The first time I interviewed Lovey Miles James was at her home in Ewa Beach. Lovey sat cross-legged on the family room couch. She had on running shorts and a tank top. Her skin was tanned, her muscles taut, her long dark hair was pulled back in a pony tail, and her nails were perfectly manicured. Lovey was 80 years old.
The first thing she told me about herself was that she was one of ten girls. “My sisters and I grew up on Monte Street in Kalihi,” she said. “Everyone in the neighborhood called us ‘The Miles Girls,’ and I bet they still remember us.”
After meeting Lovey a few more times, I was convinced that anyone who met her (and probably her sisters) would not ever forget her. Before I could ask a question, Lovey schooled me on the unsung heroes of December 7, 1941.
“The day Pearl Harbor was bombed I was at my sister Genieve’s house in Pacific Heights. We were supposed to be at Mass, but her husband was at work, and the two of us just sat around and goofed off.”
Lovey said, “Two of my brothers-in-law were bus drivers—Geneivee’s husband, Sully (Solomon Maialoha) and my sister Rena’s husband, Roger (Roger Kanealii).” She straightened her back and pushed her eyeglasses up her nose. “I’ll tell you who doesn’t get any credit for what they did on that day—the bus drivers.” Her tone was emphatic “My brother-in-law Sully just got home from the night shift, when the war started and there was an announcement for all HRT drivers to get back to work. He left for a twelve-hour shift and my sister didn’t know where he was or if he was safe.
“On the day of the attack both Roger and Sully were working. In the middle of the attack they were hauling servicemen from base to base, from downtown to bases and they still kept their regular passenger routes going. They worked twelve-hour shifts, sometimes longer. They did it all, they helped evacuate military families from the bases and they drove in blackout conditions and they’ve never been recognized for what they did.” Lovey was determined to right that wrong.
While it is true, that the efforts of the Honolulu Rapid Transit (HRT) bus drivers have not been greatly celebrated, they were immediately recognized by U.S. Army General Thomas Green. During the first few days of the war, General Green visited the HRT headquarters and praised the drivers for what they did. He asked the drivers not to enlist in the military service because their “mission in Hawaii was essential.” He told them they were valuable as trained emergency drivers who knew Oahu and exempted them from the draft.
I asked Lovey about the “War Owl” buses. I read about them and pictured the buses’ headlights with cardboard hooded “eyebrows,” . Love knew exactly what I was referring to. “Right,” she said. “They had shades on the headlights, but before that they painted the lights with dark blue paint. But the heat of the bulbs cracked the paint, so they made little shades.
“Everyone rode the buses during the war,” Lovey said. “They were always packed. There was no other way to get around. Hardly any service men had cars, there were rations on gas and rubber rationing, and cars were being brought in for the mainland. The shipping lines were bringing troops and weapons. You couldn’t even get a new refridgerator for the first year. But, back the buses,” Lovey said and pointed her finger.
“When I went to work, I rode the bus to Ford Island. It dropped me off at the Pearl Harbor gate, then I walked to the landing to catch the ferry. Before I went to work I went to Roosevelt High School and I took the bus to King and Piikoi Street where I transferred. Roosevelt was an English standard school,” Lovey explained.
(During that period in Hawaii, some schools were designated as “English Standard.” Students applied to these schools and to be accepted they had to pass written and oral examinations demonstrating a proficiency in English. Although, the system was officially abandoned in 1940, the English standard class wasn’t abolished at Roosevelt until 1960.)
“Only proper English was spoken.” She repeated that fact several times. I asked if she worked during the pineapple fields since many high school students volunteered to do that one or two days a week during the early years of the war as part of their patriotic effort.
