevens, 27  September 1944, NHBS MP 26/1943, WPA. 46. ​See files NHBS 1/1/1/236/1931, 1/1/1/279/1932, 1/1/1/345/1933, 1/1/1/162/1934, 1/1/1​ /372/1936, 1/1/1/52/1937, 8/11/27/36, 8/11/F2/4, WPA. 47. ​Harris to British Agent, 11 March 1948, NHBS 8/1/27/1948, WPA; British Agent, Memo, 27 February 1948, and enclosures, NHBS 8/11/27/36, WPA. 48. ​ Pacific Islands Monthly, August 1959, 87. Many believed this. Stone 1997, 52. 49. ​Kralovec 1945, 181–182, 187. 50. ​Michener 1951, 216; Buckley and Klugman 1983, 356, 358; Bennett 2009b, 123, 145, 168. 51. ​Merrylees to Blandy, 9 November 1943, NHBS 10/1/H-12, WPA. Harris passed off this story of his New Zealand birth to many. See Stone 1997, 92. 52. ​Bennett 2009b, 187; Lindstrom 1996, 17–21, 38–39. 53. ​Kralovec 1945, 532; Hughes to Judicial Commissioner, 3 September 1944; Egan, Judgment, 4 September 1944, and enclosures, NHBS 10/1/H-12, WPA. For Harris’ involvement in the alcohol trade, see Michener 1951, 216. 54. ​Resident Commissioner to British District Agent, 13 September 1944, NHBS 10/1/H-12, WPA. 55. ​Johnson to Blandy, 15 September 1944, NHBS 10/1/H-12, WPA. 56. ​ Pacific Islands Monthly, August 1959, 87; see also Johnson to Blandy, 15 September 1944, NHBS 10/1/H-12, WPA. 57. ​Maxwell to British Resident, 31 May 1948, NHBS 8/11/F2/4, WPA. 58. ​Michener 1951, 215–217. 59. ​ Pacific Islands Monthly, August 1959, 101; Michener 1951, 215; Garin v. Harris file, NHBS 8/1/12/50, WPA.

Notes to Pages 140–150   331 60. ​Nishenko 1991, 244. 61. ​“Cecile” and “John” are pseudonyms. 62. ​Harris had a claim on the lands at Benui. Commonwealth Solicitor, New Hebrides (inventory), File number 371 application number Santo 164, correspondence and documents relating to Applications for Claims by Thomas Harris for property known as Benui, Malo, A4311, 237/1/1, Australian National Archives, Canberra. 63. ​Lindstrom 1996, 37. 64. ​Chief Henry Cyril Manlaewia of Paunnagisu, Efate, interview by author, 17 August 2010. 65. ​Register of Baptisms No. 2, 1927–1953, Roman Catholic Church rec­ords, Port Vila. 66. ​List of postings kindly supplied by Lamont Lindstrom. 67. ​Chief Henry Cyril Manlaewia. 68. ​Dorsett 2012, 87–88. 69. ​Commander South Pacific Area and Force to Commander Naval Base Navy 131, 15 October 1944, and enclosures, Entry # P 90-­A 2, RG 313, NA. 70. ​Officer of Police to Commandant of Police, 9 September 1968, and enclosures, Foreign and Commonwealth Office 141/1335, National Archives, Kew, E ­ ngland; Rodman 2001, 190– 192; Margaret Rodman to author, 18 June 2014. 71. ​Lindstrom 1996, 34. 72. ​Levi Pollen is a variant of “Bollen”—­t he plosives “b” and “p” are much closer in many languages of Vanuatu than they are in En­g lish. He stated in 1998 that he and Ruby became partners when Merry Evelyn was seven months old. He also said that her U.S. f­ ather was in the military police. Lindstrom and Gwero 1998, 199.

Chapter 5. Wallis (Uvea) Island   1. ​Aldrich 1990, 26–28, 197, 270, 287, 317–318.   2. ​Buckley and Klugman 1983, 284, 292–294, 322–323.   3. ​McCabe to Commander, 24 November 1944, Box 9/33, RG 313–58–3440, NASB; Final  Close out report on Wallis, 30  November 1945, Entry 178, File A4–2(1), RG 313, NA; Vernon Hunter, Quarterly Administrative Summary, 9 August 1947, Entry 183, File A 12, RG 313, NA.   4. ​Aldrich 1993, 2–11; Price, Intelligence data, Wallis, 24 July 1942, Entry 179, RG 313, NA.   5. ​Holder, Historical Narrative Wallis Island, 16 June 1945 and enclosures, Entry 183, RG 313, NA.   6. ​Quoted in Garand and Strobridge 1971, 398.   7. ​Price, Failure of Civil Administration on Wallis, 18 July 1943, Entry 182, RG 313, NA.   8. ​Price, Native Caledonian Soldiers on Wallis, 7 May 1943, Entry 182, RG 313, NA.   9. ​Holder, Historical Narrative Wallis Island. 10. ​Price, Native Caledonian Soldiers on Wallis, 7 May 1943; Price, Failure of Civil Administration on Wallis, 18 July 1943; Halsey to Bourgeau, 29 July 1943, Entry 182, RG 313, NA. 11. ​Holder, Historical Narrative Wallis Island. 12. ​Poncet to Price, 10 May 1943, Entry 182, RG 313, NA. 13. ​One source claims the bishop prevented the ­women from fraternizing with the Americans, but his effort seemed to have met with limited success. Aldrich 1993, 22 and fn 46, 362. 14. ​Holder, Historical Narrative Wallis Island.

332   Notes to Pages 150–175 15. ​Bennett 2009b, 62. 16. ​Vollinger n.d, n.p. 17. ​Aldrich 1993, 21. 18. ​Hice, http://­w ww​.­w iehes​.­com​/­vets​/­vets001​.­html (accessed 25 September 2013). 19. ​Vollinger n.d, n.p. 20. ​Aldrich 1993, 24–26. 21. ​Petelo Tufale, interview by author, 25 August 2010. 22. ​Aldrich 1993, 22. 23. ​This is at variance with the number stated by another Wallis man. Aldrich 1993, fn 46, 362. 24. ​Rottman 2002, 92; www​.­globalsecurity​.­org​/­military​/­agency​/­usmc​/­3–7​.­htm. 25. ​­Father Soucy had earlier worked at Lamap in southeast Malakula. 26. ​­Father Jean Rodet, letter to writer, 17 July 2012. 27. ​See for example, his brother, Camille’s obituary, bangordailynews​.­com​/­2008​/­09​/­25​ /­obituaries​/­camille​-­soucy/ (accessed May 2014). 28. ​In their bid to surpass En­glish influence, the French administration at this time made substantial contributions to the building of schools and other infrastructure. It is very likely that the Walarano mission benefited from French funds. 29. ​Sandra Winton, OP, interview by writer, May 2014. Sandra taught at Walarano from 1980 to 1984. 30. ​Ibid.

Chapter 6. Tonga in the Time of the Americans   1. ​[James A. Michener], History of Tongatapu, c. 1945, Entry 183, RG 313, NA.   2. ​Michener 1992, 70.  3. ​Campbell 1992b, 107–141; Ferdon 1967, 129–137; Robson 1942, 329–337; Bennett 2009a, 61–76; and Wood-­Ellem 1999, 201–221.   4. ​Margaret Armstrong, Tonga visitor’s book, Mss Pac s 93, Rhodes House, Oxford, 129; Wood-­Ellem 1999, ­208.   5. ​Wood-­Ellem 1999, 202–204.  6. ​ Armstrong, 137.   7. ​[Michener], History of Tongatapu, c. 1945.  8. ​ Armstrong, 129.   9. ​Confidential source, emails to author, August 2012. 10. ​Michener 1992, 72–77; Wood-­Ellem 1999, 214–217. 11. ​Helu 1998, 29. 12. ​Confidential sources. “Rose” and “Samuel” are both pseudonyms. Interview by Phyllis Herda, 30 January 2012. 13. ​Confidential source. “Tom” is a pseudonym. Interview by Phyllis Herda, 18 November 2010. 14. ​Confidential source, email to author, 22 August 2012. 15. ​Dianne Gudgel-­Holmes, niece to “Rusty,” emails to author, 2011–2012. 16. ​Scott to Commissioner of Immigration, 3 March 1946 and enclosure, Rec­ords, Consular Posts, Suva, file 811.11, RG 84, NA; Gilbert C. Dias, Army Enlistment rec­ords, 1938–1946, http://­search​.­a ncestry​.­com​/­cgi-­bin/sse.dll?db=WWIIenlist&o_v (accessed 18 March 2013).

Notes to Pages 175–182   333 17. ​Scott to Commissioner of Immigration, 3 March 1946 and enclosure, Rec­ords, Consular Posts, Suva, file 811.11, RG 84, NA; Information sheet for passenger arrivals, Honolulu, 30  January 1947, Monica Dias, http://­search​.­a ncestry​.­com​/­cgi-­bin/sse.dll?h=14230675&db=​ HonoluluPL&indiv=try (accessed 16 March 2013). 18. ​Ota 2001, 209–234; Amendment to the War Brides Act, 22 July 1947, Chap 289, §6, 61 Stat. 401. 19. ​ Reno Eve­ning Gazette, 19 May 1947, 11; The Stars and Stripes, 20 May 1947, 6; Berkshire Eve­ning Ea­gle, 22 July 1942, 7. 20. ​McKee to American Consul, 14  May 1946; American Consul to Secretary of State, 19 August 1946, and enclosures, Rec­ords, Consular Posts, Suva, File 130.7, RG 84, NA. 21. ​British Nationality Act 1870; Passport application William Alfred Smith, 1942, BCT 4/1/24_(1) 0024; Passport renewal, Thomas Maton John Smith, 1952, British Consul Tonga (hereafter BCT) 4/1/30_0076, WPA; Applications for passports for Smith children, BCT 4/1/26_0058, BCT 4/1/26_0069, BCT 4/1/26_0076,WPA. 22. ​British Nationality and Status of Aliens Act 1914. 23. ​Louisa Scott, Oath of Allegiance, 17 July 1947, Rec­ords, Consular Posts, Suva, File 130.7, RG 84, NA; Certificate of identity, Louisa Scott, 8 December 1945, BCT 4/1/25/2/0005, WPA; Marriage, Thomas Manton John Smith and Helen Hansen, 3 June 1944, Miscellaneous certificates, BCT 1/43/98, WPA; Registration of Marriage, Warren G Scott and Louisa Smith, 9 January 1946, BCT 5/1/1/46, WPA. 24. ​Applications for passports for Smith children, BCT 4/1/26_0058, BCT 4/1/26_0069, BCT 4/1/26_0076, certificate of identity for A.H. Raass, 1948, BCT 4/1/30_0020, WPA. 25. ​John Michael Burke, File 130.8, Rec­ords, Consular Posts, Suva, 1947, RG 84, NA. 26. ​Fuess, Memo: Co-­ordination of Visa Information among American forces and enclosures, 16 November 1943, Auckland Consulate, 1943, Vols. 5–6, RG 84, NA. 27. ​John Michael Burke, File 130.8, Rec­ords, Consular Posts, Suva, 1947, RG 84, NA. 28. ​Michael Burke, emails to author, 2012–2013. 29. ​Some of this information about Eleanor Jennings can be found in McKissock 2009. 30. ​Michael Burke, emails to author, 2012–2013. 31. ​Wood-­Ellem, 1999, 211; [Michener], History of Tongatapu, c. 1945. Weeks agrees that Fanua was “one of the greatest living authorities on Tongan folklore.” It was consistent hard work by her f­ amily and her expertise in Tongan history that enabled her to regain some of her reputation ­a fter her youthful war­time indiscretions. Weeks 1987, 424–425. 32. ​M ichener was infertile, having had mumps in early adolescence. Michener 1992, 35–43. 33. ​[Michener], History of Tongatapu, c. 1945. 34. ​Confidential source, email to author, September 2013. 35. ​Helu, 1998, 29–30; Lafitani 1998, 78–82; [Michener], History of Tongatapu, c. ­1945. 36. ​Wood-­Ellem 1998, 16; Helu 1998, 28–30. 37. ​The rate in Australia and New Zealand was around 5 ­percent. Annual report of the Chief Justice of Tonga for the year ending December 1921, enclosed in Collocott papers, 1921– 1959, PMB 28; Wood 1943, 91. 38. ​Lafitani 1998, 79. 39. ​Confidential source, email to author, August 2013. 40. ​Hixon 2000, 125.

