Blog | IAVM

Linda Grisolia

February 24, 2021

Army Wolfhound Anthony Langone

A member of an Army regiment known as the Wolfhounds in Vietnam, Anthony Langone spent 30 days under siege in the jungle during the Battle of Boi Loi Woods.

The oldest of four sons born to Louis and Betty Langone, Tony Langone was raised in the Little Italy surrounding Taylor Street, where he still lives today. He attended Our Lady of Pompeii, Holy Trinity and St. Callistus grade schools and Holy Trinity High School, and fondly recalls the close-knit feel of the neighborhood. “I remember as a kid sleeping on the back porch and we never had to worry about locking doors,” he says.

Louis Langone

Langone was drafted into the Army in December of 1965. “I didn’t want to go in before Christmas, so I joined. My mother didn’t like it and I don’t think my dad liked it either.” His father was a World War II veteran, serving as an interpreter in Italy, and was wounded when ammo exploded while he was guarding prisoners.

Leaving home for the first time, Langone completed basic and advanced infantry training at Fort Polk, La. The soldiers knew they were headed to the jungles of Vietnam. Another soldier from Illinois told Tony, “When we get back home, I’m gonna throw the biggest party you ever seen on my farm and you’re coming.” But he never made it home alive, Langone laments. “Poor George, he made it home in a box, covered with a flag!”

In June 1966, Langone deployed to Vietnam. “I could never forget the smell of that country when I got off the plane. It was terrible. It smelled like a toilet!” Originally assigned to the 1st Cavalry Division, Langone was transferred to the 25th Infantry Division, 27th Infantry Brigade, 1st Battalion, a unit know as the Wolfhounds.

During his 13-month stint in Vietnam, Specialist 4th Class Langone served as a rifleman, ammo bearer, grenade launcher, tunnel rat, machine gunner and, at the end of his term, jeep driver.

He vividly recalls the search-and-destroy missions. “If anything moves, you shoot it.” The soldiers boarded helicopters and headed to the Landing Zone (LZ). Usually there were eight helicopters accompanied by two gunships to protect the soldiers on these missions. The doors of the chopper were never closed. “We’d sit down on the edge of the floor and our feet would be dangling on the landing skids,” he recalls.

Sometimes the LZ was “hot,” meaning that they were landing under fire. “When going into a hot LZ, as soon as we’d get down low enough, we’d jump, maybe two stories, into a rice paddy,” he explains. “You’re going into two feet of water and two feet of mud. We were all young so we didn’t care.”

Between battles, Langone’s unit returned their base camp at Cu Chi, about 20 miles outside of Saigon. There they took showers, slept in bunks and ate hot meals. A highlight was receiving mail from home. Langone’s mother routinely sent care packages filled with cookies, pepperoni and cheese.

Though relatively secure at Cu Chi, the soldiers were never far from the enemy. “Every day was like a battle, even when you’re in base camp,” he says. “There was a sergeant going home the next day. We got a mortar attack and he was killed!”

The Viet Cong dug tunnels camouflaged by the jungle and moved stealthily through them underground. As a tunnel rat, Langone went down alone with his .45 and grenades to rout out the enemy. “If I see anybody in there, so be it,” he says. “I’ll never forget the first guy I met in a tunnel. I saw him, he turned around and ran one way, I turned around and ran the other way. I went back and threw the grenade where he had run!”

The Battle of Boi Loi Woods was the worst that Langone was involved in. Two battalions went into combat against the Viet Cong and became trapped in the jungle for more than 30 days. The fighting was non-stop, day and night. “Charlie was constantly trying to attack us,” Langone says, referring to the enemy by their commonly used nickname. “Once we set up a perimeter, he couldn’t get inside so he tried to go around all different sides. We made sure there were no tunnels coming into our perimeter.”

Choppers dropped C rations and ammo to support the trapped soldiers. The men took turns resting in foxholes when they could. “We’d sleep with our eyes open,” Langone recalls. “I never knew you could do that until I was over there.”

