To the average American, the passing of Robert L. Howard went unnoticed but for the family and friends who survived him.  Yet, one of the most decorated soldiers of the Vietnam War compelled the news media to devote a brief commentary to him.  So, who was this man?

Born on July 11, 1939, at the age of 17, the Opelika, Alabama native enlisted in the U.S. Army, in Montgomery, Alabama.  The year was 1956.  By the time Howard had arrived in Vietnam, he had risen through the ranks, attaining status as a Staff Sergeant assigned to the highly classified Military Assistance Command-Studies and Observation Group.

During his brief tour of duty spanning 13 months between 1967 and 1968, he was nominated for the Medal of Honor on no less than three separate occasions.  The first two nominations had to be downgraded to the Distinguished Service Cross, due to the covert nature of the operations in which he was engaged.

On December 30, 1968 in Cambodia, Howard, who by then had become a Sergeant First Class, was second in command of a platoon-sized force.  While searching through the steaming jungle for a missing American soldier named Robert Scherdin, Howard put his life on the line. Outnumbered and wounded so badly by grenade blasts that was unable to walk, he crawled tenaciously through a hail of fire to drag his wounded platoon leader to safety.  Compounding this act of supreme bravery, he insisted upon being the last man to board the helicopter, which evacuated them to a medical facility.  For this action, he was awarded the Medal of Honor.

During those thirteen months in Vietnam, Howard was wounded no less than fourteen times.  Eight Purple Hearts as well as numerous other honors, including the Silver Star and other medals bearing Oak Leaf Clusters, distinguished his uncommon valor.

In 1971, in a private ceremony that took place in The White House, President Richard M. Nixon bestowed the Medal of Honor upon Lieutenant Howard and six other recipients.  Nixon’s motivation for the privacy was his wish that his policies concerning the Vietnam War not be misinterpreted as an attempt to garner sympathy among the general public for the conflict.  Indeed, it was Nixon who ultimately put an end to this very long and bloody battle.

Colonel Robert L. Howard retired after a 36-year career with the Army career.  Upon his retirement, he chose to continue to serve his country by working for The Department of Veteran Affairs. A constant supporter of veterans’ needs who always put his words into action, Howard made several tours of Iraq, to provide his insight on warfare to the men in the field.

On December 23, 2009, America lost another brave son.  Robert L. Howard is survived and remembered by his three children and four grandchildren.  While in Basic Training at Fort Benning, Georgia, his son Robert Junior proclaimed, “I admire [my father] greatly for everything he has done.  My dad is a hero.”  Another family member allowed, “He was a soldier’s soldier, always looking out for his men.”

Colonel Robert L. Howard rests in Arlington National Cemetery, along with the many war heroes who preceded him. 

As we search desperately for leadership in this rapidly changing, rather daunting world, what kind of a person must we seek?   What job description must we write for such a position?   As one who loves his country fiercely, I believe that most of us would consider a true patriot a leader.  The term “patriot” conveys not only a genuine love of country and the willingness to protect it no matter the cost, but a strong sense of integrity as well.  For without integrity, power, after all, is often perverted.

This, then, is the story about a true patriot and leader.  His name was John Basilone. Although he is a fallen hero, the world will soon be privy to his astounding bravery and patriotism via a ten-part series to bow under the auspices of HBO Films.

Born to Italian parents as one of ten children, John entered the world in Buffalo, New York on November 4, 1916.  He grew up in Raritan, New Jersey and attended St. Bernard Parochial School.  At the age of 18, in 1934, he enlisted in the United States Army and served in the Philippine Islands.  During his three-year enlistment, he not only functioned as a soldier but gained expertise as a boxer, winning championships within the military.  When his tour of duty ended, he returned home and secured humble but industrious employment as a truck driver in Reisterstown, Maryland.

But John’s heart belonged to his country, not to the road.  In July of 1940, the 24-year-old John enlisted in the United States Marine Corp in Baltimore, Maryland.  He trained at the Marine Corp base in Quantico as well as the Marine Corp Recruit Depot at Parris Island and Camp Lejeune, which was then known as New River.

Gunnery Sergeant John Basilone saw service at Guantanamo Bay before being sent to the Solomon Islands, where his mates nicknamed him “Manila John.”  For the bravery he demonstrated unflaggingly with the 1st Battalion, 7^th Marines, 1^st Marine Division at the Battle of Guadalcanal, he was awarded the Medal of Honor.  Presented by Congress in toto and by President Franklin D. Roosevelt in person, the accolade that he received along with the medal tells the tale of John’s profound bravery:

For extraordinary heroism and conspicuous gallantry in action against enemy Japanese forces, above and beyond the call of duty, while serving with the 1^st Battalion, 7^th Marines, 1^st Marine Division in the Lunga Area, Guadalcanal, Solomon Islands on the 24 and 25 October 1942. While the enemy was hammering away at the Marine defensive positions, Sgt. Basilone, in charge of two sections of heavy machine guns, fought valiantly to check the savage and determined assault.  In the fierce frontal attack with Japanese blasting his guns with grenade and mortar fire, one of Sgt. Basilone’s sections, with its gun crews, was put out of action, leaving only two men to carry on.  Moving an extra gun into position, he placed it in action, then under continual fire, repaired another and personally manned it, gallantly holding his line until replacements arrived. A little later, with ammunition critically low and the supply lines cut off, Sgt. Basilone, at great risk to his life and in the face of continued enemy attack, battled his way though hostile lines with urgently needed shells for his gunners, thereby contributing in large measure to the virtual annihilation of a Japanese regiment.  His great personal valor and courageous initiative were in keeping with the highest traditions of the U.S. Naval Service.

