No Medals: Th E True Story of the Search for Historical Evidence Necessary

By Peter C. Banks

No Medals is a Christmas story wrapped around a search of government records to locate the file of a deceased, black World War II veteran, author Peter C. Bankss father, John Henry Banks Jr. The investigation to find the records begins in 2000 and concludes on Christmas Eve, one year later. Peter Banks recounts the steps that he took to find his fathers service recordssteps that anyone can follow if they would like to locate the war history of a relative who was a veteran of World War II.

The journey is sprinkled with bitter disappointments and exciting revelations as Banks tries to confirm his fathers service as an acting corporal in World War IIa common duty that became a life-threatening activity during his service tour in Europe. At the time of the elder Bankss military service, most of the war experiences of black veterans, no matter how heroic, were not treated with the same respect as those of white soldiers.

No Medals paints a vivid picture of the segregation of the United States Army of the 1940s. For Banks, it completes his journey to respect his fathers dying words, Do something good; leave a positive legacy in your life try to do something that will last!

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: May 24, 2011
• ISBN: 9781462008070

Peter C. Banks

Peter C. Banks grew up with his parents and nine siblings in Detroit, Michigan, where he continues to live today. He received his undergraduate degree in journalism from Wayne State University in Detroit, Michigan. He has a wide range of career experience. Most recently, he worked as an investigator for a school district.

Book preview

Copyright © 2011 by Peter C. Banks

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

iUniverse books may be ordered through booksellers or by contacting:

iUniverse

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.iuniverse.com

1-800-Authors (1-800-288-4677)

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

ISBN: 978-1-4620-0806-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4620-0808-7 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4620-0807-0 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2011904963

Printed in the United States of America

iUniverse rev. date: 5/19/11

About the Cover Photo

Picture taken: 1945/46 of Acting Corporal John H. Banks Jr.

Age: 19

DOB: 6/15/26

Serial number: 46061877

758th Tank Bn (Co M 3rd Bn., 3rd. Plt. 6975th Inp. Reg.)

Service dates: From 11/15/45 to 11/1/46

Separation point: Fort Knox, Kentucky, 11/1/46

Weapon: US rifle, .30-caliber M1 (with bayonet)

Weight: Rifle loaded, with sling and cleaning equipment—11 ¼ pounds

Length: 43 inches

Sights: Front fixed, rear adjustable

Trigger pull in pounds: Minimum 5 ½, maximum 7 ½

Muzzle Velocity: 2,800 fps (feet per second), 853 mps (meters per second/approximate)

Range in meters: Maximum 3,200, maximum effective 2,460

Weapon is a clip fed, gas-operated, air-cooled, semiautomatic shoulder weapon. This means that the rifle is loaded by inserting a metal clip (containing a maximum of eight rounds) into the receiver. The power needed to cock the rifle and chamber each round comes from the expanding gas of the previous round, the air cools the barrel and that the rifle fires one round each time the trigger is pressed.

The rifle has a fixed front sight and adjustable rear sight. The rear sight aperture can be raised or lowered by means of an elevation knob on the left of the receiver and moved right or left to adjust for the force of the wind by means of the wind age knob on the right of the receiver.

Dedicated to our mother, Marian Ivy, and my brothers and sisters:

Joseph Michael

John Anthony

Joan Maria

Paula Elizabeth

Barbara Faye

Angela Therese

Christopher Francis

Vincent Patrick

Gerald Martin

Love Always,

Peter Claver

Contents

Chapter 1. The Spark

Chapter 2. The Memory

Chapter 3. Inspiration

Chapter 4. Training Base

Chapter 5. The Search

Chapter 6. Mistaken Identity

Chapter 7. Contact by Mail

Chapter 8. More Searching

Chapter 9. The Concentration Camp

Chapter 10. Going to the Top for Help

Chapter 11. What Was Lost

Chapter 12. Somebody Cares

Chapter 13. Prisoner of War?