The fighting was brutal. “I don’t even want to talk about it,” says Langone. They went in with two battalions and came out with one-and-a-half, with his battalion suffering the worst losses. “Thank God we got out of the jungle. A lot of my friends didn’t.”

To this day, Langone has a piece of shrapnel in his hand from that battle, but when his superior officer told him he was going to put him in for a Purple Heart, he refused. “I told him ‘No you ain’t. Not with all my friends getting killed out here!’”

Langone saw many a chopper get hit and go down. “Thank God I was never in one that got hit!” he exclaims. He has nothing but admiration for the medics who flew in on choppers to evacuate the wounded. “Those guys had to have guts like you wouldn’t believe to come into hot LZs while being fired upon to get wounded soldiers out and take them back for care,” he says.

As a jeep driver, Langone drove with his captain and groups of medics into villages secured by the South Vietnamese to administer medical care to civilians. “Every time Charlie saw us, they’d start shooting and some of the South Vietnamese would take their shirts off and go to Charlie’s side,” Langone recalls with renewed horror. “You didn’t know who to trust!”

Returning to the United States in July 1967, Langone was stationed at Fort Clayton in Panama, where he worked as a demolition expert guarding landmines being tested for Vietnam. He was discharged from the Army in December 1968.

Back home in Chicago, he worked as a truck driver until joining the Chicago Police Department in February 1982. Langone was a police officer for 25 years, earning 49 honorable mentions, a Reduction in Crime Award from the CTA, and a Department Commendation for his role in saving 13 people from a burning building.

Currently serving his second stint as president of the Italian American Police Association, Langone is also involved with the Italian American War Veterans in Berwyn, as well as the Knights of Columbus, St. Michael the Archangel Council.

Reflecting on his time in Vietnam, Lagone says, “I was doing it for my country.” He remembers watching his friends die and asking, “Why did it happen to him and not me?” And he remembers the horrific fighting in the Boi Loi Woods and praying, “God, please let me get out of here!”

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Linda Grisolia

February 17, 2021

Navy fireman Vince DiCarlo

Serving in the Navy at the close of World War II, Vince DiCarlo watched from a transport ship 10 miles away during the first atomic bomb test at Bikini Atoll.

The fifth of six children, Roger Vincent DiCarlo was born in 1927 in his parents’ home at 1121 S. Morgan St. His father, Settimio (Sam), and mother, Lucia (Zarlenga), were both from Pietrabbondante, Italy.

On Sundays, his family gathered with aunts, uncles and cousins to share meals for which “everything was homemade.” DiCarlo played “kick the can” in the streets where, he says, “We had to watch out for horse and wagons.”

The family moved to 4500 W. Van Buren St. when DiCarlo was 7 and he attended Sumner Grade School and Marshall High School, transferring to Crane High School before joining the Navy in 1945. “That was the mindset in those years,” he says. “I was a kid but I was ashamed to go downtown because I wasn’t in uniform.”

His oldest brother, Al, was in the Army fighting in Europe, and brother Floyd, a Marine, was fighting in the Pacific. DiCarlo, only 17, needed his father’s permission. DiCarlo remembers, “I just bugged that poor man until he finally said, ‘You know, what are you gonna do?’”

DiCarlo went to Great Lakes Naval Center for nine weeks of boot camp. His parents visited, bringing a box filled with his father’s homemade sausage and his mother’s bread. “I was quite embarrassed because you could smell that sausage,” DiCarlo says. As he returned to the barracks, his buddy, Dumbrock, asked, “Hey DiCarlo, what have you got? It smells so good!” Within minutes, he was surrounded and the food was gone. DiCarlo called home and said, “Hey dad, when you come out next week bring more sausage!”

After boot camp, Fireman 1st Class DiCarlo spent a short time at Camp Schumaker in San Francisco before boarding a troop transport ship. “I wasn’t thinking that something bad could happen,” he says. “You’re 17, you’re gung ho.”

The ship arrived in Tokyo Bay as the war ended and after a few trips carrying soldiers from various islands to Hawaii, DiCarlo was assigned to the former Japanese cruiser Sakawa.