As Medal of Honor recipients are generally not allowed to return to combat, John was then assigned to War Bond tours.  After the tour, he was stationed at Camp Pendleton, where he met and married Sgt. Lena Mae Riggi.  Lena, also of Italian descent, was part of the Marine Corp Women’s Reserve.  In Oceanside, on July 10, 1944, John and Lena were happily wed in at St. Mary’s Church.  A joyous reception followed at the Carlsbad Hotel, and the couple journeyed to Portland, to honeymoon quietly at her parents’ farm.

But John’s military days were not over.  At his request, he returned to the Pacific Theater with the 27^th Marine Regiment, 5^th Marine Division, to assist in a key battle: the invasion of Iwo Jima.  On Red Beach II, John and his platoon were pinned down by enemy gunfire. With the same fire in his belly and love of his country that had earned him the Medal of Honor, he then singlehandedly destroyed an enemy blockhouse, a coup that allowed his unit to capture a strategic airfield.  Minutes later, America lost another brave son when an enemy shell claimed John’s life.

For his actions at Iwo Jima, the President of the United States awarded the Navy Cross to John posthumously. Gunnery Sergeant John Basilone was laid to rest in Arlington National Cemetery.  Because of his unwavering devotion to duty and his love for his country, John became the sole Marine who served in World War II to be awarded all three of our nation’s highest military honors: the Medal of Honor, the Navy Cross, and the Purple Heart.

In 2007, it was announced that Basilone’s deeds, together with Robert Leckie’s memoirs, Helmet for my Pillow and Eugene B. Sledge’s book, With the Old Breed, would serve as the basis for the successor to HBO’s Band of Brothers.  This ten-part series, whose trailers promise a moving and accurate account of the war, will be called The Pacific.  Hopefully, we will take the time to witness this series.  As America seeks the leadership our country now needs, men like John Basilone have already set the standard.

Recently, I had received e-mail about the passing of an American hero.  As I had never heard his name before, and as his story was so remarkable, I decided to conduct a little research as to the story’s veracity.  In so doing, I discovered an unsung hero whose gallant exploits simply must be shared.

I’ll begin by relaying the e-mail:

Freeman is Coming!

You’re a 19-year-old kid, and critically wounded in the jungles of Ia Drang Valley at Landing Zone X-ray on November 14, 1965,Vietnam.

Your infantry battalion is outnumbered 8 to 1, and the enemy fire is so intense, your company Commander has ordered the Medi-Vac helicopters to stop coming in.  You’re listening to enemy gunfire and you know you’re not getting out.

You’re family is halfway around the world, 12000 miles away and you’ll never see them again.  As you fade in and out, you know this is the day.

Then, over the sound of gunfire, you hear the sound of a helicopter. You look up and see approaching an unarmed Huey, with no Medi-Vac markings on it.

It’s Ed Freeman and he’s coming to pick you up.  He’s not a Medi-Vac and it’s not his job, but he’s coming anyway.

As he lands amidst the murderous gunfire, they load you and 3 other guys [onto the chopper], and then he flies you up and away through enemy fire to the doctors and nurses. He returns 14 more times to evacuate 30 more men who would have never made it out that day.

When I read this story, I could not help but choke up and say a prayer for this man.  Ed Freeman, whose nickname was “Too Tall” served his country in three wars:  World War II, Korea, and Vietnam.

Born in Neely, Perry County, Mississippi, Ed was the sixth of nine children, and actually grew up in the nearby town of McLain.  He was a graduate of that burg’s Washington High School.  During World War II, Ed served in the U.S. Army, progressing through the ranks via his courage and leadership.  By the time for him to serve in the Korean War, he had achieved the rank of Master Sergeant.  Although he was assigned to the Army Corp of Engineers, he fought as infantry and received a battlefield commission at the battle of Pork Chop Hill.

This commission made him eligible to become a pilot, thereby fulfilling a small part of his childhood dream; Ed had always wanted to fly.  Because he was 6′4″, the military had to disqualify him from flying.  Ed traded a potential pilot’s license for his nickname, which stuck with him throughout the rest of his life.  In 1955, the Army eased the height restrictions for pilots, enabling Ed to attend Flight School.  With the training that he mastered there, he became a top-notch pilot of airplanes and helicopters.

