Category Archives: Life in a War Zone

Allen C. West ’48


Allen Crawford West ’48

Evacuation, 1941

Westerners in the Middle East have often been involved in evacuations during turbulent times. In World War I, since Turkey was fighting with the Central Powers, British and French citizens were interned, and, after 1917, Americans. In 1940 the same situation arose in Lebanon and Syria after the fall of France, when the Vichy government took control. Car headlights were painted a translucent blue, part of blackout regulations.

As Americans, we were not affected by the Axis sympathies of the military government, but in 1941 the tide of war in the desert flowed toward Egypt, and Germany invaded Yugoslavia and Greece, landing planes on Syrian airfields to reach Iraq, where a coup had overthrown a pro-British government. Everyone talked about German paratroops dropping on those airfields and our suitcases were packed for weeks. On May 19 we were told to leave the next day by taxi for Jerusalem. On the 20th, Germany’s one paratroop division dropped on Crete. I now believe British intelligence knew it was about to go into action somewhere and informed the American legation in Beirut, so that the events of May 20 were not a coincidence.

Five of us crammed into our taxi: my mother, father, sister Elisabeth (14), myself (10), and brother David (8). Inland from Haifa, the Plain of Esdraelon baked in the sun; the crowded taxi was very uncomfortable. We changed cars in Haifa, and then again, because of engine trouble, in Nablus, an all-day trip, dark when we arrived in Jerusalem.

My brother and I went to the British Community School as boarders. I remember nothing about the classes. One night we all huddled in the hallways when an enemy plane droned over the city. On June 9 the headmaster told the school that “our troops” had invaded Syria and Lebanon. We explored the old city on foot, the Church of the Holy Sepulcher, the Dome of the Rock, the Mount of Olives, Bethlehem’s ornately decorated grotto. On the Dead Sea, we swam like corks. Getting dressed afterward my brother and I showed signs of chicken pox, and shared a happy convalescence with no schoolwork.

On June 27 we went to Cairo by train, a hot, dirty trip, because the open windows let in dust and soot as well as a breeze. We stayed at the American Girls’ School, which was closed for the summer. When bombers came over at night we crawled under our beds, listening to sirens and anti-aircraft guns. We rode camels at Giza, climbed the Great Pyramid, went to Saqqara to see the step pyramid, to Ma’adi by a sleek train for a very suburban lemonade party, and often to the zoo. Tutankhamen’s treasures were underground; the museum was closed.

To learn our travel arrangements, my father was summoned to a building in Cairo where a man unlocked the door of a small room with a finger to his lips, locked it behind them, sat down behind a desk, unlocked a drawer, took out a piece of paper, held it up so my father could read it, then locked it back in the drawer and let my father out. Not a word was said! July 29 we left by train for Suez, passing another train going to Cairo loaded with ANZAC troops. The train ran onto the dock and it was comforting to see the Aquitania, painted gray, in the roadstead. Our luggage was labeled “HMS Transport,” but we had crossed the Atlantic in 1937 on her, and the four stacks made it seem a homecoming.

All down the Red Sea we were blacked out at night. With the portholes closed, one little electric fan did not cool us off at all. The Arabian Sea was better: brilliant blue water, flying fish, cooler breezes. We had the run of the upper deck and lounges; there were very few passengers. When the ship’s siren signaled lifeboat drill, we gathered at our station wearing lifejackets, listening to the hull swish through the water and the engines rumble. Below decks were 1,500 Italian prisoners-of-war being shipped to India, and every day groups were aired on deck. One of the guards gave me some insignia including a tiny commando clasp knife I still have. At Colombo the prisoners were taken off. We had two days in port, took a car up to the temple at Kandy and saw elephants carrying loads along the road in the jungle.

From Ceylon we sailed to Sydney, arriving on August 23. The weather was much colder, especially when the ship swung south of Tasmania to evade a submarine in the Bass Strait. We kids spent hours in the lounge playing Monopoly and Battleship, bundled up because of the sudden change to winter. Our steward said that the troops smashed all the china and glass on every trip.

Our home was a small hotel in Bondi Beach. The water was too cold for swimming. Some residents spent their time playing the slot machines in the hotel. Three lemons, three cherries still have a certain magic. We visited the harbor bridge and the zoo, where we saw the sister of the MGM lion; fed kangaroos and saw koalas in a wild animal park; took the train to Botany Bay to watch an aborigine throw a boomerang; and went to Sydney for movies, Fantasia the one I remember.

