Armando Magri Autobiography - "Then and Now"

[EricOlson]

1941 Daytona race - Babe Tancrede, number plate doesn't match up with 1940.jpg
Babe Tancrede at Daytona 1941. Photo by Frank Murray

Bruce Walters of Walters Bros. H-D of Peoria Ill.jpg
Bruce Walters of Walters Bros. H-D of Peoria Ill

Class C racer Paul Albrect, from Sacramento, at Daytona.jpg Class C racer Paul Albrect, from Sacramento

276141255_1326330474518530_2050490829304912249_n.jpg

From Armando Magri's collection.jpg From Armando Magri's collection

[EricOlson]

1941 Daytona race program 1.jpg

1941 Daytona race program 2.jpg

1941 Daytona race program 3.jpg

[EricOlson]

Chapter 32, Riding to Fort Knox, Kentucky, to join the Army
From the Autobiography of Armando Magri

I started working on Allison Aircraft engines at McClellan Field in April, 1942. These engines were used in the
Lockheed P38 Lightning, the Bell P39 Airacobra and the Curtiss P40 Warhawk.

Lu was working at Bon Marche, an exclusive department store in Sacramento. I had substantial pay with government benefits, and we were able to start saving money. My friends were all getting drafted and I was restless about joining. Lu said she was tired of hearing about it.

Murray asked me to work a few hours a week at the Harley dealership. One day Bill and Walter Davidson walked in on a visit from the factory. They were second generation Davidsons, sons of the original William and Walter. We started talking about the war, and they said that John Harley, son of co-founder William, was an instructor at the motorcycle school at Fort Knox, Kentucky.

I was well acquainted with John, so I sent off a letter as fast as I could. He replied with great enthusiasm. He wrote that, if I could come back to Kentucky and enlist, he could get me placed at the motorcycle school.

The prospect of serving my country while riding motorcycles was exciting. I brought up the subject with Lu and she said, “Go ahead and join. That’s all I’ve been hearing about anyway.” I left my job at McClellan with an indefinite furlough status, which meant I could have the job back after my service. Lu settled in with her parents in Rio Linda. We had a going-to-join party for me, and I set off for Kentucky.

When I arrived at Fort Knox, I headed straight for the motorcycle school and saw John Harley walking towards me. “Hi, John!” I said. But he walked past me, saying only “hello” with a tone of disinterest. I soon realized that John had no pull at Fort Knox. I was strictly on my own.

I had a friend in Louisville, Tom Friedenheimer, who let me stay at his place while I figured out what to do. It took three days to muster up the courage to tell Lu. I called and told her the situation, and she said, “You mean to tell me you quit a good job, threw a going-away party, moved me in with my folks, and now you want to come back home? You might as well join because you’re going to get drafted anyway!”

I was crushed, but Lu was right. I went back over to Fort Knox and told my whole story to a recruitment officer named Captain Weir. I told him how much I wanted to join the motorcycle school, and he turned out to be a really neat guy. Moments before he swore us in, I remember him saying “You have about ten seconds to decide whether you want to by Mr. Magri or Private Magri.”

On November 7th, I became one of Uncle Sam’s boys. I was placed in a special demonstration regiment which enabled me to complete basic training in 8 weeks, rather than the usual 13 weeks. Getting sent to this regiment was how I ended up in the motorcycle school as an instructor.

Things were encouraging, and Lu joined me in two months.

ONDECE~1.JPG
On December 7th, 1941, Ludella Magri celebrated her 21st birthday. The world would change forever on that day

Armando and Ernie Magri at Armando's going-to-join-the-Army party, 1942.jpg
Armando and Ernie Magri at Armando's going-to-join-the-Army party, 1942

Inspection at Fort Knox, 1942.jpg Inspection at Fort Knox, 1942

ARMAND~1.JPG Armando Magri riding "Midge" at Fort Knox, 1943, where he was an instructor at the Army's motorcycle school there. The motorcycles all had girl's names

[EricOlson]

Chapter 33, Life in Louisville, and the 1943 Fort Knox Endurance Run
From the Autobiography of Armando Magri

Lu got a job as a secretary for Brown and Williamson Tobacco Company. After a few weeks she learned that the other secretaries were making more than her, so she walked into the manager’s office, explained the unfairness of her situation, and demanded equal pay. In Louisville, Lu said Kentuckians weren’t accustomed to such assertiveness from a 22-year old Californian, but she got her raise.