He was among a crew of 165 doing the work of 325 getting the Sakawa seaworthy. Most of its systems were non-functional and the leaky hull was filled with rats. The sailors emptied filthy water from the bilges and got the boilers running again. DiCarlo worked a four-hour shift and the conditions in the boiler room were terrible. “It was very, very hot,” he recalls.

The former Japanese battleship Nagato was also in Tokyo Bay and they both shipped out on March 18, 1946, headed to Eniwetok. Ten days later, about 300 miles from their destination, the Nagato blew a boiler and radioed the Sakawa for help. DiCarlo was in the boiler room when the Sakawa pulled alongside to tow it, only to run out of fuel. The ships collided, making a booming sound and rattling the vessels. “We all went flying out of the boiler room,” DiCarlo says. “All I know is that I thought we were sinking!”

The ships bobbed in the sea for days before barges towed them to Eniwetok. While there, a USO show was held to entertain the troops. One of the crew members complained that he couldn’t attend because he had the 8 p.m. to midnight shift. DiCarlo told him, “If you want to go that bad, I’ll take your watch and you take my watch.”

Early the next morning, the chief awakened DiCarlo and a shipmate and told them to open up the main steam line to preheat the cold boiler room. The three of them went below, DiCarlo opened the main line and suddenly steam started shooting all over.

“We just barely made it out of there because that boiler room was 500 degrees in a matter of minutes,” recalls DiCarlo. “What happened?”

Hours later, when the boiler room finally cooled down, they discovered that gauges had been smashed, pipes cut and sand had been poured into the oil and water pumps, disabling the ship’s fuel system. Eventually five sailors, including the one that DiCarlo switched watch with, were found guilty of sabotage. DiCarlo explains that their motive was to put the Sakawa out of commission so they could be relieved of duty on that filthy ship.

After repairs, the Sakawa set off for Bikini Atoll to take part in Operation Crossroads, a pair of atomic bomb tests designed to study the effects of nuclear radiation. The target fleet consisted of more than 90 captured German and Japanese vessels and surplus U.S. ships loaded with equipment, animals and recording devises.

The first test, ABLE, took place on July 1, 1946. DiCarlo and crewmembers from the various target ships watched from troop transports about 10 miles off as a B-29 dropped a bomb on the target from above.

On deck, the soldiers were told to put their backs to the bombsite, squat and cover their heads with their arms. “We heard the countdown … 10, 9, 8 … It was exciting,” recalls DiCarlo. Then he heard a rumble “like thunder that didn’t stop, it just kept exploding and exploding and exploding.”

Five minutes later, the men were told they could take a look. “It just kept exploding on top of the (original) mushroom cloud and another one would explode on top of that and so on,” he says.

Back in the harbor, DiCarlo remembers seeing the USS Independence, an aircraft carrier whose deck had been filled with decommissioned planes. “There wasn’t a plane left on deck and it was pretty much mangled,” he says. “The Sakawa was listing on its side.”

He was below deck on the transport ship when he heard, “Crew members of the Sakawa, come up on deck.” DiCarlo scrambled topside to watch his ship sink, one of five that went under. The surviving ships weren’t dangerously radioactive and were safely boarded within a day. It was lucky for DiCarlo that the Sakawa sunk; otherwise, he would have been present at the second test on July 25.

During the BAKER test, the bomb was detonated 90 feet underwater, bathing most of the target fleet in radioactive spray. The ships were contaminated for weeks before brief on-board activities could take place. Many sailors present for the second test suffered the effects of radiation exposure.

DiCarlo was discharged in August 1946 after being in the Navy for a little over a year. At that time, a sailor was eligible for discharge six months after the war ended. That, in addition to the fact that his ship had been sunk, made the early discharge possible.

He returned home, surprising his family. “My nieces and nephews were outside playing; spotted me and got all excited,” he says. “Oh my God, you would have thought the King of Siam walked in … everybody was so happy.”

