Lately, my email system’s in-box has been filled with out-of-the-ordinary messages.  Sadly, the last of these was from the grandson of a dear friend, informing me that his grandfather has passed on.  Thus, I am moved to write this tribute to an extraordinary man who touched my life.

My friend was baptized Nicholas J. Prestipino in 1923.  Nicky, as he would come to be called, was raised in an ethnically mixed South Philadelphia neighborhood, in the vicinity of 10th and Ritner Streets: my neighborhood.  Although he was three years older than I was during the Great Depression, we grew up together and even attended the same schools.  It was during these years that he was nicknamed Nicky Blue, a moniker that would stick with him until he was laid to rest.

En route to our manhood, something happened that would forever change our lives.  When World War II erupted, it subjected men between the ages of 18 and 45 to the draft.  Enlisted into the armed forces, many boys from our neighborhood were called to serve their country.

Nicky was inducted into the Army and trained for the Infantry.  His tour of duty would take him to the theater of war known as China, Burma, and India (CBI).  By chance, two other neighborhood boys serving in an Ordinance company were sent to the same arena.  Their names were Anthony Didio and James (Jimmy) Celotto.

Because of the different branches of the service into which they were inducted, these three young men did not serve together.  Anthony recalls that while stationed in China, he and Jimmy decided one day to visit a local airfield to watch planes arrive and depart for various destinations.  As they watched a plane taxiing along the runway in order to refuel, they were surprised and delighted to see Nicky Blue among the men deplaning.  For a brief period, all three had a joyous reunion.

Nicky told Anthony and Jimmy that he was assigned to Mars Task Force Company G, 475th Regiment, as a heavy machine gunner.  Nick said that his company was bound for Burma to battle the Japanese occupying that country. After the plane refueled, Nick had to climb aboard to continue on in his journey as a gunner. As Anthony and Jimmy watched him board, Anthony turned to Jimmy and said, “This is the last time we’ll see Nicky Blue alive.”

The story of the war in that region proved to have heavy American and Allied causalities; it had been a near impossible task to repel the occupying Japanese.  So vivid and poignant were these stories that Hollywood made two movies about this arm of the war, naming the films Merrill’s Marauders, starring Jeff Chandler, and Objective Burma, with Errol Flynn in the lead role.  Thankfully, Anthony and Jimmy had been wrong about Nicky Blue.  His courage and smarts enabled him to survive what so many had not.

When the atomic bombs were dropped on Japan, World War II came to an abrupt end.  With its end came the return home of those soldiers who had endured this long conflict.  As the boys returned one by one to our neighborhood, they gathered on the corner of 10th and Ritner Streets to re-forge the connection that the war had interrupted. From these informal meetings, Club Gramercy was born.  This was a social club in which we spent many pleasant hours in pursuit of our past.

As time passed, many of the boys — now men — married and drifted away to pursue family life.  But in 1986, two members met across a meat counter in a Northeast Philadelphia supermarket and decided to bring the boys together again.  These two friends were Baby Joe Carabasi and Tony Griffoni.  Through networking, they accomplished the first meeting of 12 friends at the home of Amadea (John) Adelizzi in Palmyra, New Jersey, a conference of sorts for The Boys of 10th and Ritner.

Within six months, our numbers had more than quadrupled.  Fifty-four friends showed up at Vitale’s Restaurant in Northeast Philadelphia for the first official meeting of The Boys from 10th and Ritner.  These meetings continued for more than ten years at Cobblestones Bar & Grill in South Philly.  We celebrated our 10-year anniversary in 1996 at the Coastline Restaurant in Cherry Hill, New Jersey.

Over meals and a little wine, we relived our youth, told war stories and jokes, and shared news of happenings that pertained to us. Today, our members have dwindled to but a few.  Our ages and our accompanying ailments have put up roadblocks to our physical gatherings, but we do keep in touch by phone and email.

When I received the news of Nicky’s death by email, I contacted Joe DeGenova and Anthony Didio to inform them, and to ask them to pass the information on to our other surviving members.  Perhaps not surprisingly, both Joe and Anthony had the same response when hearing the news: “I can’t believe that Nicky Blue is gone!”  Neither could I, because Nicky had always had that “larger than life” personality. 

My wife and I used to gather with special friends every July at the Golden Inn in Avalon, New Jersey.  One year we were introduced to a new couple that spent the weekend with us.  In conversation, they told us that they resided in Hammonton, New Jersey.  This caused me to ask if they knew Nicky Blue Prestipino.  With a broad smile on his face, the husband   replied, “Everybody knows Nicky Blue!”  Indeed, Nicky seemed to touch the lives of all whom he encountered.

An unforgettable person, just saying that nickname, “Nicky Blue,” brings a smile to my face and the face of anyone who knew him.  Nicky has become a legend amongst family and friends. Not just an ordinary person, he exhibited extraordinary courage fighting in the jungles of Burma during the war, and the memories of that war haunted him until the end.  Perhaps that is why Nicky still retained his great zest for life.