334   Notes to Pages 183–189

Chapter 7. Kai Merika!   1. ​All details, ­u nless stated, relating to participants from talanoa (discussion) or interviews. Reference only usually cited in the first instance. Romera and Lusiana details from talanoa with Alumita Durutalo, 2010, and with Durutalo and Jacqueline Leckie, August 2012. Information for Martha and Jessie from an interview with Martha by Leckie, October 2010.   2. ​The most basic f­amily unit within Fijian society is the extended f­amily unit or tokatoka. Above it is the mataqali that comprises one or more tokatoka.  3. ​ I-­Taukei refers to indigenous Fijians but as this chapter shows, indigenous Fijians may have some non-­Fijian ancestry. Kai Viti and ­today the term “Fiji Islanders” apply to all p ­ eople from Fiji.   4. ​Register of Births, Reel 69, No.155, National Archives of Fiji (hereafter FNA), Suva, Fiji.  5. ​US World War Two Army Enlistment Rec­ords, 1938–1946, RG 64, NA. (ancestry​ .­com). Samuel worked as a driver before he enlisted on 16 January 1941.   6. ​The VKB is a register of native landowners and a rec­ord of Fijian genealogy.  7. ​Refers to identity and recognition as indigenous Fijians although, as this chapter stresses, i-­Taukei may trace descent from other ethnicities.   8. ​Muster Rolls of U.S. Navy Ships, Stations, and Other Naval Activities, 01/01/1939— 01/01/1949, NA; California Death Index, 1940–1997 (ancestry​.­com). Dalton enlisted on 29 December 1941.   9. ​de Bruce 2007, 113–127; Riles 1997, 105–129. 10. ​Nate (pseudonym), interview by Marsa Dodson, 2010. Sadly Nate died in 2014. 11. ​See Nabobo-­Baba 2006, 94–98, 100–125. 12. ​ Time, 26 October 1942, 34. 13. ​On war­t ime Fiji, see Geddes 1945, 62–5; Lal 1992, 108–125; Usher 1943. Snow 1997, 180–202 has memories of Nadi-­Lautoka. On the military impact see Lowry 2006; Priday 1945, 15–26. 14. ​Lowry 2006, 86. 15. ​Howlett 1948; Ravuvu 1974. 16. ​ Talanoa, Latileta Adiseru, and Durutalo, 2010. 17. ​Lowry 2006, 42. Beightler was commanding general of the 37th Infantry Division, Ohio National Guard. This division shipped to Guadalcanal in April 1943 and was replaced by the Americal Division. Lowry 2006, Appendices 3–5 lists all American units in Fiji. Cronin, 1951, 101–119 discusses the Americal Division in Fiji. 18. ​Lowry 2006, 70. 19. ​See Brawley and Dixon 2012. 20. ​Henne, n.d., n.p. 21. ​Frankie, interviewed by Leckie, October 2010. All names for his ­family are pseudonyms. He was named a­ fter his f­ ather and also has a stepbrother in the United States named Frank. 22. ​Fiji Islands, RG 313–58–3000, Box 1, “Standing ­Orders” San Bruno, NA. 23. ​Man­ag­er, Fiji to General Man­ag­er, Wellington, Union Steam Ship Com­pany, 20 March 1948, Wellington City Council Archives, Union Steam Ship Com­pany rec­ords, G ­ rand Pacific ­Hotel, AF080: 215:5, courtesy of Frances Steel. 24. ​Monty Griffen, “Suva Boys Grammar School, 1934,” The Talanoa, 33, September 2004; contemporary accounts courtesy of Rod Ewins, 6 September 2010.

Notes to Pages 189–195   335 25. ​Thompson, Venereal Disease—­South Pacific Area, c. September 1944, Box 80, Entry 44463, p. 9, RG 338, NA. 26. ​Commissioner of Police to Colonial Secretary, Suppression of Prostitution, 19 March 1949, CSO F6/31, FNA. 27. ​F 6/31, FNA. 28. ​Mitchell Diaries, 3 January 1944, Mss. Afr. r. 101, Rhodes House library, Oxford. Notes courtesy of Robert Lowry. 29. ​District Officer Nadi, Secret Report to District Commissioner Western, 29 July 1942, CSO F9/55/1, FNA. 30. ​Director of Medical Ser­v ices to Colonial Secretary, 13 May 1950, F6/31, FNA. 31. ​Henne, n.d., 82. 32. ​CSO F9/55/1, FNA. 33. ​Home for Illegitimate Half-­Caste Children, Central and Western District, F 114/4, FNA. 34. ​ Talanoa, Meli, Durutalo, and Leckie, 12 August 2012. 35. ​See Kelly 1992. Between 1879 and 1916 approximately sixty thousand Girmitiyas ­were indentured as laborers from India to work in Fiji. 36. ​Thompson, Venereal Disease—­South Pacific Area, c. September 1944, Box 80, Entry 44463, pp. 10–11, RG 338, NA. 37. ​Ibid., pp. 9–10, RG 338, NA. 38. ​ Fiji Times and Herald, 28 October 1944, 7. 39. ​Henne, n.d., 51. 40. ​F 114/4, FNA. 41. ​Interview, Martha. Fijian ­women from the island of Kadavu sailed to Suva to “have a good time,” Margaret Chung, pers. comm. with Leckie, 5 October 2010. 42. ​Brawley and Dixon 2012, 70. 43. ​“Military Laundry at Nausori,” F 8/174, FNA. Rotuma was administered as part of Fiji, which it still is. 44. ​Arthur and Maretta Solomon, interview by Marsa Dodson, 27 March 2010. 45. ​F 8/174, FNA; “Soldiers—­Laundry Work by Indians and Fijians,” F 115/95, FNA, refers to the “lucrative nature” of this at Lomawai Camp near Sigatoka. Meli recalled young Fijian girls ­doing washing for soldiers in Vuda. See also Henne, n.d. 46. ​ Fiji Times and Herald, 10 October 1945, 7. 47. ​Interviews, David (pseudonym) by Judith Bennett and Leckie, January 2011, 5 December 2011. 48. ​F 114/4, FNA. 49. ​Martha wondered why Sam suffered his first probable attack in Fiji when malaria was not endemic ­t here. In 1943 the military temporarily suspended the prophylactic atrabine in Fiji in order to determine the number of soldiers carry­ing the malaria parasite. This resulted in thousands suffering severe malarial attacks (Cronin 1951, 109). 50. ​ Talanoa, Meli. 51. ​1930 Census, Tulare,  California (ancestry​.­com); Pers. comm., Dalton’s stepbrother David Bishop and niece Patty with Rosemary Anderson, December 2012. 52. ​ Talanoa, Durutalo and Merewalesi’s ­daugh­ter, 2010. Merewalesi died in 2008. 53. ​Pers. comm. with Leckie, Adi Romera, 7 September 2010. 54. ​Interviews, David.

336   Notes to Pages 196–207 55. ​Josua Gonewai interpreted yalo kaukauwa as a strong feeling of negative emotion that is associated with anger and stubbornness, usually in children when they dislike something they have been asked to do. Pers. comm. with Leckie, 4 February 2013. 56. ​Pers. comm., Bishop and Patty. 57. ​Pers. comm. with Leckie, Maria Benesh Brown, 26 August 2010. 58. ​Lewis died on 27 February 1997. 59. ​History of Fiji Island File, Box 6788, Entry 183, p. 1, RG 313, NA. 60. ​ Isa Lei is a sad Fijian farewell song. 61. ​Confidential source.

Chapter 8. “I ­Don’t Like Maori Girls ­Going Out with Yanks”  1. ​ McGibbon 2003.   2. ​Bioletti 1989, 25. On the American “invasion” also see Bevan 1992; Phillips with Ellis 1992; Montgomerie 2000, 262–276.   3. ​Taylor 1986a, 628.   4. ​Edwards 1992, 126. Also see “Hostels for Māori Girls,” New Zealand W ­ oman’s Weekly (NZWW), 9 December 1943, 7.   5. ​Petty 2008, 116.  6. ​ Ibid., 90.   7. ​The Kingitanga is a pan-­tribal Māori-­led po­liti­cal movement that was established in the 1860s with the goal of halting land sales, which w ­ ere then proceeding rapidly. Achieving Māori cultural, economic, and po­liti­cal self-­determination is a major goal of the Kingitanga ­today.  8. ​The Dominion, 29 March 1943, 6.  9. ​ New Zealand Herald (NZH), 26 May 1943, 2. 10. ​See Broughton, Grace, Ramsden, and Dennis, 2001. 11. ​ New Zealand Official Yearbook 1943, 11. 12. ​Edwards 1992, 128. 13. ​Kampf 2007, 447. 14. ​NZH, 12 May 1943, 5; NZH, 30 June 1943, 5; NZH, 10 November 1943, 4; NZH, 29 February 1944, 7; NZH, 25 February 1944, 5; NZH, 17 February 1944, 2; NZH, 15 February 1944, 2; NZH, 22 March 1944, 2; NZH, 13 March 1944, 4; NZH, 9 March 1944, 7; NZH, 19 March 1943, 5; NZH, 16 May 1942, 5; NZH, 4 July 1942, 8; NZ Truth, 9 February 1944, 7. 15. ​NZH, 30 June 1943, 5. Three cases ­were also reported in the NZH, 25 May 1943, 5. 16. ​NZH, 29 February 1944, 7. 17. ​NZH, 2 July 1943, 4. 18. ​ Bay of Plenty Beacon, 14 March 1944, 5. 19. ​ The Dominion, 1 May 1943, 6; Auckland Star, 11 August 1944, 6; Auckland Star, 17 May 1944, 6; NZH, 9 December 1943, 7. 20. ​NZH, 23 December 1945, 5; NZH, 26 April 1944, 7; NZH, 14 December 1943, 2; NZH, 23 December 1943, 5; The Dominion, 16 March 1943, 3; The Dominion, 17 March 1943, 3; The Dominion, 17 February 1943, 7. Mairatea Tahiwi surveyed 250 Wellington-­based Māori ­women in 1942 and found numerous cases of poor living conditions and of some living in brothels: Broughton et al. 2001, 135–138. On prostitution see Rogers 1989, 29–42. 21. ​NZH, 7 August 1943, 4; NZH, 25 May 1943, 5. 22. ​Dalley 1998a, 204.

Notes to Pages 207–215   337 23. ​Dalley, 1998b, 131. 24. ​See Orange 1987, 156–172. 25. ​Ballara and Te Tau 2000, 516–517. 26. ​Shaw 1989, 64. 27. ​Appendix to the Journals of the House of Representatives (AJHR), 1945, H-11a, 40. 28. ​ Eve­ning Post, 15 February 1944, 3. 29. ​NZH, 29 September 1943, 2; NZH, 21 September 1943, 2; The Dominion, 9 September 1943, 4. 30. ​NZH, 5 April 1943, 5. The government supported and encouraged t­ hese organizations in their welfare work: AJHR, 1944, G-9, 4 and AJHR, 1945, G-9, 6. 31. ​NZWW, 9 December 1943, 7. 32. ​NZH, 6 May 1944, 9. 33. ​ Auckland Star, 10 May 1944, 2. 34. ​Zimmerman 1946, 186–187. 35. ​NZH, 13 May 1944, 6. Quote is from Auckland Star, 12 May 1944, 2. 36. ​NZH, 11 May 1944, 7. 37. ​Sandra, interviewed by Wanhalla, 17 December 2011. 38. ​On miscegenation law in the United States see Pascoe 2009. 39. ​Shukert and Scibetta 1988, 20. 40. ​Wolgin and Bloemraad 2010, 36. 41. ​Pat, interviewed by Wanhalla, 19 January 2011. 42. ​For a discussion of U.S. military regulation of marriage in the South Pacific during World War II, see Wanhalla and Buxton 2013, 138–147. 43. ​Marriage Certificate: 1943/06666, Department of Internal Affairs, Wellington. 44. ​New Zealand was a major supplier of fresh fruit to U.S. forces stationed in the Pacific. Sir James Wattie’s Hawkes Bay cannery, which employed many Māori throughout the region, had a contract to supply American troops in New Zealand. See Boyd 1998, 556–558. 45. ​George and Trevor Evans, interviewed by Wanhalla, 1 July 2011. 46. ​Norman W. Redden, Memo to Prescott Childs, 12 April 1946, Wellington Legation Rec­ords, Part 9, 1946, RG 84, NA. 47. ​Section 7, Subsection 1, Matrimonial Causes (War Marriages) Act, 1947. 48. ​Divorce Petition, 16 December 1948, BBAE 4985/D416/1948, ANZ, Auckland. 49. ​Edward to Kitty, 26 July 1946, in ibid. 50. ​Aspects of Māori ­women’s war­time experience are dealt with by Montgomerie 2001. Mention of Māori children fathered by American ser­v icemen is much rarer, but does appear in personal memoirs and collections of personal accounts of the homefront: Ellis 2006, Petty 2008. Some soldiers’ accounts of their war experience also touch on the social side of the war, including sex and romances, and a small number reflect on children fathered in New Zealand and the Pacific: Ellis 2009 and Ellis 2006. 51. ​Lee 2011, 160–161. Some research has traced the children fathered by Australian ser­ vicemen during their occupation of Japan in the 1940s and 1950s: Elder 2007, 261–278. 52. ​John C. Feuss, American Consul, Auckland to Hon. Secretary of State, Washington, undated, Auckland Consulate General Rec­ords 1945, Box 21, RG 84, NA. 53. ​On abortion in the 1940s, see the collection of oral histories edited by Sparrow 2010. 54. ​NZH, 2 March 1945, 7. 55. ​Charlie, interviewed by Wanhalla, 9 June 2011.