We sailed September 18 on the Matson Line’s Monterey with New Zealand airmen on their way to England and American tourists. We watched “horse races” in the lounge and one day a Joe Louis fight was broadcast. Our first stop was Auckland, where we left the boat for a day to drive up into the New Zealand hills: lots of sheep and very green after the dry Lebanese hills. The ship stopped at Suva in the Fiji Islands, Pago Pago on Samoa, Honolulu on October 1, and reached Los Angeles October 6.

From Los Angeles we took the train east, first the Santa Fe’s Grand Canyon Limited, which detoured from Flagstaff pulled by two huge steam locomotives. On October 14 we arrived in Templeton, Mass., to visit relatives so that my mother could search for a home in the Boston area. Templeton was my first New England autumn. There were goldenrod and asters, ripe apples falling from the trees, and long grass wet with dew in the early morning mist. We moved to 10 Riverdale Road in Wellesley Farms on October 28. My brother and I went to Annie F. Warren elementary school, a short walk down Glen Road. As fall got colder, ice on little pools fascinated me, and on Sunday, December 7, I was listening to “The Shadow” when an interruption brought the news of Pearl Harbor.

Leave a comment

Filed under Life in a War Zone

Andre R. “Andy” Janus ’56

Janus '56

Andre R. "Andy" Janus '56

(1938– )

Submitted by Phil Bowers ’56, from Andover magazine Class Notes (Fall 2010)

Reading histories of World Wars I and II is a mainstay in Andy Janus’s life. The reading derives from the fact that his family fled Russia for France after the Bolsheviks murdered his grandfather, an officer in the Czar’s army. As if that were not enough, Parisian ex-patriot life became a nightmare when the Germans invaded in 1940. Andy and his older brother, Nicholas ’54, were shipped to Normandy with their grandmother, where they lived under the occupation. Andy, about 5 years old at the time, tells the story of being terrified by a German shepherd that playfully leaped over him while he was running home from kindergarten. Minutes later a knock at the door revealed two German soldiers who had come to apologize! V-E Day arrived on Andy’s birthday, and he assumed then that all the fuss was about him.

Leave a comment

Filed under Life in a War Zone

Sukeyasu “Steve” Yamamoto ’51

Yamamoto '51

Sukeyasu "Steve" Yamamoto '51

(1931–    )

WWII Memories

I was a 3rd grader in elementary school when I heard the news of Pearl Harbor. I don’t remember any sense of elation either in my family or at school. I was at school when the Doolittle air raid came on April 18, 1942, which did little physical damage, but made us aware of the vulnerability of Japan against air attacks. Classes continued during and after the raid, and we went home in a routine way. After the recapture of Saipan, more massive air raids by B-24 and B-29 became frequent, but were mostly targeted to military installations and industrial facilities.

When I was a 7th grader in April 1944, living in Tokyo had become increasingly dangerous. My class was evacuated in September to a battery manufacturing factory about 60 miles west of Tokyo, where we lived in dormitories and worked half a day at the factory and took classes during the other half. The food shortage was already upon us and we were always hungry and homesick. By the spring of 1945 it had become dangerous to remain even there, and the class was to be relocated to a remote area along the Japan Sea coast. I chose to move to a rural area west of Tokyo, where my family rented two rooms in a farm house, and enrolled in the local middle school from April.

The first massive indiscriminate firebombing of Tokyo occurred on March 10, 1945 claiming more than 8,000 civilian lives. I vaguely remember being with my father watching the scarlet sky over the bombed areas from our yard. This was his farewell visit home before going on his last naval mission with the Japanese Navy.

On May 1 my maternal grandmother and uncle came to tell us that my father had died in action on April 7. He was a senior staff officer of the 2nd Fleet aboard its flagship Yamato with an impossible mission to retake Okinawa. My uncle was on an escort destroyer, which was sunk. Survivors had spent five hours in the water before being rescued. We were told that this was top secret and not to tell anyone. My mother, who was 32 years old, cried all night. The complement of the Yamato was about 3,000 men, but less than 300 survived. Two of them were high-ranking officers who worked closely with my father, and they wanted to meet his family. So, my mother, my 5-year old brother, and I went to Tokyo to meet them at the official residence of my grandfather, who was then the Minister of Munitions Supply in the cabinet. I don’t remember anything about the meeting with these officers. While we were in Tokyo, there was a big air raid on May 25 targeting more upscale residential areas and business districts. The house we stayed in was burned down and we had to move out of our own bomb shelter to avoid becoming charcoal to one of the public shelters—dead-ended horizontal tunnels along the bank of the Imperial moat where frightened citizens could spend the night. Luckily, our own houses survived and we moved back there, but the surrounding areas were flattened. One of the persons who shared the bomb shelter with me was my future father-in-law, who was secretary to my grandfather.