In 1965, Ed Freeman, then a Captain, drew an assignment as second-in-command of a sixteen-craft unit: Company A 229^th Assault Helicopter Battalion, 1^st Cavalry Division (Airmobile).  On November 14^th of that same year, Freeman and his unit transported a battalion of American soldiers into the Ia Drang Valley in Vietnam. Arriving back at their base, they learned that the troops they’d transported were under attack and taking heavy casualties. At this point, Ed and his commander, Major Bruce Crandall, volunteered to fly unarmed light helicopters to rescue the wounded and carry water and ammunition to the beleaguered troops.  Those who watched Ed’s chopper brave enemy fire for their benefit, before the copter landed and as it took off, must have thought they were seeing a mirage that day; that is how bleak their situation was. Perhaps when they were aboard, they dreamed that an angel had rescued them.  But it was only Ed, aided by his commander, putting his life on the line for his fellow soldiers.

In 1966, Freeman was sent home; a year later, he retired from the military.  With his wife Barbara, he settled in Treasure Valley, Idaho.  Ed continued to fly, as he loved to, and in another capacity, he continued to serve the U.S. government.  He used his skills to track and conduct aerial censuses of wild horses for the U.S. Department of the Interior.  He retired in 1991.

For his actions in Vietnam, Captain Freeman’s commanding officer nominated him for the Medal of Honor.  As a result of a deadline then in place for this particular tribute, he was awarded The Distinguished Flying Cross instead. His nomination for Medal of Honor languished until 1995, when the deadline was eliminated.  Nearly six years later, President George W. Bush presented the Medal of Honor to him on July 16, 2001. After Ed’s death, in March of 2009, the Post Office in his hometown McLain, Mississippi was renamed in his honor, The Major Ed Freeman Post Office.

The media is chock-a-block with tales of violence and hatred perpetrated by twisted individuals and so-called religious zealots.  I feel it’s only right to give equal time to “the good ones” among us — the ones who take risks, the ones who demonstrate genuine compassion for others, the ones who put their money where their mouths are.  Ed Freeman surely fits that bill.

So as not to mislead our readers, this is neither an editorial nor a satire about a sports team.  In fact, there is nothing entertaining or frivolous about this article.  I wrote it to honor American soldiers who gave their lives for us overseas in the year 2009.  And, while this list is certainly not comprehensive, it is a start, and you may feel free to add the names of other soldiers in the comments below the article, or email them to us and we will add them to the article.

Although their names appear at the end of this piece, those of us who did not claim them as kith or kin are left wondering who each one of them were in life.  Most of all, we ponder the enormous sense of responsibility that prompted them to take on such a dangerous mission and ultimately, protect our freedoms with their blood.  Given their occupation, how much life insurance coverage were these fallen soldiers entitled to?  Whatever it was, it could never be enough.  And finally, how can we ever repay these oh so brave men for their pain and suffering, or their families?  We must not negate the pain of the loved ones left behind, clinging to nothing more than photos, letters, and neatly folded American flags for some small measure of comfort.  Since we cannot place a price upon a human life, the answer to my final and most poignant question is, “With patriotism.”

Webster’s Dictionary classifies a patriot as an individual who willingly loves and zealously protects his country at all costs. By this definition, how many of our political leaders or captains of industry can deem themselves patriots? As a new year kicks off to a start, it’s time that we count our blessings and put patriotism into practice on a daily basis, doing what’s good for our country and not what’s good for business.  When this comes to pass, then and only then can we offer our sincere thanks to the true patriots, both past and present.

Now that the soldiers listed below are no longer among the nameless that took the risks and paid the highest price, we can proudly salute them.   In memory of:

Staff Sergeant Roberto Andrade Jr., 26, of Chicago, Illinois, who died for his country on January 18^th in Baghdad, Iraq,

Staff Sergeant Justin L. Bauer, 24, of Loveland, Colorado, who died on January 8^th in Baghdad,

Lance Corporal Daniel R. Bennett, 23, of Clifton, Virginia, who left this Earth on January. 11^th as a result of a non-hostile incident in Helmand Province, Afghanistan,

Staff Sergeant Anthony D. Davis, 29, of Daytona Beach, Florida, who died on January 6^th in Northern Iraq,

Sergeant Ezra Dawson, 31, of Las Vegas, Nevada, who died January 17^th in Konar Province, Afghanistan,

Corporal Keith E. Essary, 20, of Dyersburg, Tennessee, who died on January 8^th in Maywand, Afghanistan,

Lance Corporal Alberto Francesconi, 21 of The Bronx, New York, who died on January 1^st in Helmand Province, Afghanistan,

Specialist Joseph M. Hernandez, 24, of Hammond, Indiana, who died on January 9^th in the Zabul Province of Afghanistan,

Private Sean P. McCune, 20, of Euless, Texas, who died on January 11^th in Samarra, Iraq,

Senior Airman Omar J. McKnight, 22, of Marrero, Louisiana, who expired on January 17^th as a result of a non-hostile incident in Balad, Iraq,

Major Brian M. Mescall, 33, of Hopkinton, Massachusetts, who saw battle for the last time on January 9^th in the Zabul Province of Afghanistan,

Sergeant Jason R. Parsons, 24, of Lenoir, North Carolina, who was killed on January 9^th in the Zabul Province of Afghanistan,

Specialist Matthew M. Pollini, 21, of Rockland, Massachusetts, who died on January 22^nd at Forward Operating Base Delta, near al-Kut, Iraq,

Sergeant Marquis R. Porter, 28, of Brighton, Massachusetts, who died on January 11^th as a result of a non-hostile incident in Anbar Province, Iraq,

Sergeant Joshua L. Rath, 22, of Decatur, Alabama, who left us on January 8^th in Maywand, Afghanistan,

Staff Sergeant Carlo M. Robinson, 33, of Lawton, Oklahoma, who was killed on January 17^th in Bagram, Afghanistan,

Staff Sergeant Joshua R. Townsend, 30, of Solvang, California, who fought his last battle on January 16^th in Tarin Kowt, Afghanistan,

Private First Class Benjamin B. Tollefson, 22, of Concord, California, who died on December 31^st in Balad, Iraq, and.