Shortly after, Lu took a better secretary job at the Curtis Wright aircraft manufacturers. We had an apartment in downtown Louisville, and I commuted 37 miles each day on the knucklehead, to get to Fort Knox in time for reveille. The second winter was so cold that I bought a 1937 Packard sedan for the commute, and earned extra money by hauling other G.I.s back and forth. It also qualified me for gas rations.

My brother Ernie was stationed over at Fort Campbell, 185 miles south. On a visit to Louisville, Ernie spotted my ’41 Harley sitting with a cover on it. I was using the Packard, so Ernie asked if he could borrow the Knucklehead.

Soon after that, Ernie got sent to the Wheeled Vehicle School at Fort Knox for three months, to be in a motorcycle recon group. Ernie and his wife Rose moved to Louisville, and now he was the one who had to ride the Harley in cold weather. The four of us saw the beautiful Kentucky farmlands, and took a visit to Mammoth Caves, until Ernie and Rose returned to Fort Campbell.

The highlight of my time in Kentucky was the 2nd Fort Knox Endurance Run sponsored by the U.S. Army Motorcycle School. Captain John Shipe and Lieutenant John Harley thought up the idea to test the bikes and riders both. Every running motorcycle at the fort was entered, 105 in all, and 25 more guys were turned away. Starting at 10 am, John Harley called out the name of each rider. We took off in 60 second intervals.

I was riding a 1942 Harley-Davidson WLA 45 cubic inch model, made for the US Army (thus, the designation “A”). There were also a couple of XA Harleys entered. These were shaft-drive BMW facsimiles that the Harley- Davidson manufactured for Army use in North Africa. All of the Harleys at Fort Knox had ladies’ names painted on them, for easy recognition. Today, I was on top of Mona.

The course was a mass of mud and clay, just two days after a late snow storm had passed through. It stretched out across the base and other parts of Northern Kentucky. On top of that, it started raining. But I didn’t care, because I was racing again.

While other guys got stuck trying to plow through mud, I rode around much of it by staying in the high spots in-between. Fence posts were a bit higher too, so I rode as close to fences as I could. I also kept a lookout for clean water puddles that would wash some mud off the wheels.

At checkpoint #5 we got food, hot coffee and a ten-minute break. One entrant told the H-D Enthusiast magazine photographer “This is just a picnic,” before he encountered the worst of the mud patches. I mean, I agree, this was a blast! But most of these competitors didn’t understand their motorcycles enough; that you can’t let that much mud get between the wheels and fenders. Their bikes sunk down into the mud so badly that they couldn’t get unstuck. A few bikes had clutch issues, yet only four bikes broke down completely.

After five hours and seven minutes of riding, I won the event by seven points. I averaged 12 miles per hour (the goal was 15), and scored 777 out of a possible 1000 points. Only six of us finished within the allotted time. We had to go back out and pick up some of the entrants.

Fort Knox held a buffet dinner for us that night, serving baked ham, potato salad and beer, and presented me with the trophy. It was a combination ashtray and cigarette holder with a chrome motorcyclist on top. A bit goofy, but it is still one of my favorite trophies. The top finishers also received sweaters, helmets, goggles, gloves and things like that.

Captain Shipe said, “It was definitely proved that if a machine is ridden and handled properly, it will negotiate the most difficult of secondary roads and general cross-country terrain.” And General Henry said, “The endurance Run was a fine example of the will to win. It showed what can be done by good men with high morale. I want to congratulate particularly those who finished the difficult course under adverse weather conditions.”