Steve, as a child outside of his house

I don’t know why we were back in Tokyo in August to stay with my grandfather, but there we heard of the dropping of a “new type” of bomb on Hiroshima on August 6, and another similar bomb on August 9 on Nagasaki. As both bombs were dropped by single bombers, I remember running into the family shelter whenever a single U.S. plane was sighted.

August 15th was a very hot day, and we were told that the Emperor would make an important radio announcement at noon. We sat in the dining room and listened to the recorded broadcast by the Emperor declaring that Japan had surrendered, using very archaic Imperial expressions that were hard to understand. My grandfather, who took part in the Imperial Council meeting the night before, had known about this, but still couldn’t hold back his tears. My future father-in-law was busy searching for various escape routes in case there was an attack by dissident military officers, which didn’t happen. In my diary I expressed a half-hearted disappointment that I couldn’t go to the Naval Academy to keep the family tradition, but wrote that I could serve the country by becoming a scientist [which he did—ed.]. There was a sense of relief that there would be no more air raids and no more black curtains to keep the house dark on hot summer nights.

* * *

How I came to Andover, and some memories of the period immediately after WWII

The Emperor’s radio message on August 15, 1945, ended WWII followed by a short period of immense relief, sadness, letdown, and numbness of feelings. The arrival of the Allied Occupation forces jolted us to the reality of defeat with attending anxiety of what the Occupation forces had in store for us and the daunting task of recovery from the wasteland with much of its infrastructure gone and with acute shortage of all essentials for living. Among the arriving U.S. military families was Col. and Mrs. Svensson and their children Eric (PA ’51) and Ann. Col. (later Brigadier General) Svensson was Headmaster Kemper’s West Point classmate. So, without anyone’s knowledge, my Andover connection was being formed.

Steve, aboard the General Gordon en route to San Francisco

The Occupation forces with its civilian branches imposed sweeping changes that impacted all aspects of life. For example, all the peerage titled persons lost their titles and privileges, except for the Emperor and his immediate families. They also wanted to level the wealth distribution by imposing the wealth tax on the wealthy and dissolving family-owned business consortiums such as Mitsui and Mitsubishi. They also instituted an inheritance tax code that would wipe out any wealth earned or inherited in three generations. A farm reform was instituted by giving tenant farmers their small farms. They were bent on establishing an egalitarian society in Japan.

I went back to my former school in Tokyo in the fall to find that many of my classmates, who were descendants of Daimyos (feudal lords) families or court nobles, were suffering immense loss of wealth and a very much lowered lifestyle. It was amazing that school classes were held more or less, since the school barely was surviving after losing its patronage of the Imperial Household Ministry, and teachers, too, had to fend for themselves to survive. Some subjects, such as Japanese history, and topics were banned from being taught, but there were no clear instructions as to what should be taught. It was a chaotic and “anything goes” time, and in many ways was very free and liberating.

Since my mother spent 5 years in London from age 12, when her father was a naval attaché there, she spoke fluent “Brit” English and found a job as a receptionist at what was later to become the U.S. Embassy.

I want to digress here to write about my summer job in 1947 as a cabin boy for an American Naval officer (Lt. Pike). He was to supervise a convoy of some surviving Japanese Naval vessels to be handed over to the British Naval Base in Singapore as part of the reparation. The job was arranged by a Naval Academy classmate of my father’s. I traveled to a Naval Base in Kyushu by train and boarded a 910-ton Navy refrigeration ship, which was to transport the crew of the ships to be left in Singapore in its refrigerator holds. Lt. Pike was the sole American among his former enemy officers and seamen, but we all got along very well, and I stayed in touch with him until his recent death. We stopped in Hong Kong to refuel and to get water and food supplies. The Hong Kong harbor was full of sunken ships, and when our convoy sailed in there I could see a large crowd of Chinese shaking fists at us and shouting. I could see hatred in their faces through binoculars. There were also lots of sunken ships in Singapore when we docked at the Naval Base, but there were no civilians. I was even allowed to go ashore to visit the only Japanese Naval post commanded by a former superior of my father’s, with whom he shared a seaplane crash near Cebu and captivity by Filipino guerillas. This voyage was truly a learning and maturing experience and made me realize what Japan did to its Asian neighbors in the name of the Asian Co-Prosperity Sphere, a fancy name for recolonization by Japan.