In my last conversation with Joe DeGenova, as we reflected upon our lives, Joe told me:

“Treasure your yesterdays.

Dream your tomorrows.

And live your todays.”

I know Nicky Blue lived his life by that motto. A beloved member of The Boys of 10th and Ritner, he will be greatly missed by the surviving members of our group.  We offer the final salute in saying “Goodbye, Nicky Blue,” as we have to all of our members who preceded him into the Kingdom of Heaven.

For some of us, June 6, 1944 is nothing more than a random date in history. But for others, that date will never be forgotten. Field Marshall Erwin Rommel (a.k.a., The Desert Fox) of the Axis forces had predicted that June 6, 1944 would prove to be the longest day in history. Rommel was right. Known now as D-Day, June 6, 1944 was the day on which one of the most epic battles of the Second World War was waged. The outcome of what occurred that day would determine ultimate victory, or ultimate defeat, in that long, bloody conflict.

They say that time heals all wounds. But there are some survivors of that battle who cannot speak of it — for the things that they witnessed and the things in which they participated were unspeakable. Those who can verbally relate the scene at Normandy that day describe it tersely as ranging from “sheer hell” to “pandemonium.” But words are inadequate to describe the feelings of the men on the beach that day, the sands that would later bear the name “Bloody Omaha.”

Omaha Beach, in Normandy, France, was more than a strategic territory in the war; it was vital, for it linked the Allied Forces in their efforts against their Axis foes. For Rommel, it did turn out to be the longest day. The Allies’ victory at Omaha enabled them to secure a stronghold upon Fortress Europe; in less than a year, they would achieve victory in Europe.

But it was a victory that came with enormous sacrifice.

Most who landed on the beach that day were young, green soldiers with little or no combat experience. Many of them were Americans, joined by their fellow British soldiers-in-arms. There was nothing to prepare these young men for the horror into which they were about to step, a merciless attack from their enemies.

From the deck of the American battleship Augusta, General Omar Bradley watched the nightmare unfold. After witnessing the initial carnage, he made preparations to abandon the assault. But as fate would have it, a company of Rangers arrived as critical fortification.

Today, the beaches of Normandy are silent, but the memories linger on. Each year on the anniversary of D-Day, French locals, families of the deceased, and veterans of that war gather to honor and respect their fallen heroes and loved ones.

To the veterans who survived the war, and who fought on the beaches, in the jungles, and in the deep waters of the oceans, D-Day serves as a reminder of their contributions to World War II. With the sobering memories of June 6, 1944 also comes a sense of pride, for having worn the uniform of the United States military. And with that pride come prayers for our casualties of war.

The old refrain of the song “The Way We Were” tells us that, “what’s too painful to remember, we simply choose to forget.” And, yet, we will never forget D-Day and those who made amazing sacrifices to the cause of freedom.

This article is dedicated to Corporal Carmine S. Farnolo, who was there at Omaha Beach. Carmine was attached to the 9th Army Air Corps, 409th Flight Group, 512th Squad. Now 86 years old and fast approaching his 87th birthday, Carmine remembers D-Day with utter clarity. But those memories live in his heart, for he is among those who will not speak of that day.

To those of you born into the greatest generation of our time, you know the game Monopoly as the family entertainment of its era.  But what you may not know is that, strangely enough, this game was used to help the Allied Forces win World War II.

In 1941, after being shot down and captured, many British airmen found themselves involuntary guests of the Third Reich.  With RAF (Royal Air Force) in short supply of pilots, the British military began to craft plans for the captured pilots’ escape and return to duty.

Fearing nothing but fear itself, the resourceful Brits had planned to have information available to all captured RAF pilots.  This data included maps marked with safe havens that would afford food and shelter once the pilots had escaped the camps and been repatriated to England.  By necessity, the medium that contained this vital information had to be both concealed and durable.

Paper was initially considered as the medium, but it did not meet the qualifications of durability.  Then, someone in MI-5 (British OSS) came up with the idea of printing the information on silk.  The material was durable, easily concealed, and met all the qualifications.

The search for a manufacturer capable of printing on silk brought them to the only company to have perfected this process: John Waddington, Ltd.  When asked to do the job, the firm graciously accepted in order to help the war effort.  But, by sheer coincidence, John Waddington, Ltd. also was the U.K. licensee of the popular American board game, Monopoly.

This strange coincidence laid the groundwork for conveying escape material via the Red Cross, which included pastime games in the care packages that it sent to prisoners of war.  Thus, did Monopoly put the icing on the cake for one of the most effective escape weapons ever contrived.

In collaboration, the British Intelligence and Waddington, Ltd. selected a group of workers sworn to secrecy.  This cadre began mass producing the maps for camps in every region in which RAF prisoners were held.  When the maps were produced, they could be folded into tiny dots and inserted in Monopoly playing pieces.  In addition to this inspired genius, the clever workers managed to add the following:

• A playing token containing a small magnetic compass,
• Two metal components that could be screwed together to fashion a metal file, and
• Useful amounts of genuine high-denomination currency (German, Italian, and French), hidden in piles 
      of Monopoly money packs.