Armando Magri in Louisville, on his way to Fort Knox, 1943.jpg Armando Magri in Louisville, on his way to Fort Knox, 1943

Lu and Armando Magri, Louisville, Kentucky, 1942.jpg
Lu and Armando Magri, Louisville, Kentucky, 1942

Lu and Armando Magri, right, with two unknown women, Louisville, 1943.jpg
Lu and Armando Magri, right, with two unknown women, Louisville, 1943

Rose, Ernie, Lu and Armando Magri, center, rear, at the Mammoth Cave, 1943.jpg
Rose, Ernie, Lu and Armando Magri, center, rear, at the Mammoth Cave, 1943

Riding the knucklehead in the snow, Louisville, 1943.jpg
Riding the knucklehead in the snow, Louisville, 1943

[EricOlson]

Armando Magri, in front, and crew, at Fort Knox, working on tanks.jpg
Armando Magri, in front, and crew, at Fort Knox, working on tanks

Armando Magri at Fort Knox, 1942.jpg
Armando Magri at Fort Knox, 1942

Ernie Magri also spent some time at Fort Knox, 1943.jpg
Ernie Magri also spent some time at Fort Knox, 1943

Armando Magri enters the 1943 Fort Knox Endurance Run.jpg Armando Magri enters the 1943 Fort Knox Endurance Run

Entrants in the 1943 Fort Knox Endurance Run Check out the Harley-Davidson X.jpg Entrants in the 1943 Fort Knox Endurance Run

[EricOlson]

Thick mud was a big problem for the more inexperienced riders..jpg Thick mud was a big problem for the more inexperienced riders

Sgt. John Green and Sgt. Paul Wimuth struggle to get a 1942 Harley-Davidson XA out o.jpg Sgt. John Green and Sgt. Paul Wimuth struggle to get a 1942 Harley-Davidson XA out of the mud

Finding high spots and riding close to fence posts allowed Armando Magri to avoid ge.jpg Finding high spots and riding close to fence posts allowed Armando Magri to avoid getting stuck in the muddier section of the course, 1943

Private Armando Magri wins the 1943 Fort Knox Endurance Run After a brief ce.jpg
Private Armando Magri wins the 1943 Fort Knox Endurance Run. After a brief ceremony, Magri and the other finishers went out to rescue entrants still out on the course.

[jim d]

Thank you for posting this. It really shows and tells a lot about motorcycling in the 30s and early 40s.

[EricOlson]

Chapter 34, Shipping out to Okinawa
From the Autobiography of Armando Magri

After Two years at Fort Knox, I was scheduled to be shipped out. Lu quit her job and went back to live with her parents in Rio Linda. Lu’s sister, Betty, did the same when her husband Homer Warren, went out to sea for the Navy. This was common for military wives, going back home.

In November, 1944, I was on a train to Fort Lawton in Seattle. After 143 days we boarded the famous cruise ship Matsonia, which was converted to a troop carrier. We shipped out for Hawaii. Three months after that, we reached our destination, to Okinawa, 800 miles south of Japan.

We arrived on April 17, 1945. Lu and my family had no idea where I was. My main job in Okinawa was artillery mechanic, although my outfit also worked in maintenance and supplies. The living conditions were absolutely miserable. It rained 200 days a year, so our pup tents were mired I deep, grimy mud. Everything got mildewed, which created a constant, sickening odor.

The American Navy ships were positioned just off the coast in the China Sea, lobbed heavy artillery shells at designated areas south of us throughout the nights. Naha, the capitol of Okinawa, was completely obliterated by Navy guns. The southern end of the island was covered in shrapnel from the shelling.

We were two miles away from the action, but it felt like it was right next to us. We were first stationed at Kadema, but moved three different times in order to get closer to the front line, called the Shuri Line, between Naha and Port Yonabasru. We did vehicle maintenance and repaired damaged tanks, stuck behind the combat lines, to get them back into the fight.

Kamikaze pilots were frequent. These Japanese soldiers pledged to die by crashing their bomb-laden planes into any enemy target. It was something that everybody feared. Because of the limited amount of gas, kamikaze planes were not capable of long flights. When the pilots took off, they knew it was a one-way trip.

One day I was riding along the beach in a jeep, and I heard anti-aircraft guns firing. You could see the puffs of black smoke when the shells exploded. Sailors were trying to shoot down a kamikaze. I followed the smoke as far as I could, until I saw a kamikaze dive down on a landing ship tank (LST). It tore a huge hole in the side, killing 27 Americans.