Now back to my mother at the U.S. Embassy and how I got to go to Andover. My mother, as a young and beautiful bilingual war widow, had no shortage of American male admirers. Some of them would use our house as home away home and had occasional Sunday lunches by bringing food to cook. But, there was one person, a [divorced man] who used to teach at German Town Friends School before the war, who was quite serious about my mother. He visited us as often as he could, but my mother was not too sure about entering into a serious relationship with him. Having been a schoolteacher, he felt that I was too independent-minded and free-spirited for the Japanese education system and wanted to send me to an American school. No doubt he had some ulterior motive in getting me to America. He contacted Richard Pieters, a former colleague at Friends School, who by then had moved to Andover, and told him about me. This started the ball rolling. On the basis of the verbal aptitude test score, school transcripts, and some letters of recommendation, I was given a full scholarship. The steerage passage of $270 from Yokohama to San Francisco was paid for by an American organization, and with $100 in travelers checks, some cash, and a one-way Greyhound bus ticket all given to me by many of my mother’s friends, I took off for Andover in early August of 1950. I should mention that I had taken the entrance examination to the University of Tokyo and was admitted in April and attended it for three months before leaving for America with a leave of absence.

One episode at Andover I remember vividly was meeting Admirals Halsey and Spruance at graduation time. Pete Spruance ’51, my dormmate, introduced me to his uncle, Adm. Spruance—and to Adm. Halsey, who was with him—as a son of Adm. Yamamoto, which was true enough since my father was promoted to Rear Admiral posthumously after his death in action. Adm. Halsey shook my hand, saying “Fancy seeing you young man.” Obviously, he thought I was THE Adm. Isoroku Yamamoto’s son. I wasn’t lying, but wasn’t telling the truth! Much later, I found out that Adm. Spruance, who commanded the 5th Fleet during the war, had been set to have a real sea battle with the Japanese 2nd Fleet—of which my father was a senior staff officer. But Adm. Spruance decided to let carrier-based torpedo planes attack by telling Adm. Mitscher, “You take them.”

I was asked to write something about my family and my career after Andover.

Steve, in Day Hall reading 1984

I come from a family of three generations of professional naval officers (all admirals). My maternal great-grandfather was Vice Admiral (engineering) H. Takeda. As a child of 12 he was sent to live with a British teacher of an English school in his hometown, and attended an English school for 4 years before entering the Naval Engineering Academy. He spent 4 years in France overseeing the construction of warships by a French shipyard. He and his wife spent one more year later on a similar mission. His spoken and written English and French were native level, and he was very good at writing poems in classical Chinese, like a learned Westerner composing a Latin ode. After retiring from the Navy he joined Mitsubishi Consortium and became the chairman of the Mitsubishi Shipbuilding Company and later that of the Mitsubishi Electric Company concurrently. My life overlapped with his, as he lived to be 79. His only child married my grandfather Adm. T. Toyoda, who was slated to become a superstar in the Navy. He was a language officer in London and later became a naval attaché. He accompanied delegates to two disarmament conferences and was well aware of the superiority of Western powers, like his father-in-law. He became a Vice Minister of the Navy, but, because of his pro-West stance, was cleverly ousted from the Navy by first being promoted to full admiral but put on reserve right away, and was made a Minister of Commerce, where his secretary was my future father-in-law. He served as a Foreign Minister and tried very hard to avoid an armed conflict with the U.S. by working with U.S. Ambassador J. Grew (a relative of James Grew of PA faculty). During the war he was the chairman of the Japan Steel Company, and served again as the Minister of Munitions Supply in the last war cabinet that accepted the unconditional surrender. He was “purged” from official positions for some years, but when he was de-purged he became the chairman of Japan Usiminas Steel Company, a join-venture company with Brazil, which is thriving now.

My father, Rear Adm. Y. Yamamoto, came from a banking family, but chose to go to the Naval Academy and, like his father-in-law, was slated to be a superstar; my grandfather chose him to be my mother’s husband. He was a language officer and an assistant naval attaché in Germany from 1936 to 1938. He was very good at languages and spoke fluent German. Since he was away from home a good deal of the time I hardly knew him. But I remember him to be a gentle and laid-back person. He was 42 when he died.