338   Notes to Pages 216–232 56. ​ New Zealand Official Yearbook 1946, 45–46. 57. ​Phillis 2012, 52. 58. ​Else 1989, 47. 59. ​Ibid., 48. 60. ​Michael, interviewed by Wanhalla, 1 April 2010. The third brother, Graeme, died of cancer at the age of nineteen and never got the opportunity to reconnect with his ­mother. 61. ​Cohen 2013, p. xv. 62. ​Ani, interviewed by Wanhalla, 5 March 2011. 63. ​Maraea, interviewed by Wanhalla, December 2011. 64. ​Grace, interviewed by Wanhalla, 2 April 2010. 65. ​John and Gillian Court, interviewed by Wanhalla, 19 January 2011. 66. ​Letter, Milton to Hannah, 31 January 1944, Private Collection. 67. ​Letter, Milton to Hannah, 23 August 1944, Private Collection. 68. ​Letter, Milton to Hannah, 31 January 1944, Private Collection. Their son, also named Milton, was born on 14 June 1944, and was about six months old when this letter was written. 69. ​Bernadette Robb, interviewed by Wanhalla, 13 February 2011. 70. ​Rebecca Robb, interviewed by Wanhalla, 13 February 2011. 71. ​Lena, interviewed by Wanhalla, 18 January 2011. 72. ​Ruth, interviewed by Wanhalla, 19 January 2010. 73. ​Edwards 1992, 132. 74. ​Porter 2011, 1. 75. ​Ibid., 2.

Chapter 9. The Solomon Islands   1. ​Bennett 1987; Robson 1942, 117.   2. ​Hogbin 1964, 19–22.   3. ​Rottman and Anderson 2004, 64–65; Frank 1990, 57, 619–621.   4. ​Strength Report, 15 December 1943, Box I, RG 313–58–3013, NA.   5. ​Bishop’s Report 1943, Southern Cross Log, 1943, 10; Emery De Klerk, expanded diary notes, 13, 17, 20 August 1942, 40, 42, 48, copy kindly provided by Hugh Laracy.   6. ​De Klerk, Diary, 14 July 1942, copy kindly provided by Gene Leslie; Bennett 1979, 157–161; Gina 2003, 31–31.   7. ​Radike 2003, 107.   8. ​Bennett 2009b, 49–71.  9. ​ Pacific Islands Monthly, September 1943, 29; District Officer’s Annual Reports, 1943, 1944, BSIP Series 14/9, WPA; De Klerk, expanded diary and notes, 23 February 1943, 275. 10. ​Rodger to Commanding Officer, 10 November 1943, Entry 178, RG 313, NA; Commander to all Activities, 2 September 1943, RG 313–58–3013, NA SB; Annual Report, Nggela District, 1944, CF10/20/3, WPA; Bishop’s report, 1943, Southern Cross Log 1943, 9–10; Charles Fox, Kakamora mss, 5, Church of Melanesia rec­ords, Solomon Islands Archives, Honiara. 11. ​Donner 1989, 149–163. 12. ​Davenport 1989, 267–269. Th ­ ese men had been at Nendo; some may have been relocated to the Reef Islands, but two of ­t hose on Nendo died soon ­a fter they left. The original Nendo group ­were Sgt. Elmer E. McCauley, 7084939, Cpl. Edgar H. Metcalfe, 7086613, Cpl. Judge Y. Trammel, 6969479, Tech  5th Gr. Thad  P. Steelman, 34009840, and Pfc. John  F. Higgins,

Notes to Pages 232–239   339 321146396. Names kindly provided by Lamont Lindstrom. Nendo was plagued not only by malaria but also by the more deadly “Santa Cruz fever,” a form of typhus. 13. ​McGuckin 1979, 25–26; McEniry 1987, 142, 145–157; Klotz 2002, 91; Crocker 1987, 252–253; Johnston 1948, 62–63. 14. ​Burke to Noel, 10 August 1945, Enc. WPHC 6/1, CF 29/29, WPA. 15. ​De Klerk, Diary, 15, 30, 31 December 1941, 12, 19 January, 11 May 1942. 16. ​Ibid., 14 July 1942. 17. ​Ibid., 6, 7, 18, 19, 23 August, 8 October, 11 November 1942. 18. ​Ibid., Diary, 2, 3 September, 25 December 1942. 19. ​Jean Marie Aubin, Diary, Sept-­Oct 1942, Catholic Church Archdiocese of Honiara, Archives, 1905–1982, Honiara and at Pacific Manuscripts PMB 1120; Rhoades 1982, 27–28; De Klerk 1975, expanded notes, 1942–1943. 20. ​De Klerk, Diary, 22 November 1942, 5 January 1943. 21. ​Ibid., 12 December 1941, 18, 28 February, 5–7 March, 5 April, 15 May, 11 July, 9 August, 5, 11 September, 9, 11 October, 8 November, 2 December 1942; 10 January, 16 February, 11 March 1943; Lord 1977, 65–78. 22. ​Simmonds and Smith 2007, 153, 156; De Klerk, Diary, 26 January 1943; De Klerk, expanded notes, 26 January, 3–4 February 1943, 245, 253, 261. 23. ​De Klerk, Diary, 17 July, 1 August 1943. The 25th Infantry Division was a unit of white Americans who fought on Guadalcanal from December 1942 and was on garrison duty from February to July 1943 when it moved to Munda. The 24th and 25th Infantry Regiments (Separate) ­were reserved for African Americans. Stanton 2006, 14, 100, 204–205. 24. ​De Klerk, Diary, 22 August, 15 November 1943; 26 January, 9 February 1944; Sexton 1993, Vol. 1, 124. 25. ​Sexton 1993, Vol. 2, 256, 262–263. 26. ​Sexton 1993, Vol. 1, 123. 27. ​“Black Americans in the Pacific: Bougainville”; Stanton 2006, 204, 240. 28. ​ S exton 1993, Vol. 1, 124, 125;  R. Featherstone, Extracts from a report, n.d., Comairnorsols-­Radar on Guadalcanal, AIR 128 27, ANZ. I am grateful to Ewan Stevenson for information on this unit. See also Gordon to Director of Naval Intelligence, 14 April 1944, MP 1254, Navy Correspondence relating to coastwatchers, ANA. 29. ​Sexton 1993, Vol. 1, 124. 30. ​Ibid., 124–125. 31. ​De Klerk, Diary, 13–20 May 1943, 2 February, 4 April, 22 November 1944; Sexton 1993, Vol. 1, 125. 32. ​Ibid., 29 November 1944. 33. ​Ibid., 3 August 1943; Sexton 1993, Vol. 1, 125. 34. ​Ross 1945, 235. 35. ​Basilisa Galiu, interviewed by author, 14 September 2010, with revisions by her d ­ augh­ter Theresia Haeo, 20 June 2011; Letisia, interviewed by author, 22 September 2010. 36. ​­There are four clans on Guadalcanal: Laquili, Kidipale, Kakau, and Guabata. Should the putative ­father be of the same clan of the ­mother, this was considered to be incest and, in the pre-­Christian era, was often punished by death. Such parents might be “illegitimate,” but not the child. Thanks to Gordon Nanau and Tarcisius Kabutaulaka for this advice. It confirms what ­Father Emery de Klerk stated in his extended notes to Walter Lord, 24 December 1974.

340   Notes to Pages 241–248 37. ​Sadly, one of Basilisa’s daughters, Goretty, was killed by a crocodile on Christmas Eve, 2012. Letisia passed away in early 2014.

Chapter 10. Marike Koe   1. ​Dod 1966, 162–169.   2. ​Ibid.; McKillop n.d. McKillop was part of the Airways and Air Communications Ser­v ice of the U.S. Air Force from 1956 to 1959 and compiled the “Combat Chronology of the US Army Airforces from 1941 through 1945.” The land area of Penrhyn is 3.8 square miles (9.8 km2).   3. ​Dod 1966, 169.  4. ​New Zealand Official Yearbook 1942.   5. ​Ibid.; Dod 1966, 169.   6. ​Dod 1966, 168.  7. ​ New Zealand Official Yearbook 1942. Aitutaki has an area of 6.5 square miles (16.8 km2).   8. ​Dod 1966, 168–169.   9. ​Cook Islands Government Online n.d., n.p. 10. ​Futter-­Puati 2010, 3. The ­people of Pukapuka, the most northwest island, are more closely related to the Samoans. 11. ​Gilson 1980, 44. 12. ​Ibid., 101–104, 108. 13. ​ New Zealand Official Yearbook 1942; Wilson 1969, 26–33, 57–58. 14. ​Mataia 2007, 54, 65–88, Appendix Two; Mahina-­Tuai 2012, 139–156. 15. ​Ordinance—­Makea Nui Takau Ariki, Mrs. Love, to Rt. Hon. P. Fraser, 27 May 1943, IT102/3/1, Part 1, Archives New Zealand (hereafter ANZ), Wellington. 16. ​Dod 1966, 169. 17. ​“Cook Islands,” Auckland Star, 19 April 1940. 18. ​Ibid.; Gilson 1980, 80. 19. ​ New Zealand Official Yearbook 1942. 20. ​Donald Harris Long, interview by Marsa Dodson, 24 January 2011. 21. ​Kaiei Charlie, interview by Marsa Dodson, 31 January 2011. 22. ​Kapatiau Tainakeu Kainuku, interview by Marsa Dodson, 10 February 2010. 23. ​Graves 2004, 216; Dod 1966, 171. 24. ​The garrisons arrived at Penrhyn on 8 November 1942 and at Aitutaki six days ­later. 25. ​Tera Maria Tuhakaraina, interview by Marsa Dodson, 28 January 2011. 26. ​Bennett 2009b, 147; Graves 2004, 216. 27. ​McKillop n.d. 28. ​Ibid. 29. ​Coulter 1946, 413. 30. ​Kiste 1994, 20. 31. ​Ibid. 32. ​Lal and Fortune 2000, 414–415. 33. ​Ibid. 34. ​McArthur 1967, 235; Kiste 1994, 20. 35. ​Gill 1856, 278; Maude 1981, 51. 36. ​Gill 1856, 277–279.