There were other forms of suicide enacted by Japanese soldiers. One method was to fasten explosives to their mid-section. When an American tank came by, the Japanese soldiers would jump out from their hiding spots and dive directly into the bogie wheels. The explosion took out everything. Other times, they would secure a live grenade under their armpit, pull the pin, and try to take out anyone around them, like a modern suicide bomber.

Our area was shelled almost every night. The Japanese knew we were coming, and they charted every square inch of that island for bombing. One night a 150 mm shell blew me right out of my cot. It created a hole ten feet across, and killed my friend, Eugene Whittington. A large piece of shrapnel took him out in his sleep. It could just as easily have been me, but the only thing I suffered from that explosion was some hearing loss in my right ear.

We used to sit in our bivouac area at night and watch the action, as American ground troops shot at
Japanese bombers. When shot, they came down in a spiral, just like you see in the movies. Watching this sure got your adrenalin flowing. Each day some of the guys would go to where the planes crashed and extract gold teeth and booty from the dead Japanese pilots. This didn’t appeal to me. I didn’t want any part of that. I say this only to illustrate how numb a soldier’s feelings could get in the middle of war.

Many things happened on a daily basis that are too gruesome to go into here, but would require another book, which could be titled “Scared Shitless.”

Letters from home were the greatest morale builder of all, and Lu’s letters, without question, sustained me. I always asked her to send a photo of herself. One she sent, with her in a swimsuit, really got me fired up! When I looked at that photo, I knew I was going to make it home, somehow. In return, I wrote Lu every night. It was a good way to end my day, always with peace in mind and thoughts of when I would return to her.

Rose, Helen, Noni and Lu Magri, back in Chico, California.jpg
Rose, Helen, Noni and Lu Magri, back in Chico, California

A stuffed LST, heading for Okinawa, 1945.jpg
A stuffed LST, heading for Okinawa, 1945

A kamikaze plane hits an LST in Okinawa, 1945 Photo by Armando Magri.jpg
A kamikaze plane hits an LST in Okinawa, 1945 Photo by Armando Magri

Out Landing Ship Tank, LST, at Okinawa, 1945.jpg
A Landing Ship Tank, LST, at Okinawa, 1945

Domestic architecture in Okinawa, 1945.jpg
Domestic architecture in Okinawa, 1945

[EricOlson]

The remains of Port Yonabaru, Okinawa, 1945.jpg
The remains of Port Yonabaru, Okinawa, 1945

GIs Bashaw and Magri, pretending to be rich after a crap game with worthless Japanese currency, Okinawa, 1945..jpg
GIs Bashaw and Magri, pretending to be rich after a crap game with worthless Japanese currency, Okinawa, 1945.

George Snyder and George Nafal, who GIs called the Mayors of Happy Valley, Okinawa, 1945. Photo by Armando Magri.jpg
George Snyder and George Nafal, who GIs called the Mayors of Happy Valley, Okinawa, 1945. Photo by Armando Magri

The muddy streets American GIs lived on in Okinawa, 1945. Photo by Armando Magri.jpg
The muddy streets American GIs lived on in Okinawa, 1945. Photo by Armando Magri

Moy the monkey on Armando Magri's rifle barrel, Okinawa, 1945.jpg
Moy the monkey on Armando Magri's rifle barrel, Okinawa, 1945

[EricOlson]

A house the GIs made for Moy the Monkey, Okinawa, 1945.jpg
A house the GIs made for Moy the Monkey, Okinawa, 1945

Ruins of Naha, the Capital of Okinawa. Photo by Armando Magri.jpg Ruins of Naha, the Capital of Okinawa. Photo by Armando Magri

What was left of the University of Naha, Okinawa, after the US bombing of the island, 1945. Photo by Armando Magri.jpg
What was left of the University of Naha, Okinawa, after the US bombing of the island, 1945. Photo by Armando Magri

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A captured kamikaze plane, Okinawa, 1945.jpg
A captured kamikaze plane, Okinawa, 1945