Private First Class, Ricky L. Turner, 20, of Athens, Alabama, whose soul passed over on January 16^th in Baghdad, Iraq. 

As of this writing, the mother of a Mansfield, Massachusetts soldier is fighting the U.S. government to be buried, when her time comes, with her only son.

With only a month left on his tour of duty in Iraq, Army Specialist Corey Shea became a fallen hero on November 12th, 2008.  As a veteran, he was interred at the National Cemetery in his home State.  Having died single and childless at the age of 21, Corey’s closest relative is his mother, Denise Anderson.  Denise’s loss is particularly poignant, as she has no spouse and Corey was her only child; in her own words “my heart and soul.”  Devastated by her loss, Ms. Anderson appealed to the U.S. Veterans Affairs Department for the right to be buried with her son.  Although the VAD has approved four similar requests since 2005 from the spouses and children of fallen soldiers, Denise’s appeal met with denial.

Readers so moved may research the government’s official line on this case, which to this writer represents the inanity and inhumanity of red tape.  The worst of it cites the fact that Denise Anderson made her request “in advance of need.”  Translation: Corey’s mother is a living, breathing person, not a corpse in need of a burial site!

As a child, I listened often to my grandfather’s tales of President Franklin Delano Roosevelt, a leader my granddad had greatly admired for his courage, integrity, and compassion.  As a result of one family’s terrible losses during World War II, FDR forbade the last male child in any American family to be drafted into service.  My grandfather explained that the President had done so to ensure that surnames would live on through future generations.  But, my grandfather added with tears in his eyes, he was sure that FDR had enacted this decree because the man had a heart.

The nearly seven-year-long-and-counting Iraqi conflict did not produce a draft.  When President George W. Bush declared this war, the U.S. military had enough servicemen and servicewomen on hand to fight a battle marketed as necessary to maintain the freedoms of American citizens.  Technically, then, Army Specialist Corey Anderson was not drafted.  But he was the sole male child, indeed the sole progeny, of his mother who is very much alive.  From a moral standpoint, at least, Corey should have never seen action.

The refusal of Denise Anderson’s request is but the most recent example of how dispensable our government views its citizens.  Another example of how it negates FDR’s vision, our nation’s tradition and in fact, our Constitutional principles, of balancing logic with compassion.

I could write a treatise about my political views surrounding this issue, but today, I lack the heart.  I am deeply saddened as well as angered by the disrespect shown by our government to our service people and their parents.  If Denise Anderson had not given birth to Corey, the U.S. military would have been minus one soldier.  To state the obvious, for it needs stating, if not for every mother of every child who makes the decision to enter the armed services, our nation would not have an Army, a Navy, the Marines, the National Guard, the Reserves, and the Coast Guard.  And yet, no respect is shown to the mothers who birth, raise, and ultimately mourn children who honor this country with their very lives.  

The glossy ads running rampant in print media and the rousing commercials promoting enrollment in our military, all blathering about “honor,” are full of what makes the grass grow green.   Honor lives among the rank and file of those who give their blood in war.  But at the highest levels of our government, honor no longer exists.  How can honor exist in a machine that does not value women and children?   Why give our blood to such a callous beast?

The untold stories of World War II resurface now and again, reminding us of a time that left its mark upon countless lives, changing those of many Americans.

When the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor, thus plunging this country into World War II, America needed a battle cry.  The World War I songs “Over There” and “It’s a Long Way to Tipperary” sufficed for a bit, until the more appropriate “Let’s Remember Pearl Harbor” took its rightful place in our nation’s musical vernacular.

Throughout the four years that the war raged on, more songs associated with the conflict came forth from the music industry. Some were fighting songs fit for a country rallying behind our brave troops.  “Let’s Remember Pearl Harbor,” “Goodbye Mama, I’m Off to Yokohama,” and “There’ll Be Smoke on the Waters” played on jukeboxes across the land.  Then there were melancholy songs that evoked the feelings of the time, including “I’ll Be Home for Christmas,” “You Belong to Me,” and “Lilly Marlene.”  Others still were heart-breaking melodies.

One such song was a Country Western tune.  Titled “Put Me in Your Pocket,” it appealed to many men in the armed forces.  It was a slice of life song, about two lovers saying goodbye as he goes off to war and the unhappy ending he faces upon his return.

During World War II, many soldiers carried religious medals, lucky charms, and photos of loved ones; these talismans sustained them as they dreamed of returning Stateside to renew their lives.  After the war, Hollywood produced movies like “The Best Years of our Lives” to show the public the untold casualties of war, capping them off with happy but realistic endings.