British and American pilots were advised that a small red dot located in the Free Parking section on the game board, appearing as nothing more than a printing error, distinguished the games that contained vital information.  The utmost of secrecy surrounded this brilliant strategy.  None who came to use the information for escape purposes divulged it.  Until 2007, every pilot who had used the secreted data to escape the Axis Forces kept this true wartime tale confidential.  Of the 35,000 escaped WWII POWs, approximately one-third attributed their return to duty to the game of Monopoly!

Hollywood has produced movies about POWs, such as the “Great Escape and Stalag 17.”  But, due to secrecy, the filmmakers never new about the special Monopoly games.

After declassification in 2007, in a public ceremony, John Waddington, Ltd. and the surviving members of the select group of craftsmen were honored for their contributions.   So, the next time you play Monopoly and draw a “Get out of jail free card,” give consideration to the double entrendre and the small, wondrous piece of history that you hold in your hand. 

With the change in the weather brings thoughts of spring after a long hard winter. It’s the time of year when Mother Nature ushers in the birth of all things; it’s a time to reminisce.

They say that with age comes wisdom, and rightly so.  But after experiencing a lifetime upon which to reflect, I wonder where we went wrong … particularly since it seemed to start out right.

My formative years were spent in South Philadelphia, where I grew up in an ethnically diverse neighborhood during the Great Depression.  Life was hard during that Depression, but it was also much simpler.  Then, my family’s chief concerns were the basics of life: food, shelter, and clothing.  The family, in fact, was the center of our existence.

Sharing my joys and sorrows with my brothers and parents gave me, and indeed, all of us, a sense of unity and security.  Dad supplied the needs of the family while Mom managed the household duties.  Religion also was part of our lives.  It helped to mold our characters by instilling humility and kindness into our lives.

Although times were hard, life was not unpleasant.  Family outings and visits to friends and relatives, punctuated with much laughter and good times, brought peace and serenity to our lives.  I guess you really could call them “the good old days.”

During the Great Depression, we had few amenities such as people enjoy today. The main modes of travel were automobiles and public transportation. There was no air conditioning back then, and no one had a telephone in his or her home.  Health insurance had yet to emerge, and television had yet to be invented.  Credit cards were still a thing of the future.  Yet, we all survived.

We did have gas appliances, hot water, and forced-air heat. For entertainment, we had Victrolas™, local movie houses, and the radio.  This was the Golden Age of Radio.  The music was good, and the radio also offered mystery stories, such as The Shadow, that sent chills up the spines of every single family member.  We looked forward to gathering around the radio for fun.

Other forms of entertainment were really up to the individual.  We walked and hiked to explore our world.  We played street games or listened to a public concert at a local park, which made life more pleasant.  I can clearly recall sitting by the Wissahickon Creek on warm summer afternoons, listening as the water rushed and gurgled through the valley.  That is a fond, lasting memory for me.

Then something happened that would forever change our lives: World War II came along.  With the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor, America was plunged into war and many young people grew up overnight.  In the process, thousands of men from ages 18 to 45 years old were conscripted into the military.  In the work force, particularly in the factories, women stepped in to fill the shoes of the men drafted into service. 

Those were the days when the patriotic spirit of America flourished throughout the land. War bond sales and Hollywood stars joined forces to defeat our enemies.  USOs sprang up around the nation to offer a home away from home to our servicemen.

After four and a half years of bloody war, America emerged victorious on September 2, 1945.  The introduction of the atomic bomb put an end to the conflict and propelled the troops to return home.  There, we tried to pick up the pieces of our lives and move on into the future.

The immediate postwar years were bleak.  There was too much manpower and not enough jobs.  Factory wages were less than $2.00 an hour and the need for housing to accommodate newlyweds was on the horizon.

As we slowly moved into the future, enterprising real estate developers, such as Levitt in Pennsylvania, offered burgeoning new families modest dwellings in suburban locations, thus creating the exodus of many city dwellers to suburbia.  Along with the introduction of television, this industry spurred our economy with the need for more jobs to satisfy the wants of new home buyers.  Happy days were here again!

The fly in the ointment was the banking industry.  Back then, banks followed stringent standards when supplying loans to people without collateral.  A rule of thumb in procuring a loan was that one week of the loan recipient’s monthly income had to cover his mortgage payment.

Enterprising businessmen saw the opportunity of establishing credit to these borrowers, by offering store credit cards.  It seemed a good solution to the problem.  Hence, the system of credit scores evolved.  As we continued to move into the future, the economy improved, bringing more jobs and higher wages.

America was on a roller coaster ride.  We climbed high and exuberantly as Wall Street experienced record sales with an inflated economy.  However, the threat of financial collapse waited around the bend.  The ride, you see, was dictated by banking institutions and the very watchful eyes of the government.  The banks had to remain prudent in their lending practices; in turn, those practices were to be monitored by the SEC (Securities Exchange Commission).  Obviously, the banks and the government loosened their vigilance, for in September of 2008, we experienced another crash on Wall Street.