DiCarlo owned V & F Liquors in Chicago with his brother, Floyd. He has one son and two grandchildren.

Reflecting on his service, DiCarlo says, “The experience I had was tremendous. I went in a boy and didn’t come out a boy, that’s for sure!”

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Linda Grisolia

February 11, 2021

Marine machine gunner Paul Calabrese

Mere months before full-scale battles raged across Vietnam, Paul Calabrese engaged in deadly skirmishes in the jungles around his base camps to ward off enemy incursion.

The oldest of four sons, Paul Calabrese was born in Chicago to Joseph and Betty (Spindler) Calabrese. They lived in a family-owned six-flat on the West Side of Chicago until moving to Oak Park when Calabrese was 6 years old.

He recalls Sunday dinners and Christmas gatherings at his paternal grandparents’ home. “I remember grandma making raviolis all the time and they lived in the basement,” says Calabrese. He explains that his grandparents had a beautiful home, but family always gathered downstairs. “I never saw the upstairs furniture,” he says. “It was always covered with sheets.”

Calabrese attended Lincoln Grade School and graduated from Oak Park-River Forest High School in 1964. He attended University of Illinois for one year and, unsure of his career path, decided to work instead. Calabrese was employed at a machine shop in Cicero when he was drafted into the Marines in March 1966.

Both parents served in the Army during World War II, his mother as a secretary at the Pentagon and his father in the motor pool. They met at a USO dance in Philadelphia. “They didn’t want to see me in the service, but then again they were both service oriented,” Calabrese says. “They saw the obligation as well as I did.”

He completed boot camp at the Marine Corps Recruit Depot in San Diego and infantry training at Camp Pendleton and specialized as a machine gunner. After a brief leave, he was sent overseas to Vietnam. “At the time I felt it was inevitable, the war was starting to escalate and there was a certain naiveté on my part,” says Calabrese.

Assigned to the Weapons Platoon, Echo Company, 2nd Battalion, 5th Marines, Calabrese spent the first three months of his tour at a base in Chu Lai. The area around the base had been secured during previous combat and Calabrese’s platoon patrolled daily and set up ambushes to protect it. “If there was any engagement, the Viet Cong would augment the engagement most of the time,” Calabrese says. “It was their country; it wasn’t ours.”

His unit moved on to the town of An Hoa in the Quang Nam province about 25 miles west of Da Nang. “Chu Lai had a big military airbase and the same thing with Da Nang, another big military airbase and early on we were just there to establish perimeters around the base,” says Calabrese.

He was not engaged in heavy battle, but was constantly on patrol with his platoon, always alert to snipers and land mines. “I was doing my job of sorts … you’re young, 19, 20 years old.” Calabrese says. “You’re invincible.” He recalls an old saying, “Give a soldier testosterone and a cause and that’s all that’s required.”

Calabrese witnessed soldiers maimed and killed after setting off a land mine or tripping a booby trap. “I saw a sniper take a shot at the medic that was running to take care of a guy that got shot,” says Calabrese. “So it was more like a cat-and-mouse type of thing. It wasn’t like the big battles later on.”

A road built between Da Nang and An Hoa was called “Liberty Highway.” When at the base camp, Calabrese patrolled that road daily to ensure safe passage for convoys between the two points. Minesweepers checked for land mines.

At times Calabrese and his platoon were off the main base for three or four weeks establishing perimeters in a 30-40 square mile area in the foothills of the mountain range. “One week we would be around a battalion rear area, once again patrolling there and in the villages to make sure everything was okay,” Calabrese says. He explains that all the aggressions were on the part of the enemy. “If they felt they could engage us, they would,” he says. “Otherwise our ambushes very seldom were successful. They knew where we were more than we knew where they were.”

Calabrese was in charge of a machinegun team during a patrol when the North Vietnamese Army hit with an L-shaped ambush. He and his team were on opposite sides of the road. “They got killed and I didn’t. It just happens in a minute, like a blur,” he says. “I didn’t get scratched!”

