Twenty three year-old Second Lieutenant George Philip Gaffney, Jr. was a fighter pilot who went missing in his P47 on March 11, 1944 in the jungles of the Finesterre Mountains of New Guinea, leaving a young widow and me, his unborn, fatherless child.

My father was born on February 8, 1921 in Madison, Wisconsin. His parents were Edna Oien, who came from a Norwegian family in nearby Lodi and George Sr., whose Irish family homesteaded in the rolling green hills near Madison in 1853. My father was an only son with three younger sisters, Janet, Marian and Joanne. He graduated from West High School in 1939. While attending the University of Wisconsin he met my mother, Ruth Christensen, who was attending beauty school in Madison.

In March, 1942 he enlisted in the Army Air Corps in Milwaukee. He took Primary Flight training in Tulsa, OK; Basic in Winfield, KS and was promoted to 2nd Lt with Class 43G from Eagle Pass, TX on July 29, 1943. He immediately went to Chicago, where my mother was working, and proposed. Together they went to Tampa FL, where they were married on Friday the 13th of August. Two days later they were sent to Thomasville, GA and shortly after to Tallahassee, FL where my father was assigned to a fighter pilot pool. As he expected to be shipped out any day, my mother returned to her family in Wisconsin early in November. She was already experiencing morning sickness. She remembers her last glimpse of my father as the train pulled away and he waved good-bye as he turned to leave. She says he looked so handsome in his brand new raincoat.

On December 12th he was shipped out to San Francisco, sent to Australia and arrived in Pt. Moresby, New Guinea on Christmas Eve. Bob Rouse, who was with him, told me there had been a fight in the mess hall that night and as a result, they got no dinner! They were both assigned to the 35th Fighter Group, 41st Fighter Squadron at Nadzab the next day. From January 29th to February 15th, 1944 my father was in hospital in Mackay, Australia recovering from malaria. By the time he rejoined his squadron, they had moved up to Gusap along the Ramu River. According to squadron records, he flew between seven and twelve missions prior to the 11th of March, when he would fly no more.

My father's last mission on the morning of 11 March was to Boram airfield at Wewak on the northwestern coast of New Guinea. This Japanese stronghold had been a target for several months as the Allied forces moved toward the Philippines. My father became separated from his group during a dogfight and landed at Saidor to refuel. He reported downing an enemy plane, requested fuel and asked to have his plane checked for damage. When none was found, he took off at 2:50 pm for his base at Gusap, at 20 minute flight over the Finesterre Mts. Members of his squadron searched for him for three days. Fifty-four years later his wreck and remains would be found at 8000' on a direct path to Gusap. 'Finesterre' translated from the French means 'the end of the earth'. That is where I went to find him, to the end of the earth.

Destined to be George Gaffney's only child, I was born on June 22nd, one-hundred and three days after he disappeared. It was the day President Franklin D. Roosevelt signed the GI Bill into law which enabled me, a war orphan, to go to college.

My father's family and childhood friends describe him as a warm, thoughtful young man with a legendary wit. Mom tells me he was pensive, affectionate, and had a powerful sense of justice. He adored his mother, loved to dance and had a close group of friends known as the "gang of twelve." He loved Ravel's Bolero, Dostoevsky, the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam and potato pancakes. He was extremely proud to be a pilot and planned to return to the University of Wisconsin to attend law school after the war. It would be his grandchildren who would fulfill his dreams: Lisa Rae graduated from the UW in 1986 and David Philip from the UW Law School in 1993.

On June 26, 1998 my father's remains were found with his wrecked P47 by Alfred Hagen, an American businessman. The discovery was made near where I had flown in 1995 calling out from my heart, "Daddy, where are you?"

After more than fifty-four years, my father has been returned to his country and the family that loved him and continued to speak his name. A service to celebrate his life and spirit was held on June 5, 1999 at St. Raphael's Cathedral, where my father was baptized, served as an altar boy and where I too was baptized, in his memory. He was laid to rest in Arlington National Cemetery on June 9, 1999, with full Military Honors.

He is not forgotten, my father.