[EricOlson]

The notorious caves of Okinawa, 1945.jpg
The notorious caves of Okinawa, 1945

Rest in Peace Eugene Whittington, Armando's GI friend who didn't make it back from Okinawa, 1945.jpg
Rest in Peace Eugene Whittington, Armando's GI friend who didn't make it back from Okinawa, 1945

[EricOlson]

Chapter 35, Peace Comes to Okinawa, Brother Bobby Flies in for a Visit, and my 48 Hour Pass to Tokyo, August, September, 1945
From the Autobiography of Armando Magri

Sudden word that the war had ended came via radio. Everyone went completely nuts! Every gun on the island must have been fired, better than the greatest 4th of July celebration ever. If the war had not ended then, I would have been part of the first wave invasion of the Japanese mainland.

The sky was filled with tracers and it became downright dangerous. My buddies and I chose to stay in our foxholes, as shells were flying in all directions. Some GIs got killed that night, due to the overzealousness of the celebrations. After surviving all the rest, what an unbelievable way to go, huh?

From that night on, the only thing on everybody’s mind was “When do I go home?”

Men were discharged through a point system. Soldiers with the largest number of points were released first. Points were given for length of service, overseas duty, injuries and rank. I knew that I wasn’t high on the list. They would send me to Korea, as an occupier, to oversee the de-commissioning of an ammo dump.

The coolest thing that happened in Okinawa was a surprise encounter with my little brother, Robert Gheller. One day, shortly after the war ended, I spotted an Air Corps pilot in our area and said to one of my buddies, “That guy sure looks like my brother, Bobby. Oh, hell, that IS my brother Bobby!”

What a joyous reunion. Bob and I had corresponded, but I had no idea he was flying to Okinawa. Bob flew a
C-46 loaded with supplies from the Philippines. He hung out with me and my buddies, and we put him up for the night.

The next morning, before his return flight, Bob loaded 40 of my buddies into his C-46 and gave us a bird’s- eye-view of the area. Everyone was excited. During the flight, Bob walked back to the main cabin to talk with the fellows. It suddenly dawned on one of them to ask, “Who the hell is flying the plane?”

Bob casually said, “Oh, Armando is flying it.”

Bob had shown me how to hold the plane steady, not hard, really. But about that time, we went through a small cluster of clouds, causing a bit of turbulence. My buddies got nervous and all started yelling at Bob to take over the controls. That ended my flying career, but it sure was exciting. I got to fly a C-46 over Okinawa for about five minutes.

My brother Bob came back to Okinawa a few weeks later. He was on his way to Tokyo with a load of supplies for the Signal Corp. During his stay, we took Bob and his co-pilot Fred Stevens for a ride through shell craters, in a weasel. Weasels are track-laying amphibious personnel carriers.

We let both of them drive ours. That’s when Fred scared himself to death. They came out of a crater too fast, and the weasel reared up, then dropped with a terrific jolt. Fred said he would stick with the Air Corps and flying.

Bob asked if I would like to fly to Tokyo with him and Fred. I went to see the first sergeant, Chester Helgamo, and asked for a 48 hour pass to fly to Tokyo. He looked at me like I had a hole in my head, and referred me to “the Old Man,” our company commander.

Instead of asking myself, I sent Bobby in to face the old man. To our astonishment, he issued the pass!

While flying in to Tokyo, we passed by the famous Mount Fuji volcano. I asked Bob if he could fly a bit closer, so I could get a better picture. He buzzed the mountain so close that I yelled, “I want a shot from outside the mountain, not inside!”

We flew into Tokyo low and slow, to view the results of the Allied bombing months before. The city had been absolutely flattened to the ground, except for the Emperor’s palace, which had little damage. And Frank Lloyd Wright’s building, the Imperial Hotel, was also undamaged. They stood out, alone, among blocks and blocks of rubble.

We landed at Tachigowa Airfield to unload, but it turned out to be the wrong airport. We were in the process of leaving for Atsugi Airfield when a magneto on one of the engines went out. We left the plane to be repaired and decided to hitchhike 15 miles into Tokyo.

