Eulogy for Edward Gangale

Edward Joseph Gangale saw most of the American Century, and a little of this new one, too young to yet have a name. He was born to new Americans, young Americans, who had come here from Europe to build their lives in a new country. He grew up and lived most of his life on Paris Street here in the Excelsior District. He was a devoted son to his father and mother. He was the older and wiser brother who always looked out for the younger one. He was a graduate of Balboa High School and of San Francisco State College.

From his youngest years until his very last, he expressed himself through his violin. He played in the big bands of the 1930s and 1940s.

He was a member of what Tom Brokaw has called the “Greatest Generation.” Having been born during the First World War, he grew up to serve in the Second, the most terrible conflict the human race has ever fought, and hopefully, will ever fight. A lifelong lover of cats, he served in the US Army’s 81st Infantry Division, “the Wildcats.” I quote from his service record:

Served as a member of the division band in the Pacific Theater of Operations. Provided band music for military functions and ceremonies. Also organized and directed a dance band to furnish music for entertainment and for dancing. Played for Red Cross and other shows and broadcasts. Directed a dance band in Latin American music and played violin.

Typical of the “Greatest Generation,” he was reticent about his war experiences. He would say that he never went ashore until the general did. But we should not mistake such reluctance to speak as signifying the lack of deeds. He participated in an amphibious landing on the island of Augaur in the Palau Islands, in the liberation of the Philippines, and in the occupation of Japan. We do not know all of the sacrifices that he and his brothers-in-arms made, and we could not understand them even if we did know, not having shared with them the privations, the fear, and the horrors of war. But we must remember that we owe our freedoms and our comforts to men such as Technician 4th Grade Edward Joseph Gangale, men who came home suddenly much older than when they had left a few years before, and told us that it was no big deal.

It could have been a much bigger deal than it was. What ought to be mentioned here today is that the 81st Division was scheduled to participate in the invasion of Japan in November 1945. At the time, American war planners expected there would be a million casualties. However, Japanese documents captured after the war, and recently declassified, show that American intelligence on Japanese capabilities to defend the home islands was dangerously in error. This suggests that actual American combat casualties would have been much, much higher than the estimated one million. I hardly think that my father would have been playing dance music under those circumstances. He was, after all, a fully-trained combat soldier. Rather, it is likely that my father, who was always a bit of an automobile buff, would have lost his life on a beach code-named Locomobile, LaSalle, Hupmobile, Moon, Maxwell, Overland, or Packard. Forgotten automobile names from an invasion that never happened.

Fortunately, if one can use the word for events so horrendous, Operation Olympic was rendered unnecessary by the nuclear strikes on Hiroshima and Nagasaki. My father came home to his parents. After the war, he went to college on the GI Bill, became a teacher, and passed his love of music on to a new generation.

A son, a brother, a musician, a soldier, a teacher, a father. My father.

As with most fathers and sons, we did not always see eye to eye. In fact, sometimes our relationship was rather stressful. But through it all, it went without saying that we loved each other. It should have been said--much, much more often than it was. We were very much alike, probably more than either one wanted to admit. We were both stubborn, and not the easiest people to get along with.

As I now look back on the years, I see that much of what I am is because of him. Whereas my father was born at the dawn of aviation, I was born to a new age of space exploration. My father never even flew in an airplane, and yet he infused me with the breathless wonder and excitement of the Space Age. There were evenings when he took me outside to catch a glimpse of the first artificial moons: Sputnik, Echo, Telstar. He took great joy in teaching me the names of the planets, their sizes, their distances from the sun, the periods of their orbits. He took me to see science fiction triple features at the Grand Theater on Saturday nights. Together, we watched the first men walk on the moon. It is little surprise, then, that I grew up dreaming of becoming an astronaut, that when I went to college, I took a degree in aerospace engineering, and that later I became an Air Force officer.

It sometimes happens with lives that they get off track. My father stopped being a teacher, and I stopped being an aerospace engineer. Somehow dreams once so bright faded and got lost. Decades passed. Finally, in the past year, I began building a new dream. The Space Age that inspired my father to inspire me is off the track, stuck in neutral. That is a disappointment, but there are other dreams to be embraced and fully lived. I’m not going to the moon. I’m not going to Mars. Probably no one is in my lifetime. Instead, I’m studying international relations, how we can all come together in peace here on Earth, learn to take care of this torn and polluted Earth, and most importantly, how we can put the nuclear genie back in the bottle -- the nuclear genie to which my father possibly owed his survival of the Second World War, and to which I and my son Darius in turn possibly owe our existence. Recent events make it clear that we must do everything necessary to contain these and other weapons of mass destruction before they spread to rogue nations and transnational terrorist organizations. Our continued existence, and that of our children, depends in this. What helped us win a war long ago, we must now wage a peaceful struggle to banish from the Earth forever.

I never imagined that if I ever returned to school, I would be at my father’s alma mater, San Francisco State University, and yet, that is exactly where I am. In my new endeavor, it is also possible to see my father’s influence, for he was always a keen observer of politics, especially on the global level. I think my father was very skeptical of my new efforts at first. But I also think that in the last few months he began to believe that this time, for the first time, I was for real, that I had committed to making a maximum effort.

I hope he did. I hope that he was secretly pleased with the voyage of discovery that I have now embarked on, my mission to planet Earth.

My father was a profoundly skeptical man to outward appearances, but he was also a hopeful man in a hidden way. One of the things that we enjoyed together was watching football, particularly the Oakland Raiders. He would say things about our favorite team such as, “Forget about the first half. They always look terrible in the first half. All you have to do is watch the second half. That’s when they really start to play.” And that, in a back-handed way, is an expression of hope, and of faith. The home team hasn’t been playing very well. But just wait... they will.

All right, Dad. My half-time is over. I have taken the field for the second half. You have a great seat, now. Sit back... and watch me play.

Contendere, explorare, invenire, et non cedere.

Te amo, pater.

Ave, et vale.