Since then, America has been involved in many wars.  Through the years, more songs have been written about war, the majority of them under significantly different circumstances than the two World Wars.  Beginning in the 1960’s, our nation’s perspective of war was shifting and our music reflected that shift, particularly the music written by young artists not limited to The Beatles, The Guess Who, and Creedence Clearwater Revival.  To a former soldier such as myself, these newer songs were full of raw emotion and were more universal than the songs that I remember.  Yet, this younger music was less about personal relationships torn asunder by war than it was about changing political mores. 

For me, that old Country Western tune “Put Me in Your Pocket” still prevails as a story that accompanied the armed forces into battle and reflected their destinies.  Why don’t you give it a listen? 

“When the going gets tough, the tough get going.”   Throughout American history, the tough got going motivated by phrases born of courage, tragedy, and triumph experienced during wartime.  Some of these phrases include “Don’t fire until you see the whites of their eyes,” “For the want of a horse, a battle was lost,” “You may fire when ready, Gridley,” “Over there,” and “Remember Pearl Harbor.”  Of these rallying cries, two of the most famous are “Don’t give up the ship” and “We have met the enemy and they are ours.”  What is less known is how these words helped to turn the tide in the Battle of Lake Erie, during the War of 1812.

Under Commodore Robert H. Barclay, a British fleet of six vessels controlled a strategic waterway: Lake Erie.  Although the American fleet commanded by Captain Oliver H. Perry boasted nine ships, it was outweighed and outgunned by the British.  The two armadas consisted of the following:

American                                           British

The Lawrence (Flagship)                      The Detroit (Flagship)

The Niagara (Brig)                               The Hunter (Brig)

The Ariel (Schooner)                           The Chippewa (Schooner)

The Caledonia (Brig)                            The Queen Charlotte (Ship)

The Somers (Schooner)                       The Lady Provost (Brig)

The Porcupine (Schooner)                   The Little Belt (Sloop)

The Scorpion (Schooner)                     The Tigress (Schooner)              

The Trippe (Sloop)        

Under a mild breeze on the morning of September 10, 1813, at Put-in-Bay, Ohio, Captain Perry, from the deck of The Lawrence, launched his attack against the British.  Within 15 minutes, The Detroit responded with long-range cannon fire, narrowly missing the American flagship.   It would be a mistake that the British would not repeat.

Advancing upon the enemy, Perry noted that The Niagara, under Jesse Elliot’s command, was falling behind the rest of the armada.  As the American fleet closed the gap, the Lawrence took direct hits.  With most of her crew killed or wounded, Perry made a command decision to surrender his flagship.  Before he did so, the tenacious captain snatched his battle flag embroidered with the motto, “Don’t Give Up the Ship.”   With the surviving crew, Perry rowed back one mile to where the Niagara was positioned.  Because of her slow speed, the Niagara had been spared the fate of the Lawrence.  Perry then commissioned the Niagara as his new flagship.

During the ensuing battle, the American forces retaliated for loss of The Lawrence.  They seriously damaged the British ships, wounding Commodore Barclay and senior officers aboard other vessels.  The British fleet was left in the hands of less experienced junior officers.  Under their lead, The Detroit and The Queen Charlotte collided and became dead in the water.

With the capture of the American flagship, the British had assumed that Perry would withdraw from combat; they had not banked on American ingenuity or courage.   Seizing the moment that the two enemy ships collided, Perry broke through British lines, positioning his navy between the British vessels to divide and conquer.  With all guns blazing, he forced the British to surrender aboard the heavily damaged Lawrence, thus sweetening the victory.

The battle on Lake Erie was further commemorated with the famous quote to General William H. Harrison: “We have met the enemy and they are ours.”  The defeat at Lake Erie caused the British Army and its Native American allies to abandon Fort Malden and retreat up the Thames River to Canada.  There, Harrison’s army defeated the British in the battle in which the great Native American Chief Tecumseh was killed.  Subsequently, the British entered into peace talks with America, enabling us to secure the Northwest Territory.

After the war, The Niagara served as a station ship in Lake Erie and was later scuttled in the aptly named Misery Bay.  On the centennial anniversary of the Battle of Lake Erie, the Niagara was raised for restoration.  Upon inspection, it was noted with surprise that the cradle on which the ship had been built was still attached to the hull.  This explained the account for why it was so slow arriving at the scene of battle, and why it was instrumental in turning defeat into victory!

And, in the words of the late legendary broadcaster Paul Harvey, “now you know the rest of the story.”

(Artwork is by Christara Copyrighted © http://my.desktopnexus.com/christara/)
(Link to artwork: http://abstract.desktopnexus.com/wallpaper/27127/)

Seven years ago, I was dragged quite reluctantly into Pearl Harbor on Oahu, one of the bright gems in Hawaii’s gorgeous necklace of islands.  I was there with my husband to celebrate our twentieth wedding anniversary, just as the first anniversary of 9/11 was looming upon the horizon.  As a New Yorker deeply affected by 9/11 and whose youth, indeed spirit, was marked by Vietnam, I wanted no further reminders of war, particularly on a long journey meant to be joyous.  But my husband insisted that, as Americans, it was our duty to visit Pearl Harbor.  And so, we did.