Notes to Pages 248–254   341 37. ​Ibid; Buck 1932, 37. Lamont wrote of his experiences in Wild Life among the Pacific Islanders, published in 1867. 38. ​Maude 1981, 11, 51. 39. ​McArthur 1967, 184–186. 40. ​Bradley, Case, and Blacklock 1996, 260–261. 41. ​Bea­glehole 1957, 69; McArthur 1967, 179. 42. ​Campbell 1992a, 66; Gilson 1980, 40. 43. ​McArthur 1967, 165–180. 44. ​Federation and Annexation: Pacific Islands, Proceedings of the British Resident, Rarotonga, Appendix to the Journals of the House of Representatives, 1892, New Zealand, Session I, A-03, 35. 45. ​“In Southern Seas,” Auckland Star, 17 January 1894. 46. ​Gilson 1980, 84–85. 47. ​Several interviews substantiate ­t hese claims. 48. ​Bennett 2009b, 33. 49. ​Graves 2004, 216–217. 50. ​Bennett 2009b, 147. 51. ​Graves 2004, 216–217. 52. ​Bennett 2009b, 35. Several interviews also support this statement. 53. ​The PX was a subsidized shop operated mainly for military personnel. 54. ​R. H. Garity, Report on a Visit to Rarotonga, 6 August 1943, Entry 44463, Box 70, RG 338, National Archives and Rec­ords Administration (hereafter NA), College Park, MD. ­Because of difficulties with transport and other issues, Rarotonga was not used by the military except by some small groups of officers on leave. 55. ​None of the interviewees recollected such events. 56. ​Bennett 2009b, 228. Moviegoing and the sharing of food are mentioned in several interviews. 57. ​“Dance Craze Spreads: Natives Now Jitterbug,” New Zealand Herald, 1 June 1943. 58. ​Bennett 2009b, 33, 35. 59. ​­These sentiments ­were recalled by numerous interviewees. 60. ​Graves 2004, 216. 61. ​“Dance Craze.” Several interviews allude to ­t hese sentiments. 62. ​Graves 2004, 217. 63. ​Raphael to unidentified Priest, 26 November 1944, Pacific Manuscripts Bureau 1064, Catholic Church Diocese of Rarotonga and Niue: Diocesan Archives, 1891–1993, reel 7. 64. ​The Picpus Order (Congregation of the Sacred Hearts of Jesus and Mary) worked in the Cook Islands. 65. ​Donald Harris Long, personal communication with author, 8 February 2013. 66. ​Bennett 2009b, 67. 67. ​­Father Davids to Base Commander, Penrhyn Island n.d., Pacific Manuscripts Bureau, 1064, Catholic Church Diocese of Rarotonga and Niue: Diocesan Archives, 1891–1993, reel 22. 68. ​Garity Report. 69. ​Bennett 2015. 70. ​Confidential source. 71. ​Crocombe 1964, 123. 72. ​Dodson 2009, 58; Crocombe 1964, 34.

342   Notes to Pages 254–265   73. ​Dodson 2009, 57, 58.   74. ​Lal and Fortune 2000, 413.   75. ​Dodson 2009, 54, 58–59.   76. ​Ibid., 23, 120. In Māori culture, tapu is a spiritual restriction or implied prohibition.   77. ​Maria Akuhata, interview by Marsa Dodson, 28 January 2011.  78. ​Anderson 2013.  79. ​ Garity Report.   80. ​Viriama Eda Tuapou, interview by Marsa Dodson, 2 April 2010; Tailby to Secretary, Island Territories, 10 October 1944, IT 1W2439 135, Part 1, ANZ.   81. ​“Generation GI ” on Sunday Program, TV One NZ, 28 August 2011; Arthur Beren, emails to J. Bennett, August 2013.   82. ​Miriama Dol, interview by Marsa Dodson, 5 April 2010.   83. ​Mary Ruggieri, interview by Marsa Dodson, 1 April 2010.   84. ​Jackie Cecil Puna, interview by Marsa Dodson, 6 February 2010.   85. ​“Gringo” is a disparaging term for a foreigner in Latin Amer­i­ca, especially a person of American or En­g lish descent. It seems likely that “Long John” also referred to the thin and lanky stature of some “American children,” compared to ­t hose with a more stocky Polynesian build.   86. ​Teina Williams, interview by Marsa Dodson, 21 April 2010.   87. ​Francis Gifford, interview by Marsa Dodson, 6 February 2010.   88. ​Annie Maoate, interview by Marsa Dodson, 15 June 2011.   89. ​Bermy Arihee, interview by Marsa Dodson, 14 June 2011.   90. ​John Tearetoa, interview by Marsa Dodson, 21 June 2011.   91. ​Josephine Lockington, interview by Marsa Dodson, 16 June 2011.   92. ​Gilson 1980, 153.   93. ​“Many Openings for New Zealand Traders,” Auckland Star, 3 July 1945.  94. ​“Fruit Supplies,” Eve­ning Post, 15 January 1945.   95. ​Bennett 2009b, 257; “Sale of Hula Skirts,” Eve­ning Post, 17 April 1944.   96. ​Bennett 2009b, 257.   97. ​Knapman 1994, 329.   98. ​Gilson 1980, 191, 207; “Fruit Supplies.”   99. ​“Feeding the Islands,” Eve­ning Post, 30 May 1944. 100. ​Cook Islands Annual Report, 1945, Department of Island Territories, CI 101/1/25, ANZ. 101. ​Helen Raiena, interview by Marsa Dodson, 16 April 2011. 102. ​Jack Oran, interview by Marsa Dodson, 5 April 2010. 103. ​Bennett 2009b, 163–164. 104. ​Nooroa Tuaiti, interview by Marsa Dodson, 21 June 2011. 105. ​Alfred Eddie Morris, interview by Marsa Dodson, 15 June 2011. 106. ​Donald Long had married Alfred’s aunt. 107. ​Richard Hewitt, interview by Marsa Dodson, 21 June 2011. 108. ​Blue Nelio, interview by Marsa Dodson, 7 February 2010. 109. ​Lee Moore, interview by Marsa Dodson, 31 January 2011. 110. ​Coral Harrington Tereu, interview by Marsa Dodson, 5 April 2010. 111. ​Coral Harrington Tereu, personal communication with author, 7 February 2013. 112. ​“Cruise of the Frigate,” The Courier-­Mail, 5 May 1951.

Notes to Pages 266–277   343 113. ​Roland Long, interview by Marsa Dodson, 20 April 2011. 114. ​McKillop, n.d. 115. ​“N.Z. Flag Flies on Lonely Isles in Wide Pacific,” Auckland Star, 21 November 1945, and Graves 2004, 216–217. 116. ​Gilson 1980, 181, 192. 117. ​Goldy Goldie, interview by Marsa Dodson, 14 June 2011. 118. ​Grover Harmon, interview by Marsa Dodson, 15 July 2011. 119. ​Cook Islands Annual Report, 1945. In the event New Zealand paid for ­t hese damages. Bennett 2009b, 163–164. 120. ​Coulter 1946, 413. 121. ​This was the opinion of most of the interviewees. 122. ​Several interviews discuss ­t hese circumstances. 123. ​Arthur Black Beren, interview by Marsa Dodson, 4 February 2010. 124. ​Shirley Bolus Teariki, interview by Marsa Dodson, 25 January 2011.

Chapter 11. On the Atolls    1. ​Robson 1942, 157–163, 171–173.    2. ​Garand and Strobridge 1971, 395. The Japa­nese did not occupy the Ellice Islands in World War II.   3. ​ McQuarrie 2000.    4. ​Allen 2001, 104, 132.    5. ​Ibid., 85–134; McQuarrie 2000, 148–149.    6. ​Kelly, to Officer in charge, Construction site 92, 3  August 1944, F 1/5/2, Kiribati National Archives (formerly GEIC series), Tarawa.    7. ​Robson 1942, 157; McQuarrie 2000, 157.    8. ​W. Rawathorne, Report on trip to Gilbert Islands, February 1944, FETO-­Gilbert Islands, 900.11/6121, RG 200, Rec­ords of the American Red Cross, NA. The ASSRON ­were assigned to stevedoring, sanitation, traffic control, salvage, burials, and the like. ­These provisional units often w ­ ere made up of the rejects of other organizations. Craven and Cale 2005, 295.   9. ​Bennett 2009b, 142.   10. ​Vollinger n.d, n.p.  11. ​Ibid.   12. ​McQuarrie 2000, 154, 157.   13. ​Cribb 2005, 66.   14. ​High Commissioner to High Commissioner for United Kingdom, 15 February 1944 and encls, File EA 1 569, ANZ.   15. ​Historical Section, US Coast Guard, 1946; Operation Defense Nuclear Agency, 1951. The New Zealand coastwatchers had been stationed on Bikati in August 1941. The Japa­nese captured them in January 1942 and imprisoned them in Japan.   16. ​Bea­glehole 1949, 52 footnote; Willmott 2007, 11–23.   17. ​Munro and Bedford 1990, 172–177; Bennett 1976, 3–24.   18. ​At least one African American, Dorie Miller, served as a cook on a naval vessel, the USS Liscombe, during the initial landing on Tarawa and Butaritari, but he died when an ­enemy torpedo sunk the ship. See http://­a mericacomesalive​.­com​/­2012​/­02​/­20​/­dorie​-­miller​-­1919–1943​ -­hero​-­of​-­world​-­war​-­ii​/­#​.­U5or​-­i ​_­dj​_­4 (accessed 13 June 2014).

344   Notes to Pages 277–297 19. ​Norah Talanga, interview by author, 27 August 2010. 20. ​Tiam Tanetoa, interview by author, 3 November 2010. 21. ​Ann Wally, interview by author, 7 September 2010. 22. ​Callista Murdoch, interview by author, 7 September 2010. 23. ​Mwaati Meriki, interview by author, 25 October 2010. 24. ​Confidential source. “Maria” is a pseudonym. Interview by author, 1 November 2010. 25. ​Ellewies Foon, interview by Jacqueline Leckie, October 2010 and emails to author, 2011–2012. 26. ​Sabatier 1977, 84; Grimble to High Commissioner, 24 June 1929, Gilbert and Ellice Islands Colony (hereafter GEIC) WPHC 1797/1920, WPA. 27. ​Grimble to High Commissioner, 24 June 1929, GEIC WPHC 1797/1920, WPA. 28. ​Bantieang Tooki, interview by author, October 2010. 29. ​Zita Ropati Lopez, interview by author, 27 November 2010. 30. ​Sister Mella was not based on Abemana before the war. U.S. patrol craft (PC), however, visited several islands picking up workers, collecting pandanus leaf panels for temporary shelters, and sometimes helping missionaries get from place to place. Lopez may well have met Sister Mella on Tarawa ­a fter the Sisters fled from Tabwiroa on Abaiang Island to Tarawa in 1943. She l­ ater taught at St. Joseph’s school at Tabwiroa from 1957 to 1964. Holland to Resident Commissioner, 26  December 1943, AB.8, 19/1, KNA; Information from Sister Margaret ­Sullivan, June 2014. 31. ​Emeri Taano, interview by author, 4 November 2010. 32. ​See, for example, Eliot to High Commissioner, 23 April 1917, GEIC, WPHC 1446/1017, WPA. 33. ​­There ­were slight differences in values and practices between north, south, and central Kiribati, and ­t hese influenced how nikiranroro ­were viewed and treated. 34. ​Brewis 1996, 27–32. Brewis was concerned with Butaritari. 35. ​I am grateful for information provided on ­t hese matters by Maria Lucas and Takeua Burnett. 36. ​Lambert 1964, 232–258. 37. ​Tebwebwe Biribo, interview by author, November 2010. 38. ​Mooney 1976, n.p. 39. ​Peter McQuarrie, email to author, 31 May 2012 and attachments. 40. ​Mooney 1976, n.p. 41. ​During the colonial period the British relocated several hundred Gilbertese to the Solomon Islands to relieve the increasing population numbers in the atolls. Knudson 1965. 42. ​Macdonald 1982, 85–86, 131. 43. ​Re Murdoch in Guatemala, see McCreery and Munro 1993, 271–295. 44. ​Moore 1945, 161; Clayton 1945, 138–141. 45. ​Sabatier 1977, 229. The French Sisters may have thought that, as French and Eu­ro­pe­ ans, they took on the wider duty or obligation of their home society to the children of a Eu­ro­ pean parent. Moreover, ­these school fees paid by traders subsidized the work of the Sisters among the fully Gilbertese children. 46. ​Sadly, Mwaati passed away in 2013. 47. ​Confidential source. “Annie Brown” is a pseudonym. Emails to author, April 2011. 48. ​Australian Sisters Josephine Crowe, Margaret ­Sullivan, and Eileen Kennedy each received the Order of Australia Medal (OAM) in 2011 for ser­v ices “to the ­people of Kiribati, as

Notes to Pages 300–307   345 a teacher.” http://­w ww​.­m isacor​.­org​.­au​/­i ndex​.­php​?­option​= ­c om ​_ ­c ontent​& ­v iew​= ­a rticle​& ­id​ =­279:australia​-­day​-­honours​&­catid​=­1:latest​&­Itemid​=­37 (accessed August 2012).

