My father knew WWII soldier missing for 75 years

I am writing, in brief, in response to the article concerning the recovered remains of Staff Sergeant Louis Doddo.

Throughout my life, I listened to my father periodically recount his experience during his time in the Pacific Theater during World War II. He served in the Army’s 27th Infantry Division and would speak selectively about the torrid emotions of fighting on remote islands in the Pacific, places he would never have known were it not for the War. But there was a time before that which the article brought to mind.

My father, his older brother Joe, and Louis grew up together on Neptune Avenue, a small, uneventful street in South Norwalk. The neighborhood was much different then, but the houses where they lived are still there. And as fate turns fortunes in strange ways, especially during a time when the world is at war, it happened these three boyhood friends found themselves together on the island of Saipan, an otherwise ignominious atoll in the Mariana Islands chain which in

1944 became significant because if captured, American bombers could reach Japan from its airfields. The 27th landed on June 16th, preceded by the

2nd and 4th Marine Divisions the day before, and advanced to one of the island’s airfields. A brutal counterattack came that evening, and the intensity of the fighting, at times hand-to-hand, continued until the island was secure on July 9th.

By chance, just after landing, the soldiers were in sight of one another; the last image my father had of Louis was a wave of his hand through the rapidly dispersing troops. The Japanese Imperial Marines defending the island fought to the death, the culmination of which came on the morning of July 7 when an estimated

4,000 Japanese began a final suicidal, banzai charge (the Gyokusai). The Division’s 105th Infantry was at the front line of the fanatical charge, and it was during this attack that Louis met his fate along with hundreds of his comrades.

With most of the officers killed, Staff Sergeants had to assume leadership, and Louis, no doubt, displayed his courage in this capacity also. The horrific brutality of this attack, the largest of the Pacific Campaign, was witnessed by those who were fortunate enough to survive and who would later relate the experience.

The account as reported in The Norwalk Hour in 1944 was that Louis Doddo was missing in action during the battle of Saipan; my father and his brother knew the truth about how their brave comrades came to be listed as missing. Most of the casualties at the battle of Saipan were recorded during the July 7 attack, the Bloody 7th, as it came to be known.

Of all of my father’s dark memories of combat, none haunted him more than the fate of Louis at the battle of Saipan; the emotion in his voice on those rare occasions when he would speak about it was unmistakable. It is unfortunate that my father would pass not knowing that his neighbor and comrade would finally be buried with full military honors and that taps would be sounded in his memory, but perhaps his bearing witness to me was his way of keeping his memory alive.

To Louis’ family, please know that his sacrifice was never forgotten all these years in our household and that at the ceremony, Mike and Joe will be there in spirit, I’m certain. I believe sincerely that Louis’ courage and sacrifice, and the courage of his generation, are the foundations upon which our freedom is built today, an inexorable truth that will outlive those who choose to ignore it.