His good buddy Joe was among those killed in that attack and when asked if he wanted to say goodbye to him, Calabrese said no. “I did not want to see my friend when he was killed,” he says, “It’s not like going to a funeral home.”

In a nighttime patrol, Calabrese and his platoon boarded rafts to cross a river into an unknown area and began their patrol. The soldiers were going up a hill when mortar rounds flew in. Calabrese was hit in his right forearm. He was immediately medevaced to Da Nang for preliminary surgery, stabilized and transported to Clark AF Base in the Philippines and then assigned to an AF Base in Okinawa. The shrapnel severed a tendon, which was reattached, the muscles were stretched and Calabrese underwent therapy to his arm. “It was really kind of ideal, clean sheets every night and I had three squares,” he chuckles. “It was like heaven.”

After six weeks in Okinawa, Calabrese was fit to return to his outfit. “My mother didn’t think that was the right idea,” he says. “She thought, ‘Oh okay, you got wounded over there, that’s it. You did your time over there, go home.’”

During his time in Vietnam, Calabrese corresponded regularly with his parents and received care packages. His mother sent Kool-Aid, candy and cookies, and his father sent a bottle of Jack Daniels every month!

Cpl. Calabrese’s Vietnam tour ended in November 1967 and he was stationed at Camp Pendleton until discharged in March 1968, receiving the Purple Heart for his injuries. Calabrese returned home to Oak Park and then attended Western Illinois University on the GI bill, graduating with a degree in fine arts and working in the printing industry for many years. Calabrese and his wife Linda currently own a successful catering company in River Grove. They have a family of four children and five grandchildren, and he is active in the VFW and the American Legion in River Grove.

Reflecting on his time in Vietnam, Calabrese says, “To be honest with you, the whole experience of the service in Vietnam is you are isolated. You went overseas by yourself. You join a group there and when your time is up, you just left. The group might still be there, but you came back by yourself.” He concludes, “It changed me forever and it gave me an opportunity to go to college.”

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Linda Grisolia

February 4, 2021

Army mechanic Anthony Iovinelli

A specialist in small-arms repair, Anthony Iovinelli kept his 36-man unit armed and ready while stationed on Guadalcanal.

The second of four children born to Joe and Ida Iovinelli, Anthony Iovinelli was born in 1920 and grew up in the Taylor Street Italian enclave near Peanut Park. His father emigrated from Naples and traveled alone to Chicago as a young teen to stay with cousins. Iovinelli attended Erickson Grade School and Manley High School and as a boy shined shoes at City Hall after school and on Saturdays. “I helped support the family. Things were rough those days,” he says. “I used to make $7 a week.”

Iovinelli was working for Illinois Lamp Co. when he enlisted in the Army in 1942. His older brother was already in the Army and would eventually serve in Europe as an ambulance driver. “All my buddies were joining,” says Iovinelli. “I felt it was my place to be in the war.” After basic training, Iovinelli transferred to Camp Wallace in Texas, where he completed anti-aircraft training and became a specialist in small-arms mechanics.

He boarded a troop ship with thousands of soldiers, ready for war, and deployed to the Pacific Campaign. “You don’t worry about it,” Iovinelli says, “You don’t think about going into battle.”

Iovinelli remembers zigzagging between islands to avoid being attacked by enemy aircraft and submarines. The voyage to Guadalcanal took 53 days with a one-day stopover in Samoa. “We had clear sailing all the way in,” he says. “We had a lot of protection though, with Navy ships all over.”

“When we first got in port, we saw dead men on the ground … bodies all over,” Iovinelli remembers. “I didn’t feel good about that. You’re gonna think, well, you saw that guy down there and that will happen to you, too … it goes through your mind that way.”

There were 36 men to Iovinelli’s gun crew and they slept in tents on the island. Iovinelli carried a pistol and a submachine gun. As a small-arms repairman, he made daily rounds checking all the guns — 40 mm, 50 caliber and M1s — to make sure they were always in tip-top working condition and ready for battle. In addition to maintenance, Iovinelli repaired all the weapons as needed.