Epilogue 1. ​Hohn and Moon 2010, 1–38. 2. ​Denise Marconi, email to Rosemary Anderson, 8 October 2013. 3. ​Reba Burns, email to Judith Bennett, 31 October 2013. 4. ​Evie, personal communication to Rosemary Anderson, 31 January 2013. 5. ​Michael Gaeng, interview by Angela Wanhalla, 1 April 2010. 6. ​Margaret, email to Angela Wanhalla, 29 August 2011.

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Contributors

Rosemary Anderson graduated with a BA (Hons) in History from the University of Otago in 2011. A summer scholarship resulted in an article, “Distant Daughters: Cook Island Domestics in War­time New Zealand,” which was published in the Journal of Pacific History in December 2013. She graduated with a MA thesis in History from the University of Otago in 2015. That thesis examined the broader po­liti­cal, social, and gendered aspects of early Cook Island migration to New Zealand. Judith  A. Bennett is Professor of Pacific History at the University of Otago, Dunedin, New Zealand. She has extensive experience in the Pacific Islands as her work has involved research in villages and towns beyond the archives’ comfortable confines. Her current work on war, race, and intimacy is a natu­ral development from the research she conducted for Natives and Exotics: World War Two and Environment in the Southern Pacific (2009). Her other major works include her award-­w inning Wealth of the Solomons: A History of a Pacific Archipelago, c. 1800–1978 (1987) and Pacific Forest: A History of Resource Control and Contest in Solomon Islands, c. 1800–1997 (2009). As co-­producer of the film Born of Conflict, her research for Mothers’ Darlings, along with that of her colleagues Angela Wanhalla and Saui‘a Louise Mataia, is available to a wide audience on YouTube. Kathryn Creely is the Curator of the Tuzin Archive for Melanesian Anthropology in the library of the University of California, San Diego. Before joining the academic staff at UC San Diego in 1983, she was the assistant librarian at the South Pacific Commission (now the Secretariat of the Pacific Community) in Nouméa, New Caledonia. She earned a master’s degree in Library Science from the University of Hawai‘i and a BA degree in History from the University of Mas­sa­chu­setts. Alumita Durutalo is currently a Lecturer in Pacific and Indigenous Studies at the University of Otago in New Zealand. ­Until December 2010, Alumita was a 365

366  Contributors

Lecturer in Politics and International Affairs at the University of the South Pacific, Laucala Campus, in Suva, Fiji. She earned a PhD in Po­liti­cal Science and International Relations from the Australian National University. Her areas of research are representative democracy through po­liti­cal parties and elections in the Pacific island states; customary leadership in postcolonial Pacific states; militarism and democracy in Fiji; and ­women, po­liti­cal vio­lence, and migration in Fiji. Jacqueline Leckie is an Associate Professor in Social Anthropology and the Head of the Department of Anthropology and Archaeology at the University of Otago. Her teaching and publications relate to gender, ethnicity, migration, m ­ ental health, development, and work within the Asia Pacific region. Her books include Indian Settlers: The Story of New Zealand South Asian Community (2007) and To ­Labour with the State (1997); she edited Development in an Insecure and Gendered World (2009) and co-­edited Localizing Asia in Aotearoa (2011), Recentring Asia: Histories, Encounters, Identities (2011), and ­Labour in the South Pacific (1990). She is currently working on a history of madness in colonial Fiji and a co-­edited volume on multiculturalism and Asians in New Zealand. Saui‘a Louise Mataia-­Milo, ­after lecturing at the National University of Samoa, successfully completed her Postgraduate Diploma in Arts and her MA in 2007 at the University of Otago. Her research resulted in her thesis, “ ‘Odd Men from the Pacific’: The Participation of Pacific Island Men in the 28th (Maori) Battalion in the Second World War.” ­After returning to her academic base at the National University of Samoa, she received a doctoral scholarship to the University of Victoria, Wellington, where she is currently researching aspects of w ­ omen’s experience during World War II in the Samoan archipelago. Kate Stevens recently completed her doctorate in the Faculty of History, University of Cambridge, examining race and gender in the practice of criminal law in early colonial Fiji, Vanuatu, and New Caledonia. She has a BA (Hons) degree in History and Anthropology at the University of Otago, where her interests in the history of interracial relationships and colonial culture developed. Her research into ­these areas appeared in “­Every Comfort of a Civilized Life: Interracial Marriage and Mixed Race Respectability in Southern New Zealand,” which was published in the Journal of New Zealand Studies in 2013. Angela Wanhalla is a Se­nior Lecturer in the Department of History and Art History at the University of Otago, New Zealand. Her research into the relationship between race, intimacy, and colonialism is reflected in her two books: In/vis­i­ble

Contributors  367

Sight: The Mixed Descent Families of Southern New Zealand (2009) and Matters of the Heart: A History of Interracial Marriage in New Zealand (2013); the latter book won the Ernest Scott Prize 2014 for best book in Australian or New Zealand history. Angela holds a Royal Society of New Zealand Rutherford Discovery Fellowship (2014–2019) to undertake a proj­ect on the politics of intimacy in New Zealand history. She is also a member of the Centre for Research on Colonial Culture at the University of Otago.

Index

Page numbers in bold refer to figures. Abaiang Island (Gilbert Islands), 272, 284, 288 Abaokoro (Gilbert Islands), 272, 296 Abemama (Gilbert Islands), 271, 272, 274, 275, 278, 279, 280, 282, 288, 291, 294 abortion, 36, 215 adoption: customary, 4, 43, 74–76, 138, 192, 194, 210, 254–255, 278, 281, 287, 295, 298; legal, 4, 74–76, 176–179, 180, 213, 215–216, 220 Aileen, Sister, 296 Aitutaki (Cook Islands), 15, 16, 244, 245, 246, 247, 248, 250, 251, 252, 253, 254, 255, 256, 258, 259, 260, 261, 262, 263, 264, 265, 267, 268, 269, 277, 305 Akaiami (Cook Islands), 245, 265 Akuhata, Maria, 253, 255, 263 Allied Armed forces, unity of command, xxii, 13, 170 Ambae (New Hebrides), 119, 129, 132 Ambrym (New Hebrides), 119, 159, 161 American chaplains, 18, 93, 143 American family: reunions with, xii, 61, 115, 117, 180, 183, 196, 197, 198, 218, 221–223, 258, 259, 265, 301–307; searching for, xii, xiii, 3, 7, 41, 77–81, 132, 138, 157, 171, 172, 184, 193, 196, 199, 218, 219, 220, 223, 226–227, 241, 242, 258, 259, 262, 263, 265, 278, 288, 298, 299, 303 American military, attitudes toward intimate relationships of servicemen, 14–16, 18, 21, 22–23, 24, 28, 29, 57, 89, 91, 92, 126, 127, 189, 209, 214, 231–232, 255, 274–275, 303

American Red Cross, 20, 205, 215, 307 American Samoa. See Samoa American servicemen: African Americans, and colonial administrations, 25–26; and indigenous attitudes toward, 26; and marriage laws in U.S., 19; African Americans in Bora Bora, 37; in Cook Islands, 26, 252, 253, 254, 261, 262, 263; in Gilbert Islands, 343n.18; in New Caledonia, 14, 87, 88, 89; in New Hebrides, 120, 127, 128, 129, 132, 139, 142, 143; in Solomon Islands, 26, 235, 236; in Tonga, 26, 172, 182; sexual assault committed by, 14, 88, 90, 127, 301 American servicemen: Filipino-Americans, 237, 240 American servicemen: Mexican-American, 284 American servicemen of European descent: care of indigenous people, 33, 50, 149, 252; fraternization with indigenous people, 32, 49, 50, 51, 53, 188, 191, 204, 204, 208, 205, 209, 231–232, 249–250, 250, 256, 276, 277, 280; health of, 13, 231, 232; mental health of, 14, 31–32, 151; off-duty activities of, xxiv, 33, 49, 169, 189, 275; racial attitudes of, 15, 25–27, 54, 87–88, 150, 190, 253 Amuri (Cook Islands), 244, 245, 246, 249 Angleviel, Frederic, 90 Anker, Michael Harris. See Harris, Tom Aomarere, Georgina Kiripuai, 204

369

370  Index Apia (Western Samoa), 47, 48, 49, 50, 53, 54, 58, 59, 62, 66, 72, 75 Aranuka (Gilbert Islands), 272, 291 Araura (Cook Islands), 245, 246 archives, 1–2, 7, 8, 12–13, 16–18, 212, 220, 301 Ariihee, Bermy, 259 Arutanga (Cook Islands), 245, 246 Asher, Don, 220, 221, 222 Asians, 28, 91, 92, 300; Chinese, 19, 34, 44, 46, 47, 125, 228, 229, 231, 249, 270, 276, 290, 292; Indians, 19; Indo-Fijians, 184, 185, 188, 189, 190, 191; Japanese traders, 86, 128, 169; Javanese, 86, 89; as labor in New Caledonia, 27, 86, 91, 93, 117; in New Hebrides, 118; Tonkinese (Vietnamese), 9, 28, 86, 121, 125, 126, 127 Auamoeaualogo, Malele, 22, 23 Auckland (New Zealand), 67, 134, 175, 180, 202, 203, 205, 206, 207, 208, 209, 213, 216, 217, 219, 221, 222, 260 Australia, xxi, xxii, xxiii, 6, 8, 20, 28, 84, 86, 90, 124, 128, 134, 147, 175, 176, 180, 183, 185, 187, 192, 202, 228, 229, 230, 269 Avela, Anne Marie, 128, 130 Ayson, Hugh, 252 Baberoti, Tekiebu, 295 Banaba (Ocean Island), 270, 271, 285, 294 Bancula Plantation (New Hebrides), 135 Banks Islands (New Hebrides), 119, 128, 130, 132, 139, 141, 145 Battle of Midway, xxiii, 36 Battle of the Coral Sea, xxiii, 36, 78, 84, 173, 230 Baxter, Dr., 192 Bay of Plenty (New Zealand), 210, 211, 216 Beaufort Bay (Solomon Islands), 235, 236 Beightler, Robert S., 187 Benesh, Lewis Bernard, 23, 198 Benson, Harold, 258 Beren, Arthur, 23, 269, 303, 304, 305 Beren, Arthur Black, 256, 256, 305 Beren, Jo-Ann, 305 Betio (Tarawa), 271, 274, 297, 299 Bikati (Gilbert Islands), 273, 276, 280, 284, 285, 289

Bishop Poncet, 147, 150 Bivans, General, 22 Bochansky, Frank, 98 Boetovo, Rosalina Marie, 129–133, 137, 141, 142 Bollen, Levi, 138, 139, 145, 331n.72 Bolus, Shirley, 269 Bora Bora (Society Islands), xxiii, 2, 4, 9, 16, 23, 25, 26, 29, 31–41, 32, 151, 277 Bougainville (New Guinea), xxiii, 26, 169 Bourail (New Caledonia), 135 Bouthaux, Marie. See Pezron, Marie Bradley, John, 284, 288 Bradley, Robert, 143, 144 Bresson, Édouard, 90 British Columbia (Canada), 39 brothels: in Fiji, 189; in New Caledonia, 14, 89; in New Hebrides, 127; in New Zealand, 336n.20; in Samoa, 49 Brown, Annie, 294 Brown, Maria Benesh, 198 Burke, Melvin C., 23, 176, 178 Burke, Michael John, 176, 177, 178, 179 Burma, xxi Burns, Reba, 305 Burns Philp Co. Ltd., 118, 124, 134, 135, 147, 150, 167, 229, 270 Butaritari (Gilbert Islands), 271, 273, 275, 276, 277, 278, 280, 282, 284, 285, 287, 289, 290, 292, 298 Butler, Sam, 191 Canada, 39, 84, 156, 157, 158 Canton Island (Phoenix Islands), xxi, 272 Cape Esperance (Solomon Islands), 234, 235, 236 Caroline Islands, xxiv Carpenters, W. R., 229, 270 Charlie, Kaiei, 246 Chicago Defender, 88 children, ex-nuptial: adoption of, 4, 74–76, 176–177, 192, 194, 216, 287, 288, 295; in Bora Bora, 37; in Cook Islands, 254; in Fiji, 185; governments’ attitudes and policies to, 4, 7–8, 13, 17, 22, 25; mortality among, on Bora Bora, 39; in New

