My father was born on April 29, 1916, in Utica, New York, the third of six children born to David M. and Mary Ann (Gaffney) Phelan. He attended the Utica Free Academy high school and after graduating worked at a few jobs before joining the Utica Police Department as a patrolman in 1939. He married my mother, Mary E. Leddy, on April 14, 1941. They had known one another in high school, but did not become sweethearts until some years later. I was the only child born of this brief union.

One of three brothers to enter the service during the war, my father was drafted into the U.S. Army in January of 1944. He completed his basic training at Camp Croft, SC. Afterwards, he was shipped to Camp Upton on Long Island, NY, then to England, and landed in France on July 16. He served as a mortar gunner in a front-line unit of Gen. Patton's 3rd Army as the 3rd made its "mad rush" across France. He had been awarded the Expert Combat Infantryman's badge. On November 10, at a small village named Vigny near the city of Metz, his platoon had stopped to regroup. He and three other soldiers were standing about 10 yards from their commanding lieutenant when a shell landed and exploded nearby, killing my father and the other three soldiers instantly and wounding the lieutenant. The shell made no characteristic sound as it approached. He was 28 when he died.

My Dad was buried in France initially, but later his remains were returned home and buried with other family members in Mt. Olivet Cemetery near his hometown of Utica. My mother received two very nice letters, one from his commander, Lt. David Brooks, and the other from a buddy in Company "E" named Ben LaGrassa, explaining the circumstances of his death as best they could. As he was the only member of the Utica Police Department to be killed in the war, the John W. Phelan Police and Fire American Legion Post was named in his memory.

I was three months old when my Dad died. We never had a chance to meet. We lived with my Dad's parents at the time. I have several pictures of him and I know he received some snapshots of me. My family has always been glad to answer any questions I might have about him. Where I have really come to know him, though, is through a collection of almost 200 beautifully written letters that he sent, mostly to my mother, but also to other family members and friends. I treasure these letters, for through them he has become a real person to me and is no longer just a photograph. He was a kind, outgoing, well-liked, sentimental guy with a wonderful sense of humor. He loved to have a good time and take my mother out dancing.

The letters speak of many things. The beauty of the French countryside and the occasional "plundered" bottle of French wine. An action he describes as the "hottest days of my life." The "awful empty, all gone feeling" at missing his "darling wife," family, and home so badly. His dreams of returning home to a "beautifully peaceful, normal life" and of raising a family. After receiving several letters filled with compliments, he writes "If you keep saying such nice things to me, I may need a larger size hat. We're not encouraged to be swell headed here, not by a damn sight." After hearing the news that he had become a "papa," he says "You can imagine my state of mind as in a manner of speaking, I walked the waiting room floor for one solid month." He was so proud to learn that I had been named after him.

My Dad's absence has left a huge void in my life and in my mother's life. Hardly a day goes by that I do not think of him. Throughout my life I have longed to meet him, if only just one time. Maybe I will have that chance in the next life. I often wonder what my life would have been like had he lived. My mother and father wrote to one another almost every day. Left with a baby to raise and having lost both her parents shortly before her husband, my mother found the inner strength to go on. Growing up, I remember that she always tried to fill in as both a mom and a dad, even trying to teach me how to play baseball. She has never remarried.

My Dad's brother, Vincent R. Phelan, served as an Ensign in the U.S. Navy during the war. His other brother, 2Lt. Edward Lawrence "Larry" Phelan, served in the U.S. Army Air Corps as a flight engineer on a B-29 bomber. On December 3, 1944, his plane was lost in the Pacific as it was returning to its Saipan base from its fourth bombing mission over Japan. The B-29 formation was attacked by enemy planes. Neither his plane nor the remains of the crewmembers were ever found. He was listed as Missing in Action. He was 24 and died less than a month after my father. He had enlisted while studying engineering at the University of Detroit. He completed his basic training in Boca Raton, FL, was commissioned a second lieutenant at the Army Air Forces Training Command, Yale University, and received his wings at Lowery Field, Denver. He left for overseas on October 16. Larry was outgoing and energetic, always popular, a member of numerous clubs and organizations, and so proud to wear his uniform. He had a sweetheart whom he met while training on the B-29 at Boeing Aircraft in Seattle. They had put off any plans for marriage because he felt his future was so uncertain.

I do not know if my father's friend, Ben LaGrassa, survived the war. I would love to talk with him.

To my Dad, to my Uncles, and to All who have served our country, You Are Not Forgotten! For it is through your selfless sacrifices that we are able to enjoy our precious freedoms. And thanks to AWON for its warmth and support and for its very special website that allows us to share our fathers' stories.