My wife, Keiko, attended a convent school in Paris from age 12 to nearly 16, and then spent 4 years in Washington, D.C., where I met her when she was a sophomore at the American University. On both occasions she followed her father, who was a commercial attaché in France and a minister in charge of commerce in Washington.

Our children and one grandson were born in the U.S., so it was in the family blood to be at least bilingual and bicultural.

Finally, after Andover, I was given a full scholarship for both BS and PhD degrees at Yale. I did my thesis on nuclear physics, but switched to high-energy physics when I got my first job at Brookhaven National Laboratory. After 6 years there we moved to UMass-Amherst, where I started a research group of my own after receiving a good Federal grant. After 5 years there I was offered a position at the University of Tokyo to start my group there. Since I had lived in the U.S. for 20 years and felt that I should at least give Japan a try, I accepted the offer with fear and trembling. I never thought I’d last there, but somehow made it, and was made professor emeritus when I retired at 60. I then taught and did some research at Sophia University, a first-rate Jesuit University in Tokyo, retiring in 2000. Since then I’ve been working at RIKEN, a flagship national science laboratory in Japan two days [a week] as a part-time advisor. I’ll be fully retired in March 2012.


Filed under Life in a War Zone

John Sylvester ’48

Sylvester '48

John Sylvester '48

(1930–    )

The war began in China in 1937 after fighting broke out at the Marco Polo Bridge near Beijing between the Chinese Nationalist Army and the Imperial Japanese Army. I was a child then in China from 1936 to 1939, age six to nine. I remember a Japanese unit marching past our house in Tsingtao in north China, short soldiers in scruffy uniforms carrying long rifles. I admired the big handsome horses the Japanese cavalry rode, myself then riding the smaller Mongolian ponies. I remember also in Shanghai once riding through the Chinese quarter outside the International Settlement, which was devastated in the recent fighting. My brother and I peered at the old Japanese battleship Idzumo and the other warships in the Whangpu River off the Shanghai Bund.

My maternal grandfather, Admiral Harry E. Yarnell, was then the Commander-in-Chief of the American Asiatic Fleet. My father, in a good piece of nepotism, was his flag lieutenant, so the three generations of our family were there moving between Shanghai, Tsingtao, Hong Kong, and the Philippines.

My grandfather was one of the first of the air admirals. In 1932 he had led the Navy units in the Pacific maneuvers, attacking Hawaii by air on a Sunday morning. The Army cried foul. The Japanese may have noticed. During his tour of duty in China he developed a deep sympathy for the Chinese people for their ordeal under the Japanese invasion. One of his crises was the deliberate Japanese naval sinking of our gunboat, the USS Panay. After his retirement in 1939 to live in Newport, Rhode Island, he wrote and traveled widely to lecture on the coming war with Japan. When the war began he was called back to duty. Too old to take a command, he was on the defense team for his friend Admiral Kimmel in the court martial over Pearl Harbor, wrote a controversial report on the use of Navy air in the Pacific, and served as an advisor to the Chinese mission in Washington. After retiring again, he was in August 1945 perhaps the first person publicly to criticize the use of the atomic bombs on Japan, writing the New York Herald Tribune that it was “a barbaric act against a defeated enemy.”

In Newport, where my father was assigned to the Naval Torpedo Station, we lived right down the street from my grandfather. I was at his house when he received a phone call informing him of the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor. I ran home to tell my father. In 1942 my father went to Australia to interview our submarine captains, dismayed with the number of dud torpedoes during their attacks on Japanese vessels. He later told me the problems came from the civil service technicians at the Torpedo Station being promoted beyond their knowledge, along with the Navy concern with the cost of testing the torpedoes. My father was then assigned for duty in the Pacific, first in the waters off Guadalcanal as executive officer on the cruiser USS Columbia, a lucky ship, and later as navigation officer for Admiral Olendorf on the USS California in the battle of Leyte Gulf.

When I joined the Foreign Service in 1955 my first ten years of duty were in Japan, with my most valuable souvenir being my beloved wife Mayumi Kurata, a Japanese movie actress. She had, of course, her own war experiences. Her house in Tokyo was destroyed by our incendiary bombs, with she and her family in the small shelter hearing their fizzling and the roar of the flames. She said her mother was most concerned thereafter about the police finding the remains of the black market sugar she had been able to buy. Mayumi underwent the compulsory military training for students. She joked to me that if I had been one of the invading American soldiers she would have greeted me with “Welcome to Japan, Mr. Sylvester,” and then with her bamboo spear made me shish kabob.