The film shown to all visitors on the first leg of their journey through the harbor left me sobbing.  I tried to leave after the film, but my husband advised me that, in years to come, I would be sorry if I did.  As it turned out, he would have been right.

We were ferried across the bay to a floating structure that seemed at first glance like something out of the original Star Trek series.   This pure white structure rocked gently upon the water like a futuristic subway car.  It was long and its ceiling curved.  The deepest part of the arc was at the ceiling’s middle; its two ends bowed upward at a rather sharp curve.

Our military escort had explained that the monument had been designed to depict World War II.  The deep arc denoted Pearl Harbor Day, the lowest point in our nation’s history during this long, bloody battle, while the soaring ends represented our nation’s final triumph over our enemies.   And then our escort startled me badly by explaining that we were about to visit a mass grave.

Well below the monument, at the bottom of the bay, sat the U.S.S. Arizona.  Other naval ships had been bombed and destroyed on that infamous December 7th, 1941, but the Arizona had taken the biggest hit.  More lives had been lost aboard her than on any other vessel, and some of the bodies had never been recovered.

I had been to the National Cemetery at Arlington years before.  The sight of so very many small white headstones, stretching for what seemed infinity, was a terrible thing to behold.  But somehow, the chapel aboard the monument in Pearl Harbor was worse.  Eternal flames flickered there, beside urns of fresh flowers brought daily by visitors and the loved ones of those who had gone down with the Arizona.  Above these remembrances on a large white marbled wall were carved the names of the soldiers, those who had died during the attack on Pearl Harbor.

To see the same surname three and four and five times in a row was a blow to the gut.  I could not imagine families losing so many loved ones in the blink of an eye.  It was too close to that raw wound, 9/11, for me.  I ached to be gone from that floating tomb, but was compelled to remain there until the skiff returned to the island at its appointed time.  As I waited, my lips moved silently over every name on the wall, as did my husband’s.  Not to do so would have been disrespectful.  I thought of all the wars that had occurred during my lifetime, in which our nation had been engaged — far too many wars.  In my heart’s eye, I saw the Twin Towers fall again like vertical dominoes in a terrible cloud.   And I recalled an old and painfully truthful song by Sting, “History Will Teach Us Nothing.”

Desperate to escape this horror, I made my way to the railing as quickly as decorum allowed.   I looked over the side and watched as fresh flowers, tossed from the hands of other visitors, landed upon the water in honor of our dead.  But as I peered more closely, I saw small rainbows blooming on the surface of the sea.   They were globules of oil, escaping from the Arizona.  Sixty-one years after she had gone down fighting, the oil in her tanks was still rising, gently kissing the surface of the water.  Day by day, minute by minute, drop by drop, they rose and bloomed, then dissipated and died.  But even as they expired, new rainbows appeared, dark upon the water, only to die and be replaced by others.   “Rainbow tears,” I breathed to my husband, who watched in horror and fascination.

I am no physicist, but I questioned how, sixty-one years later, these rainbow tears could still be shed by the ship below my feet, holding many still entombed within her.  “How much oil does such a vessel hold?  Should not the tears have stopped long before now?” I wondered.

I don’t have the answer to the first question, but I believe I have the answer to the second.  The rainbow tears still bloom above the Arizona as a reminder of the sacrifices of our military, and of the sacrifices of the loved ones they have left behind.

In my heart, I believe that they still bloom as a reminder of the costs of war, well beyond the billions of dollars spent in arms and equipment and the inevitable reparations that we must make to those upon whose lands we wage our battles.  The tears, in my opinion, are a small but definite miracle, a cry from those below to find our way toward peace on the troubled waters of our human existence.

We grew up in a neighborhood in South Philadelphia, bounded by Snyder Avenue to the north and the Philadelphia Navy Yard to the south and from Broad Street east to 7th Street.  It was an ethnically mixed neighborhood.  I lived in the 2400 block of Hutchinson Street, and he lived in the 2300 block.  As boys, we did not have a close friendship, even though we knew of each other.

We grew up during the Great Depression, but living in our neighborhood, as we realized many years later, was as close as you can come to Heaven.  As kids, we enjoyed the pleasure of playing in the streets without fear.  There was no television or home air conditioning or automatic gas heat, although we did have some modern conveniences, such as hot water, indoor plumbing, washing machines, and radio.  Life was much simpler then in an era when “spare the rod and spoil the child” was the order of the day.  Our parents worked hard trying to make ends meet.  It was here we learned family values, such as honor, duty, and respect.  The lost art of conversation still prevailed at family gatherings.

Then something happened that would forever change our lives.  World War ll erupted in Europe. Initially, the United States remained neutral, until December 7^th, 1941 when the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor.  On that fateful Sunday, President Roosevelt announced to the Congress and the American people that a “state of war” existed between the United States and the Empire of Japan and its ally Germany.

With the Declaration of War, America rolled up its sleeves, as every man, woman, and child, pitched in to help the war effort.  The Draft was instituted to call up men needed for the Armed Forces.  Factories all over this great country set aside peacetime products and retooled to manufacture implements of war.

