Mathew Juan of Sacaton

Mathew B. Juan of Sacaton, the first Arizonan and the first American Indian to die for his country in the World War. His home was the desert reservation along the Gila River.

The first Arizona soldier and the first American Indian to be killed in action during the World War was Mathew B. Juan of Sacaton, a Pima. It was learned at the Indian Agency at Sacaton that he was a member of Co. K, 28th Infantry, and was killed in action during the battle of Cantigny, May 28, 1918. His brother, residing on the outskirts of the reservation told us his story.

Antonio B. Juan, 71 year old patriarch of the Pima tribe, is the brother, and his rugged features glowed with pride at the mention of his brother's name, Mathew B. Juan. Of robust stature, this white-haired, venerable Indian is still in vigorous health, and is possessed of an alert mind, a keen intellect, and remarkable facility of speech. He attributes these to his long years of missionary activity as Presbyterian preacher of his tribe, assistant to the ordained minister.

"Mathew," he relates, "was born right here at San Tan," (a portion of the reservation), and he pointed to a nearby hill studded with age-old desert sentinels, the giant saguaro cacti. "He was the youngest of seven, six boys and one girl. All the others are gone now, and I am the only survivor.

"Mathew spent his boyhood helping our parents, Joseph Juan and Mary Juan, in tilling the soil and raising the corn and wheat which formed the family's staple sustenance. He went to school at Sacaton about five years, and then attended Sherman Institute at Riverside, California, where he specialized in farming. When he returned to the reservation he worked at the experimental farm about three years.

"Mathew was different from the usual conception of the Indian. He was quick, alert, and active. At Sherman Institute he starred in baseball, and he continued this at Sacaton, establishing a fine record both as a pitcher and firstbaseman, against teams from Phoenix, Tucson and Florence. He could throw a ball farther than any man on the team, and when he was at bat the opposing fielders played deep, to be ready for the long hits for which he was noted.

"But baseball was not his only athletic pastime. Broad shouldered, almost six feet tall, and weighing around 185 pounds, he won tribal recognition as a good swimmer, runner and jumper, and usually carried away the honors in competition. His chief delight was performing in the annual Sacaton rodeo. He was a skilled horseman and with his white horse won acclaim at every appearance. His specialty was calfroping, in which he won prizes regularly."

From this description it was evident that life for Mathew B. Juan had assumed a regular pattern; work at the experimental station; plowing and planting the fields surrounding the family ki, swimming, whenever the Gila river had sufficient water; hunting jackrabbits and cottontails; attending Sunday worship (for was not his brother Antonio the tribal preacher?); and playing his beloved baseball. Before long he would establish his own ki with a certain Pima maiden, jointly to share the fullness of life. But Fate decreed otherwise.

One day, in 1916, Mathew went to Phoenix to see a circus. He was impressed as never in his life. The animals; the glitter; the stirring band music; the marvelous horsemanship displayed; the graceful yet hazardous performances of the athletes. There was action glamour life! Strange emotions assailed the young Indian, and there was born the urge to be a part of this activity, to travel with the circus. He approached the head man, stated his desire, was questioned, and accepted. For almost a year Mathew B. Juan traveled throughout the southwest with the circus, when Fate again changed the pattern of his life.

The World War was in progress. A martial air pervaded all activity. Soldiers were in evidence everywhere. Troops were going overseas, to distant places, to adventure. Again there was a mysterious stirring in Mathew's breast. A post card from San Antonio to his brother Antonio contained the brief message, "I have joined the Army."

Swiftly one event followed another, and all too soon came the end. The training of the recruit was intensive, but in less than three months his company was ordered to Rhode Island and soon embarked for the turmoil abroad. In midocean the ship was torpedoed. Mathew jumped into a lifeboat with others and was picked up by a rescue ship. On to France.

NOVEMBER, 1941 Disembarkation, into a new world of wonders. But there was no time to gaze and marvel. He was there for a purpose, and relentlessly the urge was onward. A few days here; a few weeks of intensified preparation further for-ward, and then the Front; the great battle of Cantigny; the war god's hideous cry as he pointed his bloody finger to the chest of the simple "savage" from the far-off Arizona desert; the hoarse, gloating laugh of Mars as a bullet found its mark, tore through the bronzed flesh, and stilled the heart of Mathew B. Juan. "Killed in action, May 28, 1918."

He was buried with full military honors in one of the beautiful cemeteries of France which by purchase of the United States government have now become American soil. But he was not to slumber there forever. When the government returned the bodies of those heroes whose survivors wanted them buried in this country, his remains too were brought back to his native land, to be interred at Sacaton, only a few miles from where he was born.

There he sleeps, but not in the little cemetery of the reservation. His grave is the last of five in the churchyard of the Presbyterian church, five graves permitted in that hallowed ground for reasons of sentiment and honor.

By a curious turn of Fate another soldier awaits the reveille to come in the grave adjoining Mathew Juan's, Colonel James Patton Perkins, Adjutant of the 19th Infantry, Georgia Volunteers, C. S. A., who died in Sweetwater, Ariz., in June, 1896.

A simple headstone, such as is provided by the government for all soldiers and sailors, marks the grave of Mathew Juan, but at a road junction of the reservation stands a more pretentious monument erected in his honor. It is simply inscribed:

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