Barbara Streisand once had a hit song bearing the same title as this article.  Her haunting words still ring in my ears, “What’s too painful to remember is so very hard to forget.”  That just about says it all.

As I sit typing this article of reminiscence about the America in which I grew up, and the America in which we live today, I recall the Native American portrayed in a poignant, old commercial.  A tear ran down his face as he watched this beautiful land turn into a garbage dump.  Indeed, “where did we go wrong?” 

Today, November 11th, we celebrate Veterans Day, formerly known as Armistice Day.  It is a day of reflection for many who have served their country, both in wartime and during often-tenuous peacekeeping missions.  Many veterans will relive a past they can never forget: the things they have seen and done, the places they have been, those who served beside them, those who fell in battle, and those who lived to carry on and remember their comrades.  If, like me, you are a veteran, these things will, like an unstoppable army, invade your mind, your heart, and your soul today.  And of all those memories, the sharpest will be the thoughts of your buddies, your comrades in arms.

On October 7^th of this year, my buddy, P. Gerald Barbato, celebrated his 84^th birthday. As I have for all of his prior birthdays, I placed my annual telephone call to him, to wish him well.

Of all the men with whom I had soldiered during World War II, Gerald is my last remaining contact.  On September of 1946, he and I and the rest of our military buddies parted company; our replacements had arrived to relieve us.  We were the men of the United States Army’s 24^th Signal Company, stationed in Kokura, Kyushu, Japan.

After almost a full year of occupying Japan, our parting was heavy with mixed emotions.  We were happy to be returning home to civilian life after our tour of duty.  But at the same time, we realized that this would be farewell.  Before sailing forever away from Japan, we had all exchanged our names and contact information in order to remain in touch.

Over the years, the list of names dwindled as contacts were lost and we found ourselves down to a handful of friends who kept in touch.  In my last conversation with him, I told him of the passing of Paul Bartels, a sad occurrence leaving us the last remaining members of our group.  How odd that feels, as it seems like just yesterday that he and I both shared our 19^th birthday in Matsuyama, Japan, in October of 1945.  He is three days older than I am, and since that day, our friendship has grown.

I always quizzed him about what the P. in his name signifies.  At first, he just sloughed it off, refusing to answer.  But after I pursued the issue, he said, “In confidence, Tommy, I was not expected to live when I was born, and so, was named after my dead Aunt Patsy.  Now I have to live with that name!”  From then on, I always called him Pat!

I returned home from the war in the fall of 1946.  A few years later, I received an invitation to Pat’s wedding, which I gladly accepted. It was my first visit to Long Island, New York.  Pat’s wife Kathy was as beautiful as the photograph he’d shown us all in Japan. He asked his cousins to accompany me through the joyous ceremony and reception, and also to ensure — as he and Kathy embarked upon their honeymoon — that I had returned home safely to South Jersey.

In April 21, 1951, I married Madeline (Midge) Fortino and got on with my life.  However, I still managed to keep in touch with the men with whom I had served, via annual Christmas cards.  I accompanied these with letters of the events that had transpired earlier each year.

1954 was a banner year for us, as Midge and I celebrated the birth of our first child, my son Tom Junior, and Pat and Kathy welcomed their first child, a daughter named Patty.  But, 1975 was a bad year as Midge suddenly passed away, leaving me with Tom Junior and his brother, Michael.  In trying to adjust to the loss of my wife, I went on the nightshift at work because it was easier to care for my sons that way.  With so much going on in my life, I dropped out of sight for a while with my old Army buddies.

In July of 1983, I remarried Priscilla (Pat) Nikunen, and added her three children to our blended family.  Like Pat’s Kathy, my Pat was a Long Island girl whose children still lived there.  This meant that I now had a reason to visit my buddy Pat in person.  Since then, we have enjoyed each other’s company while making family visits to Long Island.  During one of our visits, we had dinner at Republic Field Airport in Farmingdale.  It was in a World War II type restaurant, filled with memorabilia of the era.  It was a wonderful night filled with reminders of those heady, scary, glorious times overseas.

In our phone conversations over the years, Pat always reminds me that he hopes to be the oldest living World War II veteran, with me three days behind him!  So, today — November 11, 2010, I’ll be reminiscing about my buddy and our tour of duty during World War II.  I’ll be hoping we will still be around to celebrate Veterans Day in 2011!

I sincerely hope that my buddy Pat gets his wish.  As I have traveled down the hard road of life, I have found that hope is a good thing.  It may be the best of things, for without hope, life would be as cold as yesterday’s pizza.

To the best of my knowledge, my grandfather Rocco Petruzzelli was born in Italy in 1865.  In 1896, he left his homeland and the village of Castelluccio Valmaggiore near Foggia / Apulia, Italy and set out for America, leaving his son and my father Donato – born a matter of months earlier on October 31, 1895 – with relatives.  Apparently, Rocco’s wife and the mother of Donato, Filomena (nee Schiavone) died during or shortly after childbirth.