The main mission of Iovinelli’s anti-aircraft gun crew was to protect the port, along with a submarine base and a small airstrip. Guns were placed in strategic positions throughout the area for the best protection from enemy gunfire. The ships carried supplies essential to the war effort, including replacement troops, ammo, artillery, food and whatever else was needed on the island. Planes damaged during battle landed on the airstrip to be repaired and then flew off to their next mission.

“Washman Charlie,” a Japanese raider, flew in at night, often twice a night, and bombed the islands, aiming for the ships in the port and the airstrip. He announced over a PA system, “I’m coming over to see you tonight. I’m coming over to give you a little bombing.” “He was a good pilot,” Iovinelli says. “He came in low, dropped his bomb and shot way up in the sky.” They finally shot him down near the end of the war. “He did a lot of damage … destroyed ships, destroyed planes.”

A great morale booster for the troops was entertainment by celebrities. Dorothy Lamour, Sammy Davis Jr. and Frank Sinatra performed for the soldiers. They flew in for a one-night show and left the next morning for another island. “That one night is terrific … you don’t have your mind on the war at all,” says Iovinelli.

Another morale booster were care packages from home, and Iovinelli’s mother regularly sent packages complete with spaghetti and jars of gravy, peppers and Romano cheese. As luck would have it, his uncle — who happened to be the same age as Iovinelli and was stationed nearby — tracked him down and flew in with some buddies from the old neighborhood for a two-day visit.

Iovinelli managed to procure meat for the gravy and he prepared a complete spaghetti dinner for the reunion. The men had all enlisted at the same time and that was the last time they were all together during the war. They all enjoyed the good food and camaraderie. Iovinelli invited his lieutenant to dinner, too. “I figured in case I get in trouble because of getting the meat,” he explains. “I wanted to be on the safe side.”

Word got around that Iovinelli knew how to make Italian food and when his crew needed a cook, he got the job. For two months, he prepared daily meals for the 36 men in his gun crew. Food was always plentiful and Iovinelli says, “I think we were getting better stuff here than we were getting in Chicago.” He especially enjoyed making pasta dinners for his crew and says, “I liked what I did, it made me happy when they were happy.”

Japanese soldiers often snuck in to raid their kitchens. One night, during his four-hour shift on guard duty, Iovinelli heard a noise in the dark. His captain told the men, “Whenever you hear anything shoot at it, don’t worry about it, shoot at it.” So Iovinelli shot! “Well … it was a cow!” he chuckles. “I emptied my whole gun on it and we had meat the next day!”

Unfortunately for Iovinelli, this incident happened while his buddies were visiting and they all wrote home about the story. “I got razzed for a whole year,” he remembers. “But I wasn’t going to take any chances. If it was a Jap, he was going to be dead.”

Iovinelli was stationed on Guadalcanal until the war ended in 1945 and he shipped home on an LST. He was discharged at Camp Grant in Illinois ranked as a corporal technician and returned home to his family at 5249 W. Drummond Place. He worked for Douglas Aircraft in California for a few years before returning to Chicago. Iovinelli married his wife, Kay, in 1950 and ran a catering truck business for over 30 years. Iovinelli has five children, 16 grandchildren and one great-grandchild. His wife passed away several years ago and he remains active with the local senior citizen group in addition to helping out with his son’s business.

Reflecting on his time in the Pacific Campaign on Guadalcanal, Iovinelli says, “If you’re gonna get it, you’re gonna get it, you don’t worry about it. I figured I love my country and I’m going to go fight for it.”

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Linda Grisolia

January 27, 2021

Marine gunner Giovanni Insolia

Persuaded by a smooth-talking recruiter to join the Marines during the height of the Vietnam War, Giovanni Insolia survived an endless round of helicopter assaults and enemy ambushes as a member of the ill-fated Foxtrot Company.

Giovanni Insolia grew up in Solarino, a small Sicilian town in the province of Siracusa. One of six children born to Paolo and Sebastiana Teodoro Insolia, he was surrounded by extended family throughout his childhood.