I was two years younger than he, and while I worked at the Philadelphia Navy Yard, as an electrician helper, he was drafted into the U.S. Army.  He trained in the Infantry and was later sent to England as a replacement, with the Third Armored Division, for the Invasion of Hitler’s Europe.

June 6^th, 1944 the greatest Allied Armada ever assembled, crossed the English Channel and stormed the beaches of Normandy.  The German Army well entrenched, threatened to drive the Allies back into the sea, but by the end of a day that came to be known as “D-Day the Longest Day,” the American and Allied Forces managed to gain a beachhead on Fortress Europe.

Arriving in Normandy 13 days after D-Day, the Third Armored Division moved up to the line, for their “Baptism of Fire.”  Here at St Lo, the advancing American and Allied forces were stalled in what was to be called the Hedgerow country.  French farmers had planted hedges that surrounded their farms.  These hedges planted centuries ago, became a formidable defense for the German Army, who zeroed in on every opening with mortar, cannon, and machine-gun fire. 

A plan, dubbed “Operation Cobra,” was devised to break out of St Lo area. It called for the saturation bombing of the Hedgerow country in order to allow the American and Allied forces to break through.  On that fateful day, the sky was black with Allied bombers as wave after wave systematically dropped their bombs and opened a path for the advance of the stalled Allied and American armies.

Following the break out at St Lo, the Third Armored Division raced across France, in pursuit of the fleeing German Army.  In a pincer attack they closed the Falaise Gap, trapping thousands of the enemy and causing their surrender.  In their rapid attack, they crossed the Seigfried Line, to become the first to enter Germany.  They penetrated into German soil, reaching the town of Stohlberg.  It was here they were ordered to return to Belgium to help stop the German attack called “the Battle of the Bulge.”

On January 3^rd, 1945, near the town of Floret, Belgium, the hand of God touched him who was to become my lifelong friend.  It came in form of an enemy shell, ending the war for him.  As he lay on the battlefield with massive wounds of the arm and leg, the Medics who had picked him up informed him that he had “Million Dollar” wounds and would be returned to England for surgery and rehabilitation.  After his recovery, he was returned to his unit.  By this time, however, the war in Europe had ended and, in a short while, he would be going home.  With the defeat of Germany, and the introduction of the “Atomic Bomb,” World War ll ended on September 2^nd, 1945 and with it came the return of the veterans of World War ll.

As the South Philadelphia neighborhood boys came home, they started to congregate at the corner of 10th and Ritner streets.  It was here that a long and lasting friendship began.

In the spring of 1951, we married two girlfriends, I married Madeline (Midge), and he married her dear friend Thelma.  He was our Best Man and Thelma was our First Bridesmaid.  A few weeks later, Midge and I would be the First Bridesmaid and Best Man at their wedding.

In the years to follow, they would become Godfather and Godmother to my first son born in 1954.  And, just a few years later, we would both relocate to the town of Maple Shade, New Jersey.  We continued a close friendship over the years, until Midge suddenly passed away on May 27 1975.

With her passing and the need to care for my two sons without the aid of a wife, my life became very hectic.  I altered my work schedule to allow me more time with my boys, and I didn’t have much time to socialize with friends.  In essence, I dropped out of sight.  With my children grown, I remarried eight years later and resumed my life.

In the fall of 1986, I got a call from my good friend who asked me if I had interest in attending a reunion of the “Boys of 10th & Ritner,” an offer I enthusiastically accepted.  This first of what would become regular meetings of all the old gang was a huge success – so much so that we held them every six weeks for more than 10 years!

We would meet at Sam Cobblestone’s Bar & Grill in South Philly on designated Tuesday evenings.  Here, we reminisced about growing up in the old neighborhood, told jokes, and related tales about our experiences in World War ll.

In 1987 I retired and, following a period during which I traveled about the country, took a part-time job with a local liquor store.  On occasion, my friend would stop in and shoot the breeze with me, discussing plans to attend our next meeting and any other news he happened to know.  

It was during one of these visits that I introduced him to my manager, Bob Sparks.  As usual the subject of World War ll came up.  Bob indicated that he also had been in the War and mentioned that he had trained together with Tony Lanciano from South Philly.  This coincidence almost blew our minds, for he had mentioned the name of one of the old gang.

On the 50th Anniversary of D-Day, he came to visit me at work.  He looked a little distraught as we discussed the Normandy Invasion.  Then suddenly, all the memories came back and welled up inside of him – then came pouring out.  Taking him aside, I calmed him down.  Then, I said to him, “50 years is too long to carry this burden, and it is time that you let it out.”

It was then that I came to the realization that, in all the years I had known him and all the times we had been together, I had been standing in the shadow of a real American Hero.  At that moment, I decided to set the record straight and give him the recognition he so richly deserved.  And so, whenever he was in the store, I would introduce him to customers upon whom I waited, saying “I want to introduce you to a real American Hero, from Normandy to the Battle of the Bulge where he was wounded.  This is one of the guys who kept you from doing the goose-step.”