Upon arrival in America, my grandfather settled in Roseto, Pennsylvania, an enclave populated primarily by Italian immigrants and named for the village of Roseto Valfortore in Italy.  There, he met and married Giovanna Campanaro and, shortly thereafter, sent word to Italy for his son to join him.

Donato, then age 5, left Castelluccio accompanied by Domenico Rosso, a family friend from the village.  Years later, he told me that when he left home, he was riding on the back of a donkey and that, as he and Domenico departed, the villagers came out to wave goodbye.

They arrived in New York City, America in January 1901.  Anxiously awaiting their arrival, my grandfather somehow missed them as they landed at the dock.  Frantic, he contacted the New York Police, and they searched the entire area to no avail.  The police advised him to return to Roseto where, they reasoned, the person accompanying him would likely go.  Arriving home, Rocco found that his son and friend had preceded him from New York.  Safe and sound in Roseto, a joyous reunion and celebration commenced.

The Petruzzelli family continued to reside and grow in Roseto.  Not a skilled worker, my grandfather worked laborious jobs to eke out a living.  When there was no work available, he would strap a small grinding wheel on his back and seek out opportunities to sharpen knives, scissors, and various types of cutting tools.  Often, the search for work would find him walking to other towns.  One year, he walked all the way to Pittsburgh, a distance of more than 250 miles, sharpening knives and tools to provide for his family.

Nine years later, he moved his family to Philadelphia in an effort to enhance his own employment prospects and the quality of life for his family.  They settled in South Philadelphia residing in a house at 1240 South Iseminger Street.   My grandfather secured a job as a laborer with the Philadelphia Street Department, and in 1912 at the age of 47, proudly became a Naturalized Citizen of the United States of America.   At the time, his wife Giovanna (Joanne) was 14 years his junior, and they lived with their five children – Donato age 17, Filomena 8, Lucia 5, Jane 3, and Nicholas 1.

A few short years later, they purchased a home in the 1100 Block of Cross Street that would be our extended family’s gathering place in the years to follow and their residence for the remainder of my grandparents’ lives.  Here, they had two more sons, Biagio (Bill) and Rocco Jr., bringing the family total to 7 children.  When the United States entered World War l, my father Donato left this home, enlisted in the United States Navy, and served until he was Honorably Discharged on September 3, 1919.

In 1942, my grandmother Giovanna passed away only to be followed a few short months later by my grandfather Rocco.  Both were laid to rest in Holy Cross Cemetery in Yeadon, Pennsylvania.  At the times of their deaths, the winds of war were fanning the flames of World War II in Europe and the Pacific.  Ultimately, three of their sons, Nicholas, Biagio, and Rocco Jr., as well as their grandson, Thomas, would all make contributions to America’s war effort.

Today at age 83, I am the oldest living member of the Petruzzelli family and filled with fond memories.  I recall a trip to Roseto with my grandparents at the age of 8.  We spent a week visiting my grandmother’s relatives.  As a city boy, I found it a wonderful experience seeing how they lived in the country.  They raised chickens and had vegetable gardens and grape arbors that stretched from the chicken coops to the house.  They even had a goat that produced milk.  Offered a glass of it, I found it strange drinking warm milk, and everyone had a good laugh at the look on my face as I drank it.

At every opportunity, I try to instill in my children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren their Italian heritage in hopes that they will know about their cultural roots when I am gone.  As I reflect on my own life, I realize that my most enjoyable times were spent in the company of family and friends.

Tom Brokaw, a well-known journalist and news anchorperson on NBC, wrote a book entitled The Greatest Generation.  It was the story of the generation of Americans who lived through The Great Depression and then fought and won World War ll.  And, I am very proud at being numbered among that group.

Yet, Tom Brokaw never met men like my grandfather and all the other Western European immigrants who left their homelands to come to America seeking a new and better life for themselves and their families, many arriving with just the clothes on their backs.  In my estimation, it is they who are worthy of the designation as “The Greatest Generation.”

August 6, 1945 was no ordinary day.  Although the Allied Forces had achieved victory in Europe, World War II still raged on in the Pacific Theater.  The Japanese were, and remain to this day, an extremely proud race.  Demonstrating their resolve at Iwo Jima and Okinawa, they preferred to fight to the death rather than face dishonor by surrendering.  Many Japanese pilots became kamikazes: the equivalent of human bombs.  The devastation they left behind made the war more costly to the Allies, and the Japanese had hoped that we would cave in by suing for peace.   Even Japanese civilians were trained to counterattack their enemies with anything that could kill or main.  This included hastily fashioned weapons such as sharpened bamboo stalks.

The war had begun during President Franklin D. Roosevelt’s administration.  FDR had vowed that we would achieve unconditional surrender from our enemies.  When Harry S. Truman assumed the Presidency after FDR’s death, he was honor-bound to fulfill the wishes of his former Commander-in-Chief. And fulfill them, he did.

