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Francisco Martitegui
"My God!" said First Sergeant Goss of Battery C, "how the hell am I expected to
call roll?"
It was March, 1942, and the 915th FA Bn had just received its first batch of
"filler" replacements. Up to then, it had consisted of a cadre of key officers and enlisted
men with at least some army experience, plus a group of green lieutenants, including me,
mostly six to eight weeks out of civilian life. Now came our first raw recruits, waiting
with varying degrees of enthusiasm to be made into soldiers.
I looked over Sgt Goss's shoulder at the roster in his hand, and saw his problem:
about one third of the surnames were Spanish. A product of the New Mexico school
system, I saw that most of them were familiar names I could pronounce, so I said, "Don't
worry, Sgt Goss. I'll call the roll this first time, and you can listen to me and learn how."
So we went out and started. I sailed along through Chavez and Fresquez, had no
trouble with Gardina. Even Jiminez, who later turned out to have anglicized his name,
recognized it when I called "He-man-ez." But then I got stuck on the next one. His first
name was Francisco, which suggested that his surname was probably Spanish too, but I
had never seen it before. "Martitigui?" I ventured.
The reply dripped with scorn. "Martitegui!"
I glanced at him. Tall, broad-shouldered, with light brown hair, gray eyes, and a
fair complexion, he did not look like a Latin-American. And, as I later found, he wasn't.
He was a native of Spain whose family had brought him over to avoid his being drafted
into Franco's army. And here he was in the American army instead, speaking very little
English.
I soon got to know him well. In several respects, he showed outstanding talent.
Take close-order drill for example. One of the first things a recruit has to learn is to keep
in step, because if he does not, he won't be able to make the necessary turns and moves
without falling down or bumping into other men in the formation. The most effective way
to teach men, even knot-heads with no sense of rhythm (and we had plenty) to keep in
step is to give a quick series of commands which require them to make abrupt changes in
direction.
"By the right flank-March! By the left flank-March! To the rear-March! To the
rear-March!" If anyone is out of step going into all this, he will either correct himself or
get his legs tangled and fall on his face.
Except Martitegui. He is the only human being I have ever known that could go
through such a series of maneuvers and end up out of step. He was exasperating. He
exasperated all the non-corns and all the officers. Even Captain Munson, the most
considerate and long-suffering commander I ever knew, was exasperated.
"MARTITEGUI! Get in step!” He would bellow. And Martitegui would get in
step - momentarily. Then he would make the little skip necessary to get back out of step.
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