Index  371 Hebrides, 144; in New Zealand, 215; numbers of, 2, 25, 308; in Samoa, 54–55; societal attitudes toward, in Bora Bora, 4; societal attitudes toward, in Cook Islands, 4, 5, 257; societal attitudes toward, in Fiji, 189; societal attitudes toward, in Guadalcanal, 239, 339n.36; societal attitudes toward, in New Caledonia, 92; societal attitudes toward, in New Zealand, 4, 6, 25, 215; societal attitudes toward, in other theaters, 3–4, 300; societal attitudes toward, in Samoan Islands, 4, 5, 24, 54, 66–67, 79; societal attitudes toward, in Tonga, 4, 5, 182; societal attitudes toward, in the U.S., 158; terms used to describe, 4, 66–67, 69, 70, 184, 185, 193, 255, 257, 259, 261, 262, 269; in Tonga, 182; treatment of, 39, 68–69, 70, 137–138, 144, 153, 157, 158, 172, 181, 182, 192, 193, 194, 195, 219, 227, 240, 256, 257, 259, 261, 262, 268, 290, 292, 294, 295, 301; and U.S. Public Law 625, 21–22, in Wallis Island, 154 China, xxiii, 175 Christchurch (New Zealand), 2, 202, 203 Christian missions and churches: in Bora Bora, 36; expatriate clergy’s attitudes to wartime relationships, 17, 24–25; in Guadalcanal, 235; Indigenous pastors’ attitudes to wartime relationships, 17, 22, 56; London Missionary Society (LMS), in Cook Islands, 247, 248; LMS in Samoan Islands, 17; Presbyterians in New Hebrides, 17; Roman Catholic priests, in Cook Islands, 251; Roman Catholic priests, in Fiji, 175, 193; Roman Catholic priests, in Guadalcanal, 233–236, 242; Roman Catholic priests, in New Caledonia, 20, 90; Roman Catholic priests, in New Hebrides, 155–161; Roman Catholic priests, in Samoan Islands, 24–25, 57; Roman Catholic priests, in Tonga, 17; Roman Catholic priests, in Wallis Island, 146, 147, 150; Roman Catholics in New Zealand, 20; Roman Catholic Sisters, in the Gilbert Islands, 283–284, 285, 292, 294–297,

344n.30; Roman Catholic Sisters, in New Caledonia, 135; Roman Catholic Sisters, in Tonga, 180; Roman Catholic Sisters, in Wallis Island, 146, 149 Cockrane, Walter C., 280 Collins, Simone, 143 colonial administrations, xxii, 2, 5, 11, 13, 14, 17, 24, 25, 26, 27, 29, 146, 301; British in Fiji, 17, 26, 28, 183, 191, 297; British in Gilbert Islands, 13, 297; British in the Solomon Islands, 26, 228, 230, 231; French and British in New Hebrides, 120, 121, 124, 125, 126, 127, 135, 147; French in French Polynesia, 34, 40, 149; French in New Caledonia, 13–14, 92, 116, 117; Germany in Western Samoa, 44, 46, 70; New Zealand in Cook Islands, 17, 23, 25; New Zealand in Western Samoa, 22, 46, 50, 53, 54, 78; U.S. in American Samoa, 23, 24, 46; and U.S. military, 18, 151, 231 Compain, Patrick, 180 consuls: British, 26, 166, 169, 170; U.S., 18–20, 22, 24–25, 26, 91, 93, 174, 175, 176, 178, 181, 213, 214–215 Cook Islands, 2, 4, 5, 7, 14, 15, 17, 23, 25, 26, 243–269, 245, 303 Coral Sea, 84 Cruz, Paulo, 237, 239, 242 Cummins, Milton C., 223, 224, 226 Darwin, xxi, 202 Dass, Bob Chalek, 191, 193 Dass, Kupe Selio, 191 Daughters of the Sacred Heart, 292, 295 David, Dr. Joseph, 146 Davids, Father, 251 de Gaulle, Charles, 34, 84, 147, 148 de Klerk, Father Emery, 233, 235, 236, 237, 242 Devillers, Sylvain, 85 Dias, Gilbert C., 174 Dias, Monica, 21, 174 Diehl, Father Joseph, 24 disease, venereal, 13–14; Bora Bora, 36; Fiji, 190; and gonorrhea, 13, 36, 190; New Zealand, 205–206; Tonga, 165; Wallis Island, 149

372  Index divorce: of Australian wife of Tom Harris, 134; of Eleanor Taulanga, 178; increase in divorce, in Gilbert Islands, 286, 287; increase in divorce, in New Zealand, 17, 213–214; increase in divorce, in Tonga, 166; of Louisa Raass, 176; of parents of U.S. servicemen, 100, 173; of Tebwebwe, 290; of Tupou Posesi Fanua, 181; from U.S. servicemen, 101 Dol, Miriama, 256, 259 Drodrovakawai, Adi Romera, 183, 184, 185, 190, 194, 196, 197, 198, 200, 201 Dudley House School (Fiji), 183 Dumbéa Pass (New Caledonia), 85, 94 du Prel, Alex W., 31, 37 Edwards, Mihipeka, 204, 205, 227 Efate (New Hebrides), 118, 120, 122, 125, 126, 128, 139, 143, 145, 165 Ellice Islands (Tuvalu), 2, 17, 27, 147, 150, 184, 270, 271, 272, 275, 289, 295, 297 Emae (New Hebrides), 119, 128 emotions, 2; fear, xxii, 2, 6, 7, 9, 15, 26, 46, 60, 85, 90, 126, 133, 142, 172, 187, 202, 224, 226, 228, 235, 243, 246, 258, 278, 279, 298; hate, 88, 118, 133, 141, 172, 296; love, 2, 3, 4, 6, 7, 23, 29, 56, 57, 58, 59, 60, 61, 64, 73, 76, 81, 108, 111, 129, 143, 144, 157, 161, 162, 163, 178, 181, 183, 184, 187, 191, 192, 193, 196, 209, 210, 211, 217, 220, 221, 223, 225, 226, 240, 257, 259, 269, 295, 297, 303, 305, 306, 320n.101 employment: in Bora Bora, 34–35; in Cook Islands, 249, 254, 264; in Fiji, 183, 191, 195; in Gilbert Islands, 275, 291; of Indigenous people, 17, 27–28; in New Caledonia, 117; in New Hebrides, 127, 128; in New Zealand, 209; in postwar Wallis Island, 153; in prewar Gilbert Islands, 271; in prewar New Hebrides, 125; in Samoa, 66 Espiritu Santo (New Hebrides), xxiv, 9, 121, 122, 123, 125, 126, 127, 128, 129, 135, 137, 139, 140, 142, 143, 145, 294 Evans, Leroy Albert Raymond, 213

Evelyn, Merry, 128, 129, 130, 132, 137–139, 140, 142, 144, 145 Faleata, Lae‘i, 62, 63, 73 Fanua, Tupou Posesi, 180, 181, 333n.31 Fareham House, 207 Farrington, Joseph, 175 fathers, American: attitudes of, to children, 7, 41, 58, 174, 176, 178, 196–197, 212, 255, 258, 265, 284, 285, 303–305; desire for marriage with Indigenous partner, 2, 22–23, 25, 29, 57, 72, 73, 198, 209, 211, 257, 258; knowledge of, by children, 6, 30, 55, 56, 59–60, 63, 132, 140, 156–157, 180, 183, 192, 193, 195, 222–223, 240, 255, 256, 259, 261, 263, 278, 279, 280, 285, 294, 306; from New Zealand, 90, 187; support given to Indigenous partner for children, 15, 16–17, 37, 176, 193, 212, 254, 255–256, 257, 262, 282, 283–285, 286 fathers, non-biological, 132–133, 134–139, 153, 162, 184, 185, 193, 194, 195, 219, 226, 240, 257, 262, 269, 287–288, 290, 292, 295–296, 298 Featherston (New Zealand), 203, 207 Fiji, xxi, xxiii, xxiv, 6, 7, 17, 18, 23, 26, 27, 28, 43, 134, 150, 157, 169, 174, 176, 178, 179, 183–201, 186, 228, 249, 275, 277, 286, 293, 294, 306 Flagstaff (Suva, Fiji), 185 Foon, Ellewies (Eloise), 280, 285, 286, 287, 293, 299 fostering. See adoption France, 2, 11, 84, 86, 88, 124, 147, 325n.4 Francese, Martha Emmy. See Naua, Martha Francese, Samuel Anthony, 183, 194, 196, 335n.49 Fua‘amotu (Tonga), 168, 169 Funafuti (Ellice Islands), 150, 272, 275 Futuna Island, 146, 147 Gaeng, Daniel, 307 Gaeng, Glennis, 217, 306 Gaeng, Greg, 307 Gaeng, Kenneth Joseph, 307 Gaeng, Michael, 216–218, 217, 306–307

Index  373 Gaeng, Rosemary, 307 Gahi (Wallis Island), 147, 148 Galiu, Basilisa, 240, 241, 242 Gallipoli (Turkey), 134, 291 Gardetto, Anton, 12 Garo, Harry, 15 Gendel, Sam, 190 Germany, xxi, 3, 4, 45, 84, 166, 215, 300, 301 Ghormley, Admiral, xxii Gifford, Francis, 258, 263, 269 Gilbert Islands (Kiribati), xxiii, 2, 15, 17, 27, 147, 151, 270–299, 272 Giles, Fred, 23, 37, 38, 39 Gill, William, 247, 248 Gipe, Raymond Leroy, 210–213 Goldie, Goldy, 268 Graciosa Bay, 232, 234 Grande Terre (New Caledonia), 85, 86, 95 Grand Pacific Hotel (Fiji), 189 Great Britain, xxi, xxii, 2, 124, 135, 166, 167, 169, 202, 214, 228, 243, 270 Grey, Aggie, 53, 73 Groom, Edgar, 178, 180 Guadalcanal (Solomon Islands), xxiii, 22, 58, 84, 85, 95, 154, 165, 187, 191, 228, 229, 230, 231, 233, 234, 235, 236, 237, 239, 241, 242, 246, 259 Guam, xxi, 22, 56, 187, 192 Guatemala, 292 Gudgel, Marion Floyd (“Rusty”), 173, 173, 174 Ha‘apai (Tonga), 167, 168 Haeo, Theresa, 237, 238, 239, 242 Haley, Fred, 39 “half castes.” See race Halsey, Admiral, xxii Hamilton (New Zealand), 202, 203, 212 Hanson, Helen, 176 Harmon, Grover, 268 Harrington, Coral, 265 Harrington, John, 23, 265, 266, 267 Harris, Albert, 134 Harris, Eva, 133–134 Harris, Tom, 129, 131, 133–137, 136, 141, 144, 145 Harris Curtis, 289

Hattaras Island (U.S.), 171 Hawai‘i, xxi, 21, 22, 78, 102, 175, 178, 237, 240, 242, 243, 277, 285, 299 Hawaiian National Guard, 236 Hayes, Mary, 134–135 Helu, I.F., 171 Henry, Dalton Frame. See Henry, Dick F. Henry, Dick F., 184, 193, 197, 201 Herangi, Te Puea, 205 Heritage New Zealand, 7 Hewitt, Richard, 262 Hice, Herbert, 151 Hickling, Hugh, 255, 267 Hilder, Brett, 135, 136 Hiroshima, xxiv, 219 Hodsdon, Commander, 170 Hoeft, Matire, 208 Hollywood films, influence of on Allied perceptions, 11, 12, 28, 31, 54, 88, 121, 127, 187, 250 Hong Kong, xxi Honiara (Solomon Islands), 240, 293 Honolulu (Hawaiian Islands), xxi, 175, 251, 265, 297 Houma (Tonga), 168, 169 Huebner, David, 7 identity: by customary adoption, 254, 259, 278; by kinship, 175, 198, 218, 227, 261–262, 264, 268; by residence, 198; of Samoans, 42–43, 45; search for, 30, 59, 81, 184–185, 195, 198, 199–200, 218–219, 226, 227, 298, 306; of Wallis Islander, 155 illegitimate children. See children, exnuptial immigration laws (U.S.), 21, 56, 174, 175, 176, 177; and marriage, 19, 209–210, 213–214; quota, 20, 174, 175; race-based restrictions, 18, 20–21, 38, 91, 144, 174, 175–176, 188; visa, 18, 175 Indigenous people: American perceptions of, 14, 25, 28, 34; in Cook Islands, 250; in Fiji, 187; in Gilbert Islands, 275–276; in Guadalcanal, 231; in New Caledonia, 86–87; in New Hebrides, 121, 126; in Tonga, 165, 169; in Wallis Island, 149, 151