The atom bomb, or A-bomb, was classified as Top Secret.  Testing at Alamogordo, New Mexico revealed that this weapon represented an incredible, unprecedented level of destruction.   So secret was it that those on the “Need to Know” list were a relative handful.

With the A-bomb, the planned invasion of Japan was on the drawing board, along with the date, the time, and calculated cost of life.  President Truman agonized over whether to drop the bomb on a city, rather than a military target, or follow the original invasion plan and pay the price in American casualties.  In the end, he ordered that the city of Hiroshima be bombed on August 6, 1945.  On that day, accompanied by two other B-29 bombers, the Enola Gay unleashed the power of the atom and initiated the Atomic Age, devastating the city of Hiroshima.  After bombing another city, Nagasaki, Japan surrendered unconditionally to the Allies.

August 14, 1945 was declared VJ day.  All across America and the rest of the free world, crowds gathered and cheered to commemorate the peace for which we had prayed for four long years.  The famous photograph of a sailor spontaneously and joyously kissing a girl in New York City’s Times Square echoed the world’s elation.  The photo was widely circulated and reproduced.  Today a statue of this couple still stands in Sarasota, Florida; no doubt, other likenesses stand elsewhere in our nation.

On August 14, 2010, a reenactment of that scene will be held in Times Square to commemorate the surrender of Japan to the Allied Forces in the Pacific.

It was 65 years ago when that sailor kissed that girl.  As he was planting that kiss, I was sailing on a troopship in the Pacific Ocean, heading — literally — for a baptism by fire.  I was part of a massive armada sent to invade Japan.  But when the Captain of our ship announced Japan’s surrender, the invasion was no longer necessary.  Thus, I served my country in another capacity, by occupying Japan for a full year.  From October 1945 through September 1946, my fellow soldiers and I — Americans and European Allies — ensured the stabilization of Japan subsequent to its surrender.

I was recently interviewed by a reporter from The Courier Post, for an article that the newspaper is running with respect to VJ Day.  After she finished the formal interview, the reporter asked me, “As a veteran of that war, how do you feel about us no longer celebrating the days that finalized World War II — VE Day and VJ Day?”

I answered, “August 6th was not the official end of the war.  That took place in Tokyo Bay on September 2, 1945.  That is another day that is not celebrated; another day that gets lost in the Labor Day weekend, like other holidays set aside to honor God and country.”

Maybe something that occurred 65 years ago has no meaning to those who weren’t there.  But it still means something to me.  Those who sacrificed themselves for that war did so to protect the lives and fundamental freedoms of Americans as well as all who were oppressed, tortured, and murdered by the Axis Forces.

It has been rightly said that “those who do not remember the past are condemned to repeat it.”  For that reason, the study of World War II is immensely important and the reason why Americans and, for that matter, all inhabitants of this planet should both remember and commemorate events like VJ Day.

Related Post:  VJ Day: August 14th

Recently, I lost an old friend.  An e-mail from the daughter of my WWII Army buddy, Paul P. Bartels, informed me of his passing. After expressing my condolences to his family, I wondered what I might do to ease the pain of their loss.  Into my mind flowed the sagacious words of General Douglas MacArthur, in his address of April 19, 1951 to Congress on the occasion of his retirement from military life.  In summing up his career, the General stated proudly, “Old soldiers never die; they just fade away.”

Thoughts of MacArthur took me back to August 10, 1945, when I boarded a troopship in San Francisco Harbor bound for the Carolina Islands.  My ship was part of a massive Allied armada bent on invading the nation that had bombed Pearl Harbor: Japan.   Due to Divine Intervention, which was spurred on, no doubt, by my mother’s fervent prayers, that invasion never took place.  After we bombed Hiroshima and Nagasaki, Japan surrendered unconditionally on September 2, 1945.

When the war ended, I was no longer needed to serve as an infantryman.  Thus was I transferred to the 24th Signal Company on the Island of Mindanao in the Philippines.  I served my country as a member of a gigantic taskforce assigned to secure Japan and keep the peace following its surrender.  From Mindanao, my fellows and I shipped out again — this time, directly for Japan.

It was near the town of Matsuyama on the Japanese island of Shikoko that I first met Paul.  We were both assigned to the mess section of our Army camp.  Paul  drove the mess truck and I repaired, maintained, cussed at, and prayed over antiquated field stoves in order get the 24th’s meals out on time.

After a few months, the 24th Division was ordered to replace His Majesty’s Royal Cameron Highlanders, who were stationed at Okayama on the main island of Honshu. Mess Sergeant Werner Poppe selected our cook, Tony Prekosivich, our driver, Paul Bartels, and yours truly, who came to earn the moniker The Stove Man, to set up an advanced kitchen at Okayama.

In a two-and-a-half ton truck that also towed a small water carrier, we stowed all of our  necessary gear.  Over the island’s mountainous terrain, Paul maneuvered that truck like a pro, toward the ferry station on the inland sea at Takamatsu.  There, we boarded a ferry that would carry us to the town of Uno on the island of Honshu.  En route, the ferry captain invited us into the wheelhouse, where he cordially served us saki (rice wine).  That trip would create a fond memory for me in the years to follow.

