V-Mail, dated June 10, 1944

"My Dear Sweet Wife and Sons: The wind, at present here, is blowing quite freely, but that won't be enough to discourage me or cause me to wait until later to write. One never knows when something else will, but here goes for a few lines. This being the 10th of the month, I'm glad that I have the opportunity to recall to you the same day of February, 1942. That sure was one happy day for us, eh? That makes it 28 months. I sure hope that I can get to see you before we celebrate our 36th month."

My father was a career soldier, joining the Army at age 21, long before the war had begun. He had spent the following 6 years traveling across the United States for the Army, spending much more time away from home than at home.

Father was raised in the coal mining town of Valley View, Pennsylvania and joined the Army as an alternative to working in the cold, dark, and dangerous coal mines that would have surely been his fate had he stayed at home. He was the oldest of 7 brothers and sisters. Most of his time stateside was in the Signal Corps and he was an avid short wave radioman, often spending most of the night sending and receiving Morse code across the country and the world. He would often get the news before it was in print or even on the radio. However, in 1943 he was given an opportunity to go to OCS to become an officer in a combat engineering group, part of the 88th Division that would be leaving for assignment and likely combat in Europe. This division was the first composed of all draftees and his three years experience as an instructor for the Ohio National Guard made him an ideal candidate to join these green troops. Unfortunately he started OCS a little late to leave stateside with them but met up with them shortly after their arrival in Naples in early January of 1944. He arrived there before they did, enjoying the "hospitality" of another division for a week or two.

He had been married to my mother less than two years when he left my brother and her for Europe. I was not born until April. There are several remaining letters and V-Mails reporting my birth and his excitement of having another son, but he did not try to hide his or my mother's disappointment of not having a daughter. My first picture that he received about 10 days after my birth still exists, complete with my hand and foot prints on the back.

The 88th saw no action in Africa and were still untried when my father joined them in Italy. It would not stay that way for long. They quickly became embroiled in the defense of Castllone on Feb. 27, 1944. For the next 18 months the 88th would slog their way north to Germany in the liberation of Europe. My father would not complete the journey with his comrades.

The relationship between the Infantry, the Armor, and the Combat Engineers was one of team work and respect. Each had to do their jobs for the survival of the others. Often times the Engineers had to resort to defending themselves instead of building roads, bridges, or air strips. Neither the Infantry nor the Armor could proceed without the removal of the tens of thousands of mines that the German Army had left behind to protect their withdrawal.

As the Germans withdrew, the command post must be moved ever forward. It was during the quest for a new command post that on July 15, in a four story concrete structure in the village of Legoli, Italy my father was killed. Colonel Cochrane, CO for the 350th Infantry, was reporting from the newly chosen location of the forward command post to his XO, James Fry (unknown rank), when the shell exploded. Fry heard an extremely load noise on the radio and asked Cochrane what it was. Cochrane had been slightly wounded and confirmed that the shell had exploded and that there was wounded. With him was my father's CO, Captain Paul Carrigg who was killed by the artillery shell that had came through the roof. It had a delayed fuse so that it would detonate inside the structure rather than on it. My father was among the wounded and some reports have it that he died the next day. He was 29 years old.

It was not until after the war that my mother was even told where he was buried, only that he "could be a few hundred miles north of Rome." She was later notified that he had been interred at a cemetery in Fallonica, Italy. After 4 years of frustration for her, my father was returned home to be reinterred in the family plot on Nov. 22, 1948. This was a controversial thing to do then. Many thought that they should have been left "where they fell." None of his family would attend the services - not his mother, father, nor any of his 7 brothers or sisters. We have been self-exiled from them for the most part. My brother and I have had limited contact with only one aunt and one uncle and only a handful of the dozens of cousins. Although the anger has long been gone, the pain remains.

I have learned more about my father in the last few years than I had known about him from my family. We were told not to ask too many questions about him. It "made others uncomfortable and was impolite." Unfortunately I was 50 years old when I decided to start asking the questions.

At AWON we dedicate these pages to his memory and those of his comrades, living and dead, who did not want us to spend our lives wondering, "what if he . . . ."