Walking through Tokyo’s flattened streets was one of the strangest experiences of my life. Most of the buildings were devastated. The bus terminal still had busses buried under the debris. Cars were burning coal to make carbide for fuel, because gasoline was practically non-existent. If we came close to a Japanese woman, she would leave the sidewalk and go out into the street to avoid us. They had been told we were monsters. We certainly weren’t their favorite people.

At one point we got hungry, and Bob said we should get a meal at the Imperial Hotel. The only catch was that enlisted men weren’t allowed, which left me out. So Bob and Fred decided they wouldn’t go either. “That’s crazy,” I told them. “You go get a meal and bring me back a sandwich.”

But it turned out that a big sign read: FIELD GRADE OFFICERS ONLY,” which meant Captains or higher. Since
Bob and his buddy were only lieutenants, none of us ate at the Imperial.

We hitchhiked back to the airfield on an Army truck. If you wanted them to stop, you just rapped on the top of the cab. Two drunk sergeants were riding along with us, arguing about the price of “nooky,” which they put between 50 cents and a buck and a half. It was all part of Army life.

Bob and Fred and I spent the night on the plane at the airfield. The next morning, we flew over to Atsugi Airfield to unload the cargo. Then we made the 800-mile flight back to Okinawa. We were flying at 10,000 feet, doing 140 mph when we reached the north end of the island. Just for a thrill, Bob took a power dive several hundred feet down, then leveled off. It scared the crap out of me.

After we landed at Machinto Airfield, we hitched a ride to my area, but I couldn’t believe my eyes. My entire outfit was gone, and I had no idea where they were. We located the C.O., who was just signing off the area. He was as relieved to see me, because he was accountable for his men. He said we were headed to Korea, for occupation.

After the C. O. dropped Bob and Fred off at the airfield, we headed for the LST. Bob was supposed to pick up some prisoners of war and take them to the Philippines. But he was still having magneto problems, and an oil leak on the right engine. He cleared it with his command to return empty. Incidentally, the engine had “SAD” stamped on it, which meant it was built at the Sacramento Air Depot.

Brothers in war, brothers in life. Lt. Robert Gheller and Armando Magri, Okinawa, Au.jpg
Brothers in war, brothers in life. Lt. Robert Gheller and Armando Magri, Okinawa, August 1945

Armando's brother, Lt. Robert Gheller.jpg Armando's brother, Lt. Robert Gheller

A C-46 cargo plane.jpg A C-46 cargo plane

Armando Magri's brother, Bob Gheller, takes Armando's buddies for a short flight aro.jpg
Armando Magri's brother, Bob Gheller, takes Armando's buddies for a short flight around Okinawa island

Lt. Robert Gheller was the little brother of Armando, Ernie and Joseph Magri, who all served.jpg
Lt. Robert Gheller was the little brother of Armando, Ernie and Joseph Magri, who all served

[EricOlson]

Tokyo after the fire-bombing, 1945.jpg
Tokyo after the fire-bombing, 1945

[EricOlson]

Chapter 36, Korea and Coming Home
From the Autobiography of Armando Magri

On September 21, 1945, we left Okinawa and headed for Korea, which had been dominated by Japan for 21 years. At the war’s end, all Japanese were sent back to Japan, and the Koreans took over.

When we landed at Inchon, I was even further away from home, but closer to getting back there, and looking forward to the end. I was assigned to oversee the destruction of all machinery from the Mitsubishi Locomotive Works in Seoul, which held all of the equipment for the Japanese 17th Army.

It wasn’t a bad job, and I enjoyed shopping in the city. I spent every moment off duty looking for fine materials for Lu, and collecting souvenirs to send home. I became so good at bargaining, some of the guys let me do the shopping for them. I acquired two pistols, two rifles, two katana swords, binoculars, a Japanese compass, and all kinds of Japanese currency.

Sending things back home was a gamble. Everything went through censorship. But with some folks wanting souvenirs so badly, some things disappeared. There was a limit on how many things you could send.

With each passing day, the countdown came closer to my number. When it got down to three, I wrote to tell Lu to quit her job. She had been working at McClellan Field in Sacramento. I wanted her all for myself. I was coming home!