Chapter 14. Defining the Winners of Medals

Chapter 15. Getting Out and Getting Home

Chapter 16. Close Evidence

Chapter 17. Open Tension

Chapter 18. The White House, Washington

Chapter 19. Plans for Seasonal Celebrations

Acknowledgments

I would like to thank the following friends and family for their help, guidance, assistance, and inspiration, without which this book would not have been written.

Thanks to my mother, Marian Ivy, for her prayers and constant support for this project and for telling me to finish it. My brother Joseph for always being my big brother! My brother John Anthony for making sure I see things clearly. My sister Joanie for showing everybody that you can be smart, talented, athletic, and giving at the same time, all the time! My sister Paula for always remembering everything and doing the best she can. To my sister Barbara Faye for showing me persistence with how to discover one’s talent during life’s adversities. My sister Angela for showing excellence in everything she does and then courageously letting everyone know. To my brother Christopher, for showing independence wherever he might be. My brother Vincent for his unflinching resolve and quiet strength and dedication … and, finally, my brother Gerald Martin for the sacrifices he has made in the army for our family and the United States, just like Dad … and The Banks-Johnson Family.

Next, my English literature and creative writing teachers at Wayne State University, who took the time to work with me during undergraduate college, but moreover, had the patience to encourage me to see my potential. In addition, I would like to thank the Department of Journalism, Radio, Television, Film, and Digital Media for their training.

Thanks for the administrative assistance to Margo Taylor, for the first read, primary editing, and critical input. Kellie Donnellon for manuscript typing and organization of story information. Nancy Gaughn for review and secondary editing. Gail Gales, an English and Hebrew teacher, for review, inspiration, and insistence on descriptive grammatical excellence. Special thanks in particular to Mary Sullivan for help with computer instruction. Marcia Williams for her noteworthy contribution of career and technical support. LaConya Elliott for editing review and writing balance.

Special thanks to John W. Mason, PC, Dr. Richard Traitel, PhD, and Dr. Richard Smith, PhD, for their assistance.

Special thanks to some of my buddies from the media, marketing, radio, and television business.

Al Allen (Tyree Long), John Edwards, J. Michael McKay a.k.a. Donald Foggio, Kathy Young-Welch, Donnie Simpson, Claude Young, Jay Butler, Greg Bowman, Paul Snyder, Scott Lewis, Cliff Russell, Pat Sweeting, Bob Boomer Bennett*, Martha Jean The Queen Steinberg*, Chris McClendon*, Lou Beatty Jr., Henry Graham, David Lee Burch, Cassandra Sprattling, Carol Martin, Velma Cepero, Donofay Collins, Corky Collins, Walter Tune-up Neal, Aubrey Lee, Carmen Harlan, Emery King, Gerald Davis, and Dean Piekarski.

My other brothers—Wendell Hinton, Bobby Miller, Mike Scott, Larry and Alan Goldsby, Roddy Jones, Nolan Moore, Dwight Norman, Greg Few, Mario Smith, Dale Clarke, Thomas Bradley, Michael Hunt, Ron Wood, Ron Moore, Curtis Dixie III, Kassel James, Curtis Sanford, Hank Glaspie. My fraternity brothers at Phi Beta Sigma and the 101st recruit class of the Michigan State Police (The last really hard academy!).

My extended family—Paul and Regina Baker for insisting I learn to deal with solitude in a positive way.

My other moms—Mrs. Jean Baker and Mrs. Luphillia Higginbotham.*

The grandchildren and great-grandchildren who are direct descendants—Jarrod Anthony Banks, Jason Ryan Banks, Casey Camille Banks, Michael Penn, Brandon Penn*, Coltrane Hunt, Tavia Hunt, Sandra Serra, Chanel Brown, Jessica Banks, Bianca Banks, Tristen Penn, Madison Penn, and Julian Jumoke Edison.

A Note to the Reader

No Medals is a factual account of a yearlong search to find service records about our dad, a black WWII veteran. I am one of six sons and four daughters of John Henry Banks Jr.

