My father, PFC George Smail, was born on Nov. 14, 1907 in Reynoldsville, Pennsylvania, the youngest of Sarah and "Newt" Smail’s seven children. I never knew him. He was KIA in the mountainous countryside north of Rome in July 1944 when I was ten months old. What I knew of him came from a bereaved family’s memories, and I yearned to hear the stories about him over and over.

George grew up in a small town in northwest Pennsylvania that was originally settled for its rich farmland and streak of bituminous coal that lured those not afraid of hard work; he resided there for his first 20 years. I was always told about his engaging personality and his love of music, both traits that led to his reputation as an excellent dancer and all around "good guy."

Because employment was nearly impossible to find in his hometown after graduation from high school in 1927, he and several other classmates moved to northeast Ohio where industrial jobs were more plentiful. He remained there "off and on" about fifteen years. At the time he was drafted in 1943, he was a foreman at Mullins Manufacturing Co., a subsidiary of Youngstown Steel, in Warren Ohio.

He and my mother, fellow classmates in high school, were married in 1940. He received notice from the local Draft Board in early August 1943 when he was a few months shy of the age of 36, older than most inductees. I was expected, but didn’t arrive until August 27, so he could claim no living dependents other than my mother. As she recorded in my "baby book:" "Daddy entered the Armed Forces and left for Fort Hayes OH when our baby girl was eight days old."

When I was six weeks old, my mother and I moved back to Pennsylvania to live with my maternal grandmother in that same town where they both grew up, surrounded by George's family and friends. We were to stay until my father returned; we never left as he never returned. Mother returned to teaching elementary school, a career that spanned nearly 40 years; she never remarried after his death.

My father's basic training was at Fort McClellan, Alabama. For a Pennsylvania/Ohio boy, that red clay soil coupled with the warm days/cold nights came as quite a shock. He learned a lot in those 17 weeks as he wrote to my mother nearly every day during that time. And, for a man who admitted that he had never shot a rifle before, there was definitely a lot to learn!

The only picture I have with him was taken when he was home for a 10-day leave in January, 1944. There I sat on my parents' knees, a bright-eyed five-month old.

Although the records at this point in his military career are unclear, we believe that he was shipped overseas at the end of February, 1944 to Northern Africa. (He still did not have a unit assignment at this point, as he was considered an individual infantry replacement).

His first permanent military assignment came in March, 1944, when he was assigned to the 5th Army's 133rd Regiment, Co. A in the 34th Infantry Division (the "Red Bulls"); he was first in encampment areas "in the vicinity of" Naples, first at La Pagieneria Dairy Farm and then at San Giorgio, according to the Co. A "Morning Reports." For the next four months, he fought bravely with this unit, spending two months at Anzio until the breakout, then moving north around Rome, further north to Cecina, and finally inland to the densely forested area near Castellina Marittima/Pastina, where he was KIA by a barrage of artillery fire laid down by the retreating Germans.

In September, 2016, I travelled with my older son and a young Italian man as our translator and guide on a 900-mile journey to retrace my father’s steps as an infantryman in Italy. We began in Naples, north to San Pietro Infine, Cassino, Anzio, Grosseto, Follonica, Cecina, then turned eastward toward Riparbella.

With my son's prowess in using modern technology to match the coordinates listed on the U.S. Army's report on his death and burial, we believe we found the exact site where he was KIA on 13 Jul 1944 in the hills north of Castellina Marittima. (This site was confirmed by additional research performed by staff at the ISGREC (Historical Institute for the Resistance) in Grosseto.) We believe we also found the now barren site of the temporary cemetery in Follonica where he was buried from 1944 to 1949, when the cemetery was closed. His remains were repatriated to his hometown in Pennsylvania where my mother and I, and other members of his family, lived.

I cannot adequately describe the range of emotions this trip aroused in me: gratitude, pride, grief, sadness, appreciation, love. If the journey didn't provide answers to all the questions I had before we started, it certainly brought a form of closure I had not experienced before.

Although I never knew my father, I learned to appreciate his good humor, caring nature and love for his family through the many letters he had written home. After re-reading that correspondence and making the trip to Italy, I have found a peace I had never had before. Rest in Peace, all who sacrificed.