Steven James Hantzis - Rails of War

A stone inscribed with the words China-Burma-India rests at the southern end of the National World War II Memorial on the National Mall in Washington DC , just a few miles from my home in Alexandria, Virginia. The marker is one in a constellation of stones presided over by the vaulted arch of the Pacific Pavilion rising to commemorate one of two great theaters in the global mle. Many believe the stone is not grand enough to evoke all that China-Burma-India meant to the war effort. The stone symbolizes a subaltern war often declared the forgotten theater by historians as well as the men who served. Im thankful that not everyone has forgotten.

My father, James Harry Hantzis, inspired this book and provided not only stories but also a collection of black-and-white photographs titled simply India. His life was an unconscious example of the character of his generation and a model that I will forever strive to fulfill. He is long gone. But some of the men with whom he served in the 721st Railway Operating Battalion are still alive. Until just a few years ago they held a reunion every September in upstate New York. There, in 2002, I met Don Blair, E. O. Woods, George Lee, William Butler, Charles Graham, Lyle Sanderson, William Walsh, and Herb Witt. All of these men contributed not just stories and inspiration but artifacts and photographs, especially the engaging motorman E. O. Woods, president of the Reunion Committee.

But I never would have met these fine men and many others had it not been for the sparkplug of the battalion, the locomotive fireman Rocky Agrusti. Rocky is that rare, honor-bound individual who unabashedly holds dear his service to his country and that of his family as well as all who wore the uniform. Rocky kindly introduced me to his extensive network of friends and comrades and provided a personal tour of his museum, a capacious collection of military items housed in a former sawmill on his lovely property in New York.

Rockys late-evening phone calls always served as a motivator when my writing seemed to lag. My wife, Kathleen, and I were honored to accompany him to the final roundup of the national CBI World War II Veterans Association on the sixtieth anniversary of the end of the war. Rockys lively cohort of seven hundred veterans, their spouses and families, were an inspiration. Many, Rocky among them, had more energy and love of life than the generation thirty years their juniors.

It was during a tour of the National World War II Memorial and Arlington Cemetery that Rocky revealed a salient truth of his generation. I had noticed that once the veterans observed their man-made surroundings, they turned their backs to the construction, formed small groups, and talked to each other almost oblivious to the monuments. Unusual, I thought; after all, the monuments were built to honor their accomplishments and bravery. When I asked Rocky about this he answered without hesitation, Its really all about the fellowship.

There are two more members of the battalion who deserve special mention, both men I have yet to meet face to face. The first is Stewart White, who was a good friend of my father and has shared with me touching letters and photographs. The other is Alvin Carder, a Company B locomotive machinist who worked in the same shop as my dad. Alvin provided a colorful enlisted mans history and is a fifty-year member of my fathers union and my employer, the International Association of Machinists and Aerospace Workers.

I also greatly appreciated Tom Foltzs correspondence, reminiscences, and photographs. Tom served with the 789th Pipeliners Battalion stationed at Parbatipur and played the trumpet in the acclaimed camp orchestra.

My immediate family deserves thanks on many levels. My wife patiently lived with this project and its demands for fifteen years. Kathleen was my ever-ready traveling partner, critic, and intellectual sounding board. My daughter, Sara, and her husband, Pat McSparin, both with firm literary grounding, provided instant editorial support. To my bright young nephew, Patrick, I owe appreciation for never failing to prompt me about the books progress at our frequent family get-togethers. And I owe a special debt of gratitude to my wifes mother, Mary Flaherty, who volunteered to be the first to read the vast unedited narrative and provided assistive comments, corrections, and encouragement. Most recently my gratitude goes to Jefferson Morley, who bravely confronted my 350,000-word draft and with the precision of a surgeon carved the steak from the beast.