On January 20, 1946, we sailed from Inchon on the USS Bayfield #33, an Army Personnel Assault (APA) ship. Sixteen days later, we arrived at Ft. McDowell in San Francisco. I will always remember passing under the Golden Gate Bridge. It was the most beautiful sight I had ever seen, and nobody needed to tell me what we had been fighting for.

From San Francisco, we caught a bus to Camp Beale in Marysville. Lu was there to meet me, but got assigned to the women’s barracks for the night, while I was in the men’s. I thought, “No way, Jose, that’s not for me.” I went down to the supply room to try to get a pass, but they weren’t being issued. But the sergeant was a sympathetic guy and walked into the backroom while I helped myself to a pass, wink, wink.

The next day, February 7, 1946, I was a civilian again. After I received my discharge papers, we headed for Lu’s parents’ house in Rio Linda. Next to their house, on a small parcel of land they owned, was a tiny house under construction. “Who does that belong to?” I asked.

“Honey, it’s ours,” said Lu. She had mentioned in her letters, the idea of building a little house on her folks’ 10 acre property, but that was all. She drew up the plans on her own, hired a carpenter and started construction. She secured the lumber, nails, plaster and concrete with her father’s help, as he was a farmer and had special purchasing privileges.

The house we called “Magri Manor” had two rooms, a shower and commode. The living room served as our bedroom, with a hideaway bed in the wall. The kitchen had a breakfast nook, and a carport served as out garage. I had an indefinite furlough at McClellan Field, so I decided to help finish the house before going back.

Ma had a big family reunion up in Chico. It had been four long years since the family was all together. With Ernie and Rose, Jody and Helen, and their boy Raymond, Bobby, Ma, Pa Gheller, Lu and me, what a glorious affair it was! Ma put on a spread featuring her homemade ravioli, and pineapple upside down cake.

Inchon harbor, 1945. Photograph by Armando Magri..jpg Inchon harbor, 1945. Photograph by Armando Magri.

Sailing under the Golden Gate Bridge, coming home.jpg
Sailing under the Golden Gate Bridge, coming home

The 1946 Magri Family post-war reunion. Clockwise from top left Helen Magri, Bob Gheller, Lu, Armando, Rose and Ernie Ma.jpg The 1946 Magri Family post-war reunion. Clockwise from top left Helen Magri, Bob Gheller, Lu, Armando, Rose and Ernie Magri, Pa Gheller, Ma, Jody Magri with son Raymond

Magri Manor in Rio Linda, the house that Lu built.jpg
Magri Manor in Rio Linda, the house that Lu built

Armando Magri's first post-war job, finishing Magri Manor, 1946.jpg
Armando Magri's first post-war job, finishing Magri Manor, 1946

[EricOlson]

Chapter 37, Back to Work for Murray and My Last Motorcycle Race
From the Autobiography of Armando Magri

I had guaranteed employment in 1946, at McClellan Field, but Frank Murray wanted me back at the Harley- Davidson dealership, and offered to pay good money. I said I would work for him if he gave me a new 74 cubic inch Harley and a week off in June to go fishing with my buddies. To my surprise, he said “Okay.” This time he put me up front and made me Parts Manager.

In the spring of 1948, my buddies Willie Seadler and Whitey Thompkins kept bugging me about entering the race circuit again. There was a 100-Mile National race coming up at Box Springs, near Riverside. The guys gave me all sorts of reasons to race again, so after a long talk with Murray, I entered that race.

I stripped down the 1946 knucklehead that Murray gave me, which had 16,000 miles on it by then, and did some work on the engine. I found an unpaved county road to practice on. It had been seven years since my last race, so you could say I was rusty.

My friend, Earl Axtel, helped me load the bike onto a borrowed trailer to his panel truck. Then we headed south. We stopped in San Bernardino to visit Harrison Reno’s Harley dealership. I first raced against Harrison at Hollister in 1936. In the following years, we became great friends.