“I wasn’t having any of that.” She laughed. “I worked inside! Half of the school cafeteria and all of the football field was used by the Medical Corps. I volunteered with them making gas masks for children. I glued foam around the face of the mask to make a better fit for kids.” Lovey took off her glasses and demonstrated by cupping her hands around her face from her chin and pressing her hands so hard, when she pulled her hands away, she left a red impression on her skin. “It had to be a tight fit. If not the gas could leak in. But after a year, I left Roosevelt and went to work. Everyone was encouraged to take a civil defense jobs and they were paying good money. I took a job at Pearl Harbor at Procurement and Purchasing. Because the way the military contract cycle ran, during July it was dead and there was nothing for us to do. That’s when they sent me to the Aviation Supply Center at Ford Island. The Navy was moving planes from Ford Island to Kaneohe Air Station. (During World War II, Kaneohe Marine Corps Base was a Navy Air Station.) I helped write up the invoices for millions of parts of planes—millions,” she repeated. “In government work that means you do things in triplicate twice over. That was in early 1943. Then I relieved the Supply Officer’s secretary because she was on maternity leave. One of the requirements to be a secretary was to take shorthand. When I was in school, my teacher told me I would never pass stenography because I was left-handed, but I got the job and the Navy Captain I worked for used a Dictaphone machine.”
When I asked Lovey where on Ford Island her office was, she reminisced about the facilities—the pool, the tennis courts and cafeteria—and the buildings that are no longer there—long white clapboard buildings built on stilts and wooden walkways covered that connected them. She told me she had photos she could show me during a visit at her house, and we arranged the next meeting.
As soon as I walked in Lovey’s house, the mystery her youthful appearance was solved. She had a Bow-flex fitness machine and a gym-quality treadmill. “So, this is your secret,” I said.
“That and Oil of Olay,” she said. “Oil of Olay, everyday.” She smiled. “Some people think I’m part Portuguese because my skin is so good, but I’m not. I’m Hawaiian and Caucasian.” Lovey explained her heritage to me. She walked me around her living room as if she were a museum docent, explaining who each person was in the photographs, oil paintings and award plaques that dotted the walls and bookcases. There was a photograph of the Blue Angels Navy precision flight team inscribed to her husband; there were Christmas portraits of grandchildren, a portrait of her son in his Navy uniform, informal photographs taken of family gatherings.
She picked up a photo of an older couple. “This is my sister and her husband, Sully, the bus driver.” Then she showed me a photo of another sister. “She was a member of the Flying Squadron during the war.”
(The Flying Squadron was an elite volunteer unit of young women, under the auspices of the USO. It was initiated by Peggy Johnson, a former Arthur Murray dance instructor. Johnson joined the USO on the mainland and her first assignment in Hawaii was to find 100 girls for a USO dance. She had a week to do it.
Johnson had the names of 49 girls, but 29 were evacuated. She did manage to get girls for the dance, but the next week she had to come up with 100 again—that’s when she came up with the idea of a club to keep a constant source of USO volunteers available. She decided it would be an elite club which girls would want to join it, it would have by-laws and special privileges and Peggy solicited invitations among girls on island. She visited their homes, talked to their parents and urged parents to attend some of the affairs. “I had to convince the family that the main task of the Flying Squadron was one of patriotism and hospitality. . . . I wanted the parents to know that this was to be a group of young girls imbued with a notion that they were going to help win the war by jitter-bugging with our young fighting men. They were to be lady-like and business-like,” Johnson said. At its peak there were 350 “Squadronettes” divided into 40 squads. Twelve to 15 dances were put on each month, adding up to 156 dances per year. Johnson worked hard at building themes around each dance to make sure her volunteers didn’t get bored. There was a Valentine Party at the sub base, an Anniversary Dance, an Easter Hat Parade, a Hellzapoppin’ Party, a Barn Dance and the Cup Dance when Squadronettes who had served a full-year were awarded their bracelets and had their names engraved in a sterling cup presented by the Fleet Recreation Department of the Navy.
The Flying Squardon put on dances for both enlisted and officers. The only restriction was that “colored troops would not be included in the dances given by the Flying Squadron.”
“Did she have a bracelet?” I asked. ““Bracelet and wings,” she answered. “It was very prestigious,” Lovey explained. “All girls had their background checked. They investigated the whole family.”
I asked Lovey if she was considered joining the Flying Squardron. “No,” she said, “I went to the USO dances at the Maluhia and I helped my father out quite a bit at the CYO downtown.”
Lovey’s story will be continued in the next column.