As they would look at him in awe, he would laugh and say, “Don’t listen to this guy, I was only doing my job.”  Like all heroes, he did not consider himself one.  Yet, he held five Medals – Good  Conduct, Combat Infantryman’s Badge, the Purple Heart, World War II Victory, and European Theater of Operations (ETO) with five Campaign Stars for Normandy, N. France, Rhineland, Ardennes, and Central Europe.  And, the memories of his experiences in the War haunted him for the rest of his life.

But, it was not merely the memories he carried with him.  Many years after completing his service, he fell down a flight of stairs during a visit to a relative’s home.  Following an emergency room visit and thorough examination, he was released, but not before being approached by the radiologist on call who queried “do you know that you have a piece of steel behind your right knee?”  In response, my friend stated “it’s probably a German shell fragment, I guess they didn’t get all of it out.”

Like all heroes, he was matter of fact about his injuries, wounds from which he suffered both physical and psychological pain for the remainder of his life.  Yet, he never spoke of either the memories or the injuries.

They say “old soldiers never die,” and I pray that this is true.  For, the hero of whom I am proud to have spoken was my good friend and Best Man, Vincent {Jimmy} Tedesco.  On June 19, 2003, he took his memories and injuries with him to his earthly grave at Brigadier General William C. Doyle Veterans Cemetery in Arnytown, New Jersey.  Yet, I believe that his spirit lives on.

And, so that he does not remain among the nameless who took the risks, paid the price, and returned to build the greatest nation in the history of our planet, I wrote this tribute.  To my good friend Jimmy and to all the Jimmies whom I did not know, I salute you!

If you were born into the Roman Catholic faith, you must be familiar with St. Christopher, also known as the Patron Saint of Travelers.  Despite his status as one of the Church’s most popular Saints, much of what we know of Christopher’s life is attributed not to fact but to legends, including the tale that this man from Canaan, born some time during the third century, stood 12 cubits tall (18 feet).

After giving his allegiance, respectively, to an earthly king and Satan and finding both lacking in courage, Christopher decided to serve the greatest being of all: God in heaven.  Because of his great size and strength, Christopher was asked by a hermit to help people cross a dangerous river, insisting that this service would please the Lord.  The future martyr accepted.

One day Christopher ferried a child across the river, a relatively simple task that proved to be most difficult and perilous.  Once safely across the water, the child declared himself to be the Creator and Redeemer of the world; he promised to prove this after Christopher had planted his staff into the ground. The following morning, the staff was found transformed into a living, fruit-bearing palm tree.  This miracle enabled Christopher to convert thousands to the Christian faith, particularly in the pagan city of Lycia.  Thus, he invited the anger of that city’s monarch, who ordered his beheading.  Christopher was made a martyr and centuries later, a Saint.

Because his canonization occurred many years after the Roman tradition, his feast day was removed, in 1969, from the Roman Catholic Calendar of Saints.  Despite his decommissioning, many Catholics still venerate the martyr.  As a former soldier drafted to serve in World War II, I am one of them.

Thousands of Americans were inducted into the military following the December 7th, 1941 attack on Pearl Harbor; the induction was mandatory and inevitable.   A few weeks after I turned 18 years of age in October of 1944, I received a draft notice stating that I was scheduled for induction into the United States Army on January 18, 1945.  In keeping with the tradition of many families whose loved ones were marching off to war, my family gave me a going away party at our row house in South Philadelphia.  My entire family and all of my friends showed up to wish me well and present me gifts and mementos. At the end of a gala evening, I found that I was the recipient of thirteen St. Cristopher medals.

The next morning after breakfast, I kissed my family goodbye and convened, along with other inductees, at the 30^th Street Train Station in Philadelphia.  There, we boarded a train to an induction center in Indiantown Gap, Pennsylvania.  Arriving late in the evening, we were ushered into a mess hall and fed, and then assigned sleeping quarters. Over the next few days, we underwent complete physical examinations and received a full complement of Army equipment. Upon completion of induction, we were assigned to fifteen weeks of Infantry Basic Training at Camp Robinson, near Little Rock, Arkansas.

During my training, other soldiers asked me about the thirteen medals in my possession.  After I had explained that St. Christopher was the Patron Saint of Travelers, I received offers to purchase the medals.  To my comrades, I presented the medals along with the good wishes that they were intended to carry.  When I finally boarded a troop ship bound for the invasion of Japan, I retained but one medal given to me by a dear friend.

During the war, St. Christopher served on land, on sea, and in the air; he was a constant companion to those who carried him.   I believe that St. Christopher was in North Africa, at Normandy, Guadalcanal, Anzio, Iwo Jima, the Battle of the Bulge, and Okinawa.

When the global conflict finally ended in 1945, and the automobile became the mode of travel, St. Christopher was placed with reverence upon many a dashboard.  His next mission was to protect a multitude of drivers and passengers.

Although St. Christopher no longer appears on the Roman Catholic Calendar of Saints, he is still venerated by many.  Should he not receive recognition in the World War II Hall of Fame, or would that be considered politically incorrect?  Perhaps, St. Christopher can still be found protecting the souls listed in the rosters below.   Click on the links to view these Websites.

American Cemeteries and Memorial Parks