Harrison was also entered in this race. He gave me the keys to his shop, to do engine work or get any parts I might need. He was a great guy. A number of friends came down for the race. The Murrays were there, along with shop mechanic Heck Van Gilder, friends Joe Bianchi, Willie Saedler and Paul Albrect. Lu did not go. She was a bit miffed that I wanted to race again. After surviving my previous racing career, then World War II, Lu wondered why I wanted to take more chances now. She was right, of course.

During the practices at Box Springs, I felt really stiff. My friends watched other racers fly by me like I was standing still. Seven years took a greater toll on my body than I had anticipated. But I kept at it, and after about 40 practice laps, that old feeling came back. I was in the groove again. What a great feeling!

This was a 100-mile race on a sandy 6/10 mile track (166 laps) with hills and turns. One hill was about 30 feet high, and sent everyone airborne while coming over the top. Many bikes were breaking front wheel spokes while landing.

Racing with a new number, 4Z, I will never know, at the start of the race, how 36 motorcycles got through that first lap without any spills. As the race progressed, I got the lead on lap 13, and kept it until lap 24, when Joe Lopez overtook me. I got the lead back in the 34th lap, for two laps, but that was the last time. Five of us, all on American motorcycles, swapped the lead back and forth during these early laps.

Most of the bikes had hand-shifts and foot-clutches, forcing riders to shift 644 times during the race. Foreign bikes, on the other hand, had foot-shifts and hand-clutches; way easier! But the foreign bikes weren’t winning. The American bikes were!

The racing bikes all had bobbed back fenders, which threw sand up in the air in a rooster tail. I had an open area on my back, between my riding breeches and racing jersey, and that damn sand kept flying into the gap. As I raced on, the sand worked its way down my pants, under my shorts and jock strap. As my body shifted positions during the race, the sand kept grinding away.

Around the 100th lap, my brakes went out, so I had to slow down by downshifting. On the last lap, I almost ran out of gas, and had to use the choke while bobbing the bike up and down to get that last bit of petrol and cross the finish line in fourth place. Ironman Ed Kretz won the race. Harrison Reno took second, Ray Tanner got third, I came in fourth, and Joe Lopez got fifth.

Kretz and Reno had to go to the first-aid tent, to get their hands bandaged, because they were raw from all the shifting, and some of the skin had come off. I did better in that department, with just a blood blister. But my butt cheeks each had a raw spot about three inches in diameter, from all that sand.

One fellow I was happy to see afterwards was Joe Hocker, a foreign bike dealer from Sacramento. Before the race, he told me, “I will have a cold beer waiting for you, when you crap out in the tenth lap, Armando.” Joe didn’t have any smart-ass comments after I took fourth.

After the race, we had a huge party at Skip Fordyce’s Harley dealership, then headed for home at 10pm. When we stopped in Fresno for gas, I had a hard time getting out of the truck, as my raw spots were stuck to the seat. Geez, I thought my whole butt was coming off. I had to sleep on my stomach for the next several nights.

All the fellows that ridiculed me, called me “over the hill” and “out of date” had to eat their words. But I wasn’t really interested in reviving my racing career. Lu was pregnant with our first child, and we both thought this would be a good time to retire from racing.

Just as I took fourth in my first national race at Hollister, here I was with a fourth place finish in my last national. It was time to settle down for a slightly less adventurous lifestyle.

Armando Magri, racing with the number 4Z, at the 1948 100-Mile National in Riverside.jpg Armando Magri, racing with the number 4Z, at the 1948 100-Mile National in Riverside

Armando Magri, #4Z, leading Harrison Reno, #25 at the 1948 Riverside 100-Mile National.jpg
Armando Magri, #4Z, leading Harrison Reno, #25

Harrison Reno and Ed Kretz, second and first at Riverside, 1948.jpg
Harrison Reno and Ed Kretz, second and first at Riverside, 1948

Heck Van Gilder, Armando Magri and Earl Axtel, Riverside 100-Mile National, 1948.jpg Heck Van Gilder, Armando Magri and Earl Axtel

The winner's circle at Riverside, 1948, with Lopez, Magri, Kretz, Reno and Tanner..jpg The winner's circle at Riverside, 1948, with Lopez, Magri, Kretz, Reno and Tanner.