Arriving at Uno, we motored to Okayama, where life unfolded in imitation of art.  Like a page out of a Rudyard Kipling novel, we were greeted by a band of welcoming, kilted Scotsmen.  Before their forces pulled out so that we could occupy the area, they put on a show for our division that featured the rousing Scottish dance, The Highland Fling.

We set up our mess hall at Okayama, near a barracks that housed officers.  Because it was summer, we noted with suspicion a wisp of smoke curling from the eave of the officers’ roof.  Rapidly, that wisp escalated into a raging inferno that caused a hasty evacuation by the officers.  One of our trucks was parked perilously close to the fire and had begun to smolder.  If the flames had reached the gas tank, it would have been a terrible, life-threatening disaster.  Without hesitation, Paul leaped into the smoldering truck and drove it out of harm’s way.  In all of the excitement, his act of heroism went unnoticed — but I will never forget it.

After a few months at Okayama, we were ordered to make our final move to the most southern island of Kyushu, near the town of Kokora.  Paul, yours truly, and the rest of the 24th Signal Company set up camp in the Kitagawa Racetrack area.  This would be our home until other troops would arrive to replace us.

During our occupation of Japan, we came in contact with the native people.  They could not speak English and we could not speak Japanese.  Our mode of communication was like a mad cross between Show and Tell and Charades, with the results often hilarious.  Paul and I often had a good laugh this way.

As the one-year anniversary of our landing at Matsuyama approached, rumors began to fly, hinting that we would be receiving our replacements. When the rumors proved true, it was a bittersweet departure.  We all shook hands, slapped each other on the back, and said farewell to our buddies, knowing full well that our paths would probably never cross again, at least, not in person.

After we returned to our respective hometowns and got on with our lives, we tried to keep in touch.  Annual Christmas cards, very much anticipated and cherished, contained letters of how our families were growing and what we had all been up to in the preceding twelve months.  But as years passed, that Christmas card list dwindled down to just three of us old soldiers.  With Paul’s passing, it is now just two of us: Pat Barbato and me.  Pat never fails to remind me that he wishes to be the oldest living World War II veteran, with me right behind him!

As I write this tribute to Paul and those days overseas, I hope I have enlightened his family as to how he served his country and enriched the lives of the people he touched. I believe that when General MacArthur said that old soldiers never die, he should have finished the phrase with “as long as they still live in the hearts and minds of family, friends, and the nation they served.” 

Have you ever had the experience in which you’d met a person for the first time and felt as if you had known him or her before?  Here in the States, we deem this a form of psychic phenomenon; the French call such occurrences deja vu.   No matter what you choose to call it, the experience leaves you a bit awestruck, and perhaps more than a bit.  You realize that life is not random, that it has a pattern, and even a purpose.  And sometimes you realize that, through your experience, you are meant to share what you have learned with others for an even higher purpose.  That is my aim in sharing this true tale with you.

My own deja vu begins in South Philadelphia, when I was boy during the 1930’s. Growing up in the vicinity of 10^th and Ritner Streets, my contemporaries and I were, for the most part, the children of hard-working, God-fearing immigrants.  Life was pleasant in my boyhood.  It would be years before the streets of Philadelphia were choked with cars, so it was easy for the kids in the neighborhood to have some good, clean fun playing stickball and other games in the streets.  Although I had my own circle of friends, I also had those “familiar strangers” that we all have in our lives.  Mine were the boys with whom I attended the same school.  I’d see them in the halls and around the neighborhood; although I’d recognized many faces and had casual encounters with the owners of those faces, I was “tight,” as we say today, with my own group.

In the blink of an eye, a single event forever changed my life as well as many other lives — an event that forced boys to become men overnight.  On the morning of December 7^th, 1941, the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor, thus providing our President, FDR, with the impetus to enter the United States into that long, bloody campaign known as World War II. I was not yet of military age, and neither were most of my friends and peers.  But as the war dragged on and more birthdays passed, Uncle Sam caught up with us via the draft.

One of the boys drafted from my South Philly neighborhood was Joseph A. Ermilio.  While Joseph was not a close friend of mine, I knew him from the neighborhood.  Enlisted into the Army on April 22, 1943, he trained as infantry and was not the first member of his family to serve his country in WWII; his brother Vincent was drafted in July of 1942.  After fifteen weeks of basic training, Joseph was slated to see active duty in the European theater.  There, he found himself in the heat of an invasion of Italy’s coast, near the resort towns of Anzio and Nettuno.

There is an Old Italian saying attesting to the beauty of Naples: “Vedi Napoli, poi morire” translates to,  “See Naples, then die.”  Unfortunately, during World War II, many American soldiers did just that.