Insolia’s father made very little money as the town barber, in most cases receiving goods like wheat in exchange for his services. When his family emigrated to Chicago under the sponsorship of an uncle, Insolia wasn’t thrilled about leaving. “When you’re a teenager, it’s really a shocker,” he recalls.

In January 1961, Insolia boarded the Leonardo da Vinci with his parents, brother, and sister and crossed the Atlantic. “I had no idea what I was going to encounter,” he says. “We didn’t speak one word of English, none of us.”

Insolia lived near Fullerton and Austin, attending seventh and eighth grade at Burbank Grade School and freshman year at Steinmetz High School before taking a job at Zenith as an expeditor. “I didn’t finish high school because I had to work,” he explains.

When he was 17, Insolia registered for the draft. A smooth-talking Marine recruiter struck up a conversation with him. Enticed by discussions of guard duty at the Naples Embassy and weekends off to visit family and friends, Insolia asked: “Where do I sign?”

Insolia turned 18 on July 23, 1964, and left for boot camp at MCRD San Diego in August. Next came combat infantry training at Camp Pendleton, followed by more rigorous training at Camp San Mateo. He was assigned as a gunner with Foxtrot Company, 2nd Battalion, 1st Marines, 1st Marine Division.

In August 1965, the battalion shipped out, spending a week in Okinawa to acclimate to the tropical heat before sailing to the Philippines for a grueling stretch of survival and combat training at Subic Bay. “We departed as the newly formed Special Landing Force and Battalion Landing Team,” Insolia says.

The battalion boarded the aircraft carrier USS Valley Forge and prepared for helicopter assaults into South Vietnam. He fought in one engagement after another, most of the time operating a rocket launcher. “Some operations were worse, but then you become callous to the death around you,” he says.

He vividly recalls one particular mission: Operation Harvest Moon. “We all got ready for battle at 5 a.m., and we all felt the premonition of a bad one,” he says. Insolia was in the first wave of helicopters. As they approached the landing zone, a narrow rice paddy, the North Vietnamese began shooting from the tree line. “I’m talking about rockets, mortars, machine guns,” Insolia says. “Jump! Jump! Jump!” the pilot yelled. “We were sitting ducks,” Insolia says. “We got it from all sides.” His buddy just ahead of him got hit in the helmet with a mortar fragment. “He disintegrated right in front of my eyes,” he says. “Totally disintegrated.”

In the chaos that followed, the rice paddy irrigation trenches offered the only hope of cover. Insolia’s captain spread the word to concentrate fire on the tree line. Insolia and his buddy Koehler were ready to dive into the trench when Insolia felt a burning sensation in his upper right arm. “I think I’ve been shot!” he shouted, and Koehler dragged him through the muddy paddy into the trench. As they looked back, there was a huge hole where the two of them had been standing minutes earlier. “You talk about divine intervention,” Insolia says. “The mortar would have hit both of us.”

Ambushed and trapped, the men of Foxtrot Company were left to fend for themselves. As darkness fell, they formed a defensive perimeter around the wounded. Those with “minor” wounds lay next to the more severely injured to give them comfort. “We laid there the whole frickin’ night,” Insolia says. He tearfully recalls his team corporal dying next to him with no help in sight. Finally, at around 4 a.m., choppers from Company E, 2nd Battalion, 7th Marines swooped in and spirited them to the hospital ship. In all, 18 Marines were killed and 53 wounded during the assault and rescue.

Insolia recovered at a naval hospital in Japan and returned to his dwindling company, which was no longer based on the naval carrier but at Phu Bai Combat Base in central Vietnam. Operation New York, a search-and-destroy mission, was worse than Harvest Moon. With Foxtrot taking the lead, the Second Battalion was passing through a cemetery when the Viet Cong were suddenly shooting from the trees. Under fire, Insolia ran to tell the others to attack, but to no avail. Foxtrot Company was decimated, and Insolia was assigned to Golf Company.