After college I had enlisted in the U.S. Army, getting my Combat Infantryman’s Badge in the Korean War. That war came out of the division of Korea in 1945 and the victory of the Chinese communists over the Nationalists on the mainland. Later, as a Foreign Service officer, I served in Vietnam from 1968 to 1972, the first two years in the countryside with the Pacification Program and the later two years in the Embassy in the Embassy in Saigon. That war came out of the Japanese humiliation of the French colonial regime in World War II, and the communist victory in the north and their intent for all of Vietnam.

Great earthquakes have many aftershocks. Great wars leave much turmoil.

Leave a comment

Filed under Life in a War Zone

Antonio L. “Tony” Escoda ’49

Escoda '49

Antonio L. "Tony" Escoda '49


From Andover magazine Class Notes (Summer 2007), written by class secretary James P. McLane ’49

…This is a story about just another guy. He is from our class. It is a remarkable saga of the life and times of Tony Escoda. Remember him? Maybe a little. He came from a New Jersey high school, which was bad enough. And to make matters worse, he came as a lower, which put him at something of a disadvantage. The cliques were already formed. On top of all of this, he is Filipino. But he managed, in a quiet way, to adapt to our sometimes brutal social environment pretty well. He had a good sense of humor and played a fair game of tennis. People liked him. He steered himself away from other minority students. He probably didn’t see himself as that much different from the rest of us. He roomed with Dave Kopko and spent some vacations with the Kopko family. When she first heard Tony’s name, Dave’s mother, for some unaccountable reason, went into her files and fished out a clipping from the New York Times. No one knew why she had saved this particular clipping. It told the story of Antonio Escoda, Tony’s dad.

Tony’s father had received, posthumously, the U.S. Army’s Medal of Honor. Before the Japanese invasion, he was city editor of the Manila Bulletin and correspondent for the Herald Tribune. During the Japanese occupation he and Tony’s mother were active, behind-the-lines secret agents. They organized a group to smuggle supplies to American prisoners of war and get information about them to their families, and they were able to pass on vital intelligence, including troop movements, to the U.S. Army. Tony’s mother, Josepha Escoda, was so celebrated for her own accomplishments that her face was to appear on the 1,000-peso bill. She was famed as an advocate of women’s rights and founded the Girl Scouts of the Philippines. One could form a long list of her contributions to health, culture, and university teaching (she was a full professor).

In 1944 while traveling in a small boat on the way to a meeting with General MacArthur, Tony’s father was intercepted and captured by the Japanese and imprisoned at Fort Santiago in the Philippines. Shortly afterward, Tony’s mother was arrested and imprisoned behind the same dark walls of this notorious Japanese prison. You can imagine the inhuman deprivations and torture they faced at the hands of the Japanese occupiers. After four months of imprisonment, she was offered freedom, but she refused. She knew her husband faced death, and she preferred to die in prison near him, rather than go free without him. She was last seen in January 1945 suffering horribly from torture. She was not seen again. It is assumed she was executed.

Remember, Tony, at that time, would have been about 15. It was 1945, and we were all about to enter Andover. To the best of my knowledge, he never mentioned any of this to anyone. He went about his life at Andover like anybody else.

Escoda '49

Escoda (right) with friends at PA

After graduating from Andover, he entered Yale and then got a master’s degree at the Columbia School of Journalism. They were later to give him an award in 1959 for outstanding contributions to journalism. He went on to head the Associated Press bureaus in Malaysia, Thailand, and the Philippines. He became managing editor of the Philippines Times until Fernando Marcos shut it down.

Dave Kopko had difficulty keeping up with Tony’s movements around the Far East in those years but managed to reestablish contact because of a chance spotting of a family member’s name in the New York telephone directory. He found that Tony was in New York, grievously sick. Dave managed to have a last visit with his old friend and former roommate. In 1981, Tony died of cancer at age 51 in Sloan-Kettering Hospital in New York City.

Bill Millager’s wife, Gwendolyn, found in a trunk in her attic a faded picture of five tennis players on the Rockwell courts. The smiling young players: Dave Kopko, Bill, Andy Machain, Doc Savard, and, she asked, “Who is the one on the right?”

Just another guy from Andover: Tony Escoda.


Filed under Life in a War Zone