In the predawn hours of January 22, 1944, British and American forces stormed the beautiful beaches in a flawless attack that caught the German defenders completely off guard.  Their high command had never expected an invasion in the months of January or February.  One paratrooper attached to the 82^nd Airborne Division remarked, “It was a warm, sunny day and you could hardly believe that there was a war going on — and that I was in the middle of it.”

Securing the beaches, the Allies drove the Germans inland, then stopped to regroup.  This small pause in our offense allowed the Germans to counterattack, with a vengeance.  In next four months, the Allied troops would see some of the most savage fighting in this war.

It was during this time that Joseph became a casualty of war, listed as killed in action. At home, the news of his death spread throughout the neighborhood.  By the time Japan had surrendered to the Allies, Joseph A. Ermilio would be the sole casualty of all the South Philly neighborhood boys who had served in WW II.

With the war ending, all of the neighborhood boys, who were now men who’d served our country, gathered at the corner of 10^th and Ritner to form a Social Club, which we called Club Gramercy.  As time passed, we all got married and drifted apart, as people do when they assume family life and the obligations that accompany it.

Many years later, in 1986 to be exact, two members of our club, Baby Joe Carabasi and Tony Griffoni, ran into each other in a supermarket in the Greater Northeast section of Philadelphia.  They vowed to get the old gang back together by networking through people that they both knew.  Baby Joe and Tony cobbled together a list, a list upon which the names of the original fifty-four club members emerged. In October of 1986, the first meeting of the Boys Of 10^th and Ritner (nee, Club Gramercy) was held at Vitale’s Restaurant in Northeast Philadelphia.

Over the years, my friends and fellow soldiers celebrated a ten-year anniversary at the Coastline Restaurant in Cherry Hill, New Jersey. Today, we are but a handful of that old gang and do not meet as often as we did.  But we do keep in touch.  In the many meetings we attended together, one name always came up whenever we would discuss what we’d seen and done overseas, during the war. That name was Chatty Joe Ermilio, a nickname given to Joseph by one of the neighborhood boys.  In my youth, South Philly was famous for nicknames in our crowd.  We had Nicky Blue, Baby Joe, Happy Joe and Happy Joe Jr., Duke Campisi, Fishy Yellow Gooney Ercolani, and many more monikers that would bring a smile to your face, as they did to ours.

As a writer for this website, I have contributed stories of my experiences, including tales of some of the people who have touched my life.  These stories, which you can find here, include An American Hero and The Boys of 10th and Ritner.  At the beginning of this particular story, I had promised to explain my deja vu experience, and I’m going to make good on that promise.

In researching some of the material and quotes for my articles, I came across a man named Joseph, who commented on An American Hero.  He said he was directed to my article when he entered his name into Google, and the search engine indicated this website.  It turned out that this Joseph was the namesake of his Uncle Joseph A. Ermilio — the same person whose name appeared in the article I had written, the uncle who had died protecting our freedoms in World War II.

Since then, I have spoken with Joseph A. Ermilio II and learned that he has a son who also carries the same name.  Joseph the II wanted to keep alive the memory alive of an uncle that he and his son had never known.  He told me that he is the oldest living member of his family, and had little knowledge of his uncle, but for the fact that he died an unsung hero on an Italian beach in World War II.  As fate would have it, the Internet directed him to find some history of his uncle in an article written by me, the boy who had once shared the same neighborhood, a wider circle of friends, and service to our country with that uncle.

Joseph the II also told me that his parents and grandparents had moved out of South Philly to Upper Darby, Pennsylvania, and that Upper Darby is where he’d spent his youth.  His grandparents never experienced closure for their son’s death, even though the soldier’s remains were returned to American soil in 1948.  They brought their unease with them when they, too, were laid to rest, leaving Joseph the II to ponder the life of his namesake.

In my conversation with Joseph the II, I gave him a list of contacts that could shed more light on his uncle’s early days of growing up in South Philly.  I reminded him not to wait too long to contact the other members of club, because time is not on our side.  He said he’d spoken with Joe DeGenova, who is mailing him information.

Was it fate, deja vu, or the hand of Providence that allowed me to connect with a direct relative of the only boy who never returned to our neighborhood from the war?  Was it technology that enabled many intervening years between my boyhood and the present day to collapse for a brief moment, even as those years expanded to illustrate how Joseph A. Ermilio still lives on in his bloodline, through descendents hungry for information about the infantryman who had died on the soil of his ancestors?  Or was it Joseph himself, reaching out from the great beyond to direct his nephew, in effect, to me — knowing that nephew was searching for answers? 

As I ponder these questions, I have no real answers.  However, it is hard to believe that a story I wrote could have such a dramatic ending.   In the final analysis, I don’t think that this was a coincidence.  I feel that this seemingly chance encounter with Joseph the II contains a message for the American people. I believe the message is to remember those who took risks and offered the supreme sacrifice in protecting the freedoms we too often take for granted.  There are certain times during the year, such as Memorial Day, that our nation sets aside for just this purpose.  Too often, we enjoy that holiday as a time to relax, forgetting why we really have the day off and who, in effect, gave us that day.

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?