While on patrol with his new company, he was once again ambushed. Insolia passed out from heatstroke and came to surrounded by soldiers burning leeches off his body with cigarettes. The medic later explained that he was very concerned about Insolia’s high body temperature and, when he spotted a rice paddy from the air, he instructed the pilot to land. Insolia was immediately dumped into the water to cool down. An undetected shrapnel wound in his hand had attracted the leeches. He quickly recovered and returned to duty the next day.

Returning from patrol in Phu Bai in August or September 1966, Insolia was medevacked from Da Nang to Great Lakes Naval Station. “Something happened, and I don’t know what,” Insolia says. When his mother visited him for the first time, he couldn’t carry on a conversation with her. “I think I was in shock,” he says. “One full year of combat in the jungle with no transition to civilization.”

He was treated at Great Lakes for three months and given “medical retirement.” His rank was Private First Class. Among his many decorations were two Purple Hearts and two Presidential Unit Citations as well as a Combat Action Ribbon, National Defense Medal, Vietnam Service Medal, Vietnam Campaign Medal, Vietnamese Gallantry Cross with Palm Unit Citation, Vietnamese Civil Action with Palm Unit Citation and Republic of Vietnam Meritorious Unit Citation.

Insolia’s transition to civilian life was difficult. “I left my buddies behind,” he tries to explain, “my brothers in arms.” He eventually enjoyed a successful career working for Alitalia for 23 years before opening his own travel agency.

Insolia is married and has three children and four grandchildren from his first marriage. He suffers from PTSD and has a host of health issues attributed to Agent Orange exposure. It’s in his nature to reach out and help others, he explains. “It’s an obsession, trying to camouflage what’s really going on inside me: what I’ve done, what I’ve seen … too many deaths.”

Insolia remembered sitting in silence during his many patrols: waiting, listening and looking through the trees for danger. “It’s a sense you develop,” he says. “There was never any fear, just a high level of alertness.”

He is proud to be a Marine, cherishing reunions with Foxtrot survivors during which they remember their battles and drink beer. “You’re the very first (civilian) I’m talking to about it,” Insolia says. “I appreciate it because something positive is happening anyway.”

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Linda Grisolia

January 21, 2021

Army Sergeant Louis Mirabelli

Originally assigned to the Army Finance Branch in Kentucky, Louis Mirabelli soon found himself behind the controls of a tank on the battlefields of Korea.

One of six children, Louis (Lou) Mirabelli was born in Chicago. His parents, Enrico and Mariane (Mirabelli) Mirabelli, emigrated from Cosenza. The growing family moved from apartment to apartment in the vicinity of Taylor Street and Hermitage. “It seemed like every time the people would raise the rent, my father would say, ‘OK, let’s pick up our furniture and move someplace else’ … the old Italian custom,” Mirabelli says.

The Italian neighborhood was a haven for Mirabelli and his brothers, sisters and cousins. Kids played games in the street, and during the warmer months, their parents and paesani sat on the front stoops sharing coffee, cookies, watermelon or whatever they had.

Christmas was always at the Mirabelli house. “There was no question about it; everybody showed up there,” he says. The children, all nine of them, were put into one bedroom. “We had to pretend like we were sleeping because Santa Claus came at midnight, and they’d wake us up,” says Mirabelli. The festivities continued through Christmas Day, and every woman cooked. “They made everything … every kind of cookie,” Mirabelli recalls.

He graduated from Notre Dame Grade School and St. Philip High School, excelling in football. Mirabelli remembers Fr. Moran visiting, blessing the house and leaving with a jug of his father’s homemade wine … for masses, of course! After graduating, Mirabelli worked as a machine serviceman at Elliot Addressing Machine Company. He was drafted into the Army in 1951. “You get a paper, you had to go for a physical,” Mirabelli says. “You’ve been drafted and you went. That’s all.”

He reported to Fort Sheridan for initial processing and then to Fort Knox, Kentucky, for Basic Training with the Third Armored Division. Mirabelli learned the ins and outs of tanks, including operations and basic mechanics. Next, because of his knowledge of office equipment like