The story traces the steps taken along a course of disappointments and revelations during an attempt to secure formal government recognition for events that marked a brief period of little known American history. The basis for seeking verification was the oral memoirs of then Acting Corporal John H. Banks Jr. The descriptions recount a common duty that became a life-threatening activity during his service tour in Europe. It is my hope that the negative, subjective, and prejudicial justification used then to reject our father’s accomplishments will be held to new standards. According to the military at the time, most war experiences of black veterans, no matter how heroic, were simply labeled critical incidents. Somehow it was defined in lesser terms for black soldiers than for white. It meant something that just happened during war. For white soldiers, a critical incident could have been a near-death experience, hand-to-hand combat, a fierce firefight, death or wounding by friendly fire, or the inadvertent killing of civilians.

At this time, the military system was a mirror image of American social ills, including gender, racial, cultural, and ethnic biases. Demand for change was affected only after years of political activism. The army has made great strides to alter old injustices but, unfortunately, not without pressure, evidence, or witnesses. The motive for the composition of this story is intended to inspire speculation over what really happened back then … and why. Not meant to stir anger, instead it attempts to place in perspective a small portion of African American history. The final interpretation is left up to the reader to decide if this veteran’s report deserves special remembrance.

The story was written in order to pay a debt to our father’s memory, to set the record straight. It is the conclusion of a pledge to honor our dad posthumously. This little-known family legend is finally revealed, a half century after he performed his duty. The collection of spoken stories interwoven between actual military histories finalized that kept promise. This memoir completes my journey to respect our father’s dying words. Do something good, leave a positive legacy in your life … try to do something that will last!

Chapter One

The Spark

Christmas was a time of tradition for my brothers and sisters, their wives, husbands, nieces, nephews, and me. It was an unspoken mandate for everyone to make the yearly pilgrimage back home to see Mom and Dad, if only just to exchange gifts at the old inner-city family homestead. That’s the way it seemed it had always been. For forty-five years, it had been that way. Now things are different. Some siblings come … and some don’t. Dad had died of cancer in 1995. This was the fifth year that our beloved custom was broken. It is even more unbelievable that five years had raced by after my father’s death before I first felt the need to write about him.

Somehow our family painstakingly sacrificed to gather for Christmas. This year, the fractured close relatives that did show up did their best to individually take over any one of dozens of fondly remembered tasks once performed by Dad. I was building a fire in the fireplace, which had been his usual job. I was now careful to do it just as he had. Conscientiously, I piled the split logs and ten- and twenty-pound chunks of black coal retrieved from the basement still left in the coal bin. The coal burned longer and warmer. In the time before we moved into the house in Detroit, coal was used for home heating. That was long before gas or oil furnaces were installed. Kneeling in front of the fireplace, I began the chore of properly placing all of the material on the wrought-iron tray from front to rear. The ritual was to give the fire the correct visual effect.

Our family’s symbol of the warmth of the Christmas season was our living room’s large natural fireplace. When I grew up, the hearth had burned coal delivered yearly by truck and logs cut from fallen neighborhood trees. In past frigid winter nights in Detroit, it had warmed both parents and children. We were forced to sleep together under blankets on the floor in front of the fire. Those were the times when Dad’s paycheck covered food, clothes, parochial school tuition, and mortgage but was not enough for the heating utility bills. Gas was temporarily shut off until Dad could make ends meet. Natural gas was vital fuel to heat an inefficient furnace in a drafty two-story, four-bedroom house.

We didn’t know those were bad times. Dad told us to laugh, have fun, and treat it like an adventure … like we were the pioneers or campers in sleeping bags. So without even giving his suggestion a second thought, that’s what we did. Now with fond memories, my Christmas job and privilege was to safely light the old fireplace.

Wadding up the sports page at the Christmas celebration, I returned to my task.

Tearing strips of pages from daily journals that