374  Index Indochina, xxi, 86, 125, 153 Indochinese. See Asians: Tonkinese International Social Service, 21 Isabelle, Mother, 292 Italy, xxi, 263 Iwo Jima (Japan), xxiv Japan, in the Pacific War, xxi–xxii, 5; Japanese American Citizenship League, 20; war brides, immigration to U.S., 175 Jennings, Eleanor. See Taulanga, Eleanor Anita Jennings, George Napier, 178 Jennings, Jane, 180 Jennings, Minnie, 178, 180 John, Donald, 284, 289, 290, 291 Johnson, Tom, 261 Kalibaine, Jean, 132–133 Kalorip, Daniel, 138 Kanaks: in New Caledonia, 14, 27, 86, 92–93, 94, 95, 116, 117, 321n.126, 326n.21; in Wallis Island, 149 Kavana, Mary Nooroa. See Ruggieri, Mary Kawha, Vivienne, 210, 212, 213 Keuea (Gilbert Islands), 271, 273 King, A., 14 Kingitanga, 205, 336n.7 King Koroki, 205 Kiribati. See Gilbert Islands Kiritimati (Christmas) Island, 272, 283, 292 Knoof, Walter F., 12 Kobau (Solomon Islands), 234, 235, 238, 242 Kolofo‘ou (Tonga), 176 Kopau Harbor (Solomon Islands), 234, 237 Koqava (Solomon Islands), 234, 237, 238, 240 Korah, Georgina, 129, 137–138, 141 Kunjo (Solomon Islands), 234, 236, 238, 240 Kuria (Gilbert Islands), 272, 291 Kushner, Ervan, 31, 35, 36 La France Australe, 18 Laigret, Christian, 88 Lalovaea (Samoa), 75 Lamont, E. H., 248

Lamour, Dorothy, 11, 12, 28, 87, 88, 121, 127, 275 land rights of part-American children, 6, 45, 129, 139, 184, 198, 199, 281 Larson, Thomas J., 31, 41 Latter Day Saints, 24, 111 Laucala Bay (Fiji), 189 Lauli‘i (Samoa), 58, 59 Lautoka (Fiji), 184, 186, 191, 198 Lauwaki (Fiji), 184, 193, 198 Lavine, Arthur, 87, 99, 100, 113 Lee, Eleanor, 178 Leeward Islands, 31, 32, 34 Lefaga (Samoa), 50, 52 Letisia, 237–238, 238, 239–240 Leulumoega (Samoa), 50, 52 Levuka (Fiji), 176 Lindsay, Jeanne, 100, 113 Lindsay, Robert, 100 Lindstrom, Lamont, 12, 144 Line Islands, xxi, 272 Lippe, Karl, 22, 23 Little Sisters of the Poor, 97 Liua‘ana, Featunai, 49 Lockington, Jessie, 183, 188, 191, 193 Lockington, Josephine, 259, 268 Lodoni (Fiji), 186, 187, 191 Long, Donald, 23, 246, 251, 256, 262, 265, 266, 268 Long, Roland, 266 Lopez, Robati (Robert), Jr., 282, 288, 291–292 Lopez, Robati (Robert), Sr., 282, 283, 284, 286 Lopez, Zita, 282, 288, 291, 292 Lord, Walter, 236 Luganville (New Hebrides), 121, 122, 123, 126, 141 Luzon, 215 MacArthur, General, xxii Makin. See Butaritari Makira (San Cristobel, Solomon Islands), 230, 234 Malaita, 229, 230, 232, 234 Malakula (New Hebrides), 119, 125, 128, 143, 152, 155, 161 Malaya, xxi

Index  375 Malden Island (Gilbert Islands), 272, 298 Malia Katalina, Sister. See Jennings, Jane Malifa (Samoa), 59 Malo (New Hebrides), 121, 122, 129, 134, 142 Manusina, Vaofefe, 22, 56 Maoate, Annie, 258, 259 Māori, 4, 16–17; marriage, 21, 216; population, 205; urbanization, 207, 208, 210; women, 202, 204, 205, 210–211, 212 Māori Methodist Mission, 208 Māori Social Centre, 208 Māori War Effort Organization, 207 Marconi, Carolyn, 304 Marconi, Denise, 303, 304 Marconi, Lisa, 304 Marconi, Nicholas (Nicky), 251, 252, 301, 302, 304 Mariana Islands, xxiv, 271 Marist Brothers High School (Fiji), 193 marriage: American law, 19, 92, 117, 209–210, 300; to American servicemen, 18, 21, 22, 23, 25, 56, 57, 90, 91–93, 143, 144, 210; avaga marriage, 24, 44; bigamous marriage, 135; in Bora Bora, 33; colonial regulations regarding, 46; in Cook Islands, 248, 251, 254; in Fiji, 183, 193, 194, 199; in Gilbert Islands, 281, 286–287, 289, 290, 294; and nationality, 176; in New Caledonia, 90–91, 92, 94, 96, 102; in New Hebrides, 142, 143–145; in New Zealand, 21, 209, 210, 213, 214, 216, 220, 222; in Samoan Islands, 5, 6, 22, 24, 43–45, 66, 72, 82, 320n.98; in the Solomon Islands, 229, 239; in Tonga, 5, 166, 167, 173, 174, 176, 181; U.S. military attitudes toward, 15, 18–19, 21–22, 72, 93, 143, 173, 174, 214, 251, 303 Marshall Islands, 151, 271, 275, 293 Masterton (New Zealand), 202, 203 Matagofie, Sulimoni, 65, 67–69, 70, 75, 76–77, 80, 81 Mattei, Dr., 148, 149, 151 Ma‘ufanga (Tonga), 168, 169, 178 Maupiti (French Polynesia), 32, 34

Mazzoni, Agnès Marie, 93, 94, 96 Mazzoni, Élise, 94 McCulloch, Myra, 265, 267 Meihana, Te Mauri, 207 Melanesia, 9, 94; people of, 5, 6, 25, 26, 46, 47, 86, 89, 94, 99, 124, 126, 127, 142, 155, 163, 229, 232 Melina, Deborah Lee, 106, 107, 110–111, 113–115, 115 Melina, Dollee Mae (Margaret, Margo), 104, 105, 108, 110–115, 116 Melina, Isabelle Louise. See Pezron, Isabelle Louise Melina, Raymond (“Rocky”) Yvon, 104, 105, 110–111 Melina, Robert, 83, 93, 100–102, 101, 103, 104, 105, 108, 109, 112, 113 Melina, Roberta Evelyn Jeanne (Bobby), 83, 102, 103, 104, 105, 110–111 Melina, Robert, Jr., 100, 114 Melkofe (New Hebrides), 128 Mella, Sister, 283, 284, 344n.30 Michael, Hughes R., 280 Michener, James, 9, 23, 25, 28, 37, 41, 44, 45, 123, 165, 169, 180, 181, 316nn.21–22 Micronesia, xxi, 5, 297, 298 Milne Bay (Papua), xxiii Missionary Sisters of the Society of Mary, 180 Mitchell, Philip, 189 “mixed race.” See race Moana, Aniva, 58, 59–62 Moananui Island (Cook Islands), 243, 245 Mohawk Bay (Solomon Islands), 232, 234 money: from black market, 150; from entertaining, 49; from laboring, 49, 53, 249; from laundry work, 249, 275; from trading, 35, 170, 260; wages of U.S. servicemen, 29; wartime, effects on Indigenous people, 27, 53, 135, 191, 260, 268, 315n.10 Moore, Gerald Edward, 280, 281, 285, 287 Moore, Lee, 254 Moore, Lee Clinton, 263, 264 Morris, Alfred, 262 Moss, Frederick, 248

376  Index Motherhood of Man Movement, 216 Mou (Lifou Island), 95 Moyer, John, 15 Murdoch, Callista, 278 Murdoch, George McGhie, 291 Murdoch family, 290 Mutiny on the Bounty, 31 Nabaruru, Kimaere, 278 Nadi (Fiji), 174, 176, 186, 189, 191 Nagasaki (Japan), xxiv Naiqaqi (Fiji), 189 Namanoku, Nei Teretia, 282, 288 Namena (Fiji), 192, 193 Nananu (Fiji), 187, 191, 192 Nanumea (Ellice Islands), 272, 289 Nasese (Fiji), 185, 189 Nasolo, Apimeleki, 184 nationality law (U.S.), 20, 175, 176 Naua, Martha, 183, 184, 185, 191, 192, 193, 195, 196, 197, 198–199, 201 Naua, Mataiasi Vakaloloma, 199 Nauru, xxiv, 292 Nausori (Fiji), 191 Navua (Fiji), 183, 192 Neal, Samuel, 171 Nelio, Blue, 262 New Caledonia, xxi, xxii, xxiv, 16, 18, 20, 21, 27, 28, 38, 83–117, 95, 125, 129, 131, 132, 135, 143, 146, 147, 148, 149, 150, 153, 155, 173, 175, 230, 275 New Georgia (Solomon Islands), 229, 232, 234 New Guinea, xxi, xxii, xxiii, 84, 134, 145, 154, 169, 230 New Hebrides (Vanuatu), 9, 17, 18, 23, 36, 85, 118–145, 119, 147, 153, 155, 159, 169, 232, 294 New Zealand, xxii, xxiii, xxiv, 2, 4, 6, 8, 13, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 23, 24, 25, 27, 28, 29, 46, 47, 50, 53, 58, 64, 75, 76, 78–80 85, 92, 124, 134, 135, 147, 167, 169, 176, 178, 180, 185, 187, 190, 191, 199, 202–227, 203, 243, 241–244, 246, 247, 250, 256–258, 260, 261, 263, 268, 269, 271, 300, 302, 306 Ngaruawahia (New Zealand), 203, 205, 206 Ngata, Apirana, 207

Ngāti Poneke Young Māori Club, 205, 207 Nimitz, Admiral, xxii Nomad, 23 Nonouti (Gilbert Islands), 272, 289, 290, 291 Norah, David, 282 Norsup (New Hebrides), 152, 153 Nouméa (New Caledonia), 14, 15, 18, 83, 84, 85, 86, 88, 89, 90, 94, 95, 96, 97, 102, 103, 112, 113, 115, 129, 131, 146, 148 Nuhukiki (Solomon Islands), 234, 237, 240 Nuku‘alofa (Tonga), 167, 168, 169, 172, 176 O’Connor, Georgette, 18 Ohinemutu (New Zealand), 205 Okinawa (Japan), xxiv, 154 oral history, 3, 12–13, 94, 127, 144, 209, 219, 242, 317n.32 Oran, Jack, 261 Orselli, Georges, 32, 34 Otaki (New Zealand), 204 Ouenghey, Isabelle, 95 Pacific Islands, American perceptions of: Bora Bora, 31; Fiji, 187; New Hebrides, 121, 126; Tonga, 165, 169, 181–182; Wallis Island, 149 Packete, Agnes, 142 Pago Pago (American Samoa), 45, 47, 48, 49, 50, 56, 57, 58, 66, 70, 80, 176, 178 Paillard, Jacqueline Andrée, 97, 98, 99, 100, 113 Paillard, Jeanne. See Lindsay, Jeanne Paillard, Juliette, 100 Paillard, Lionel André, 97, 98, 99, 100, 100 Paillard, Lionel Charles Albert, 98, 113, 114, 114, 115 Palikulo (New Hebrides), 135 Palmer, Dr., 280 Papeete (Tahiti), 36, 139 Papua, xxii, xxiii, 84, 230 Parapara, Jimmy, 208 Patch, General, 14 Pearl Harbor, xxi, 9, 84, 85, 99, 173, 187, 202 Pearl of the Pacific, 49, 51

Index  377 Peleliu, 154 Penrhyn (Cook Islands), 23, 25, 243, 245, 246, 247, 251, 254, 256, 259, 260, 261, 265, 266, 267, 268 Pétain, Phillippe, 147 Pezron, Alexandrine Elise, 96 Pezron, Charles Paul August, 95, 96 Pezron, Isabelle Louise, 93–117, 96, 98, 104, 105, 112 Pezron, Jeanne-Marie Andrée, 96 Pezron, Marie, 97, 99 Pezron, Yves Joseph Marie, 96, 97 Pezron, Yves Marie, 95 Philippines, xxi, xxii, xxiv, 237, 241, 300, 313 Phillis, Te Onehou, 216 Phoenix Islands, xxi, 272 Pine, Fa‘amoa, 295 Pink House, 14, 89 Pocket Guide to New Caledonia, 86 Polynesia, 4, 5, 31, 32, 34–35, 38, 138, 322n.11, 342n.85; peoples of, 20, 21, 25, 26, 27, 28, 31, 33, 39, 138, 142, 147, 151, 152, 153, 156, 181, 189, 232, 244, 247, 265, 269, 270, 322n.3 Pope, Glen, 18 Port Moresby (Papua), xxiii, 134 Port Vila (New Hebrides), 118, 120, 121, 122, 125, 126, 128, 132, 134, 143, 147, 161, 162 Potts, Arthur, 200 Priday, Herbert, 15 prostitution, 4, 6, 13, 15, 17, 315n.10; in Bora Bora, 33; in Cook Islands, 247, 251; in Fiji, 189, 190, 191; in Gilbert Islands, 275; in Guadalcanal, 229; in New Caledonia, 89–90; in New Hebrides, 127; in Samoa, 49; in Tonga, 170, 181, 182 Puna, Jackie, 257, 262 Quebec, 157, 158 Queen Sālote, 166, 167, 169, 172, 182 Queensland (Australia), 228, 277 Raass, Albert Henry, 175, 176 Raass, Louisa, 175, 176, 177 Rabaul (New Guinea), xxi, 130, 134, 145, 233, 235, 237

race, 26; attitudes to, by U.S., 15–16, 18, 20, 25–26, 158; of New Zealand government, 17, 25; and mixed ancestry in Fiji, 184, 198; in New Caledonia, 86, 88, 89, 91, 92, 99; in New Hebrides, 144; in Samoa, 46, 54; in Tonga, 175, 176. See also American Servicemen Raeina, Helen, 261 Raiatea, 32, 36 Ramateni, Selai, 187, 191, 193 Rano (New Hebrides), 128, 155 rape. See sexual assault Rarotonga (Cook Islands), 244, 245, 247, 248, 249, 261, 264, 266, 268, 269 Ratu, Lusiana, 183, 184, 193 Reef Islands (Solomon Islands), 230, 232, 233, 234 Rennell Island (Solomon Islands), 232, 234 Roach, Father, 175 Robinson-Marie Adèle, 128, 130, 132, 139, 143, 144, 145 Rose, Dr. M., 13 Rose, William Irwin, 102 Rotorua (New Zealand), 202, 203, 205, 207 Ruggieri, Mary, 256, 257, 264, 265 Ruggieri, Michael, 264, 265 Russell, J., 237 Russell Islands (Solomon Islands), 234, 235 Saint-Louis (New Caledonia), 94, 95 Saipan, xxiv Samoa, xxiii, 2, 4, 5, 7, 14, 15, 17, 22, 23, 24, 25, 28, 42–82, 48, 147, 149, 150, 151, 157, 175, 178, 181, 188, 191, 194, 199, 277 Sanford, Francis, 33, 35, 36 Sanford, Lysa, 33, 35 San Francisco, 39, 83, 102, 103, 171, 248 Santa Ana (Solomon Islands), 230, 232, 234 Santa Cruz (Solomon Islands), 232, 234 Santo. See Espiritu Santo Saru (Fiji), 198 Satala (American Samoa), 57 Satapuala (Samoa), 47, 48, 49, 55, 71 Satui (Samoa), 48, 56 Savai‘i (Samoa), 47, 48, 62, 67, 68, 75, 80 Saweni (Fiji), 186, 190

378  Index Scott, Warren, 176, 177 Segond Channel (New Hebrides), 121, 122, 123, 129 Selio, Aufai and Milovale, 191 Sesivi (New Hebrides), 159 sexual assault, 14, 17, 88, 89–90, 98, 127, 287 Sgt. Curtis Shoup, 289 Shay, Michael (Mike), 37, 41 Sikaiana (Solomon Islands), 129, 138, 145, 232 silences: in archives, 1, 7, 17, 214; about circumstances of birth, 3, 6–7, 56, 60, 79, 179, 185, 190, 200, 218, 220, 260, 298–299, 301, 306; in histories, 13; among military, 14, 30, 299 Singapore, xxi, xxii, 202 Smith, Thomas (“Jack”) Maton John, 176 Smith, Thomas, Jr., 176 Smith, William, 176 Society for the Protection of Women and Children (New Zealand), 4 Society Islands, 31, 32, 41, 147 Solomon, Arthur, 191, 192, 193, 199 Solomon, Kasi Gus and May, 192 Solomon Islands, xxi, xxii, xxiii, 4, 6, 9, 26, 31, 56, 78, 79, 84, 85, 93, 125, 129, 130, 132–133, 138, 145, 151, 154, 187, 228–242, 234, 271, 278, 282, 290, 293, 299 Soucy, Father Bertrand, 155–164 Soutot, Governor, 147 Steed, Ira Reader, 191 Stephens, Anna, 143, 144 Stephens, Thomas, 144 Stephens, Tubou Luther, 144 St. Gertrude’s Academy (California), 292 St. Joseph’s College (Gilbert Islands), 284, 288 Sukuna, Ratu, 28, 189, 191, 192 Suva (Fiji), 174, 175, 176, 183, 185, 186, 187, 188, 189, 191, 193, 196, 299 Suva Boys Grammar School (Fiji), 189 Tabiteuea (Gilbert Islands), 272, 291 Taborio (Gilbert Islands), 273, 285, 295 Tabu (film), 31, 322n.3 Tahiti, 5, 6, 27, 32, 33, 34, 36, 38, 40, 139, 145, 147, 244, 247, 248, 249, 251 Talanga, Norah, 296, 297, 298, 299

Tales of the South Pacific, 9, 11 Tamavua (Fiji), 190, 191 Tangarare (Solomon Islands), 233, 234, 235, 236, 237, 240, 242 Tanner, Olive, 134 Taranaki (New Zealand), 205, 217, 218 Tarawa, xxiii, 13, 22, 271, 274, 275, 276, 277, 285, 292, 293, 295, 296, 299 Tasi Mauri (Guadalcanal, Solomon Islands), 242 Taulanga, Eleanor Anita, 176, 178, 179 Taulanga, Viliami, 178 Taunga, Mere (Martha), 256 Taupo (New Zealand), 202 Tautu (Cook Islands), 256 Taylor, Dr. James, 189, 192 Tearetoa, John, 259 Teavanui Pass (Bora Bora), 31, 32 Tedder, James, 232, 233 Television New Zealand, 303 Te Tau, Kuini, 207 Thailand, xxi The War from Coconut Square, 15 Thompson, Arthur, 190 Thurry, Fred, 178 Tiaipoi, Augustin, 139 Tidro, Jo Allan, 129, 130, 131, 132, 133, 137–138, 141, 145, 331n.72 Tirinteuea, Nei, 278 Tonga, 4, 5, 14, 17, 21, 23, 26, 28, 29, 43, 143–144, 146, 147, 150, 157, 165–182, 168, 228, 243 Tongareva (Cook Islands). See Penrhyn Tongatapu, 165, 167, 168, 169, 176, 179, 180, 181 Tongoa (New Hebrides), 119, 143 Tooki, Bantieang, 282, 288, 299 Toorak (Suva, Fiji), 189 Trigalleau, Odette, 91–93 Tsupuna (Solomon Islands), 233, 235 Tuaiti, Noorua, 261, 264 Tuapou, Viriama, 255 Tubou, Sela, 144 Tufale, Petelo, 152, 152–164 Tulagi (Solomon Islands), xxi, 229, 230, 231, 233, 234

Index  379 Tutuila (American Samoa), 12, 45, 47, 48, 49, 50, 53, 73 Tuvalu. See Ellice Islands United Māori Women’s Welfare Society, 208 University of the South Pacific, 291, 292 unmarried mothers, 182, 287, 289, 290; support for, 4, 15, 21, 216, 255–256. See also children, ex-nuptial; women Upolu (Samoa), 47, 48, 49, 50, 53, 56, 62, 67, 75 Ureia (Cook Islands), 245, 256 Urelapa (New Hebrides), 143 U.S. Department of Veterans Affairs, 22, 215 U.S. Embassy (Fiji), 196, 197, 299 U.S. Embassy (New Zealand), 7 U.S. Embassy (Papua New Guinea), 132, 299 U.S. Nationality Act (1790), 175 U.S. Nationality Act (1940), 19–20 U.S. Public Law 625 (1942), 21, 22 USS Lexington, 173 USS Rutland, 83, 102–103 USS Wharton, 184 U.S. War Brides Act (1945), 20 U.S. War Department, Marriage regulations, 18, 188, 209, 214 Utulei (American Samoa), 48, 49 Vailoa (Samoa), 48, 62 Vaimoso (Samoa), 48, 59 Vanua Lava (New Hebrides), 119, 143 Vanuatu. See New Hebrides Vavau (Tonga), 167, 168, 175 Venui (New Hebrides), 121, 122, 135 Veuru (Solomon Islands), 234, 238 Vichy governments, xxi, 34, 84, 147, 148 Vietnam, 4, 86, 125 Villazor, Rose, 19 Visale (Solomon Islands), 234, 235 Viseisei (Fiji), 183, 190 Viti Levu (Fiji), xxiv, 185, 186, 187, 191 Wake Island, xxi, 22 Wala (New Hebrides), 119, 128, 155

Walarano (New Hebrides), 119, 155, 156, 159, 160, 162, 163 Wallis (Uvea) Island, 17, 25, 43, 146–164, 148, 184, 277 Wally, Ann, 278, 279, 290, 292, 293, 299 war brides, 7, 8, 20, 83, 91, 102, 188, 213 Warren, Albert B., 23, 143 Wattie, Sir James, 211 Weather Coast (Guadalcanal), 242 Weicker, Patrick, 282, 288 Wellington (New Zealand), 25, 202, 203, 204, 205, 207, 208, 210, 223, 265 Wellington Harbor (New Zealand), 202 West Cape (Solomon Islands), 234, 236, 237, 240 Western Samoa. See Samoa Whangarei (New Zealand), 202, 203 White, Lena, 175 Willess, Dinah, 65, 65 Willess, Homer, 22, 56, 65 Williams, Teina, 257 Windom, Private, 33 Witana, Dick, 208 women: in Cook Islands, 248; effects of wartime earnings upon, 27–28; European women, evacuation of, in wartime, 28, 172, 176, 187; in Fiji, 184, 188, 189, 191, 200; in Gilbert Islands, 290, 292; in histories of wartime, 12–13, 30, 317n.32; of mixed ancestry, 6, 21, 28, 315n.4; in New Hebrides, 127, 143–144; in Samoa, 54, 56, 66, 175; of the South Pacific, 1–30; in Tonga, 172, 174–176, 178. See also Māori women, Indigenous, roles of, in society: in Fiji, 192; in Gilbert Islands, 286–287; in New Zealand, 216; in Samoan Islands, 42, 43–44, 71–72; in Solomon Islands, 229–230, 239; in Tonga, 165–166, 169 World War II, xxi–xxiv; commemorations of, 8; histories of, 9, 11–13, 316n.28; the Pacific Command areas, 5, 10; and Pacific populations, 27 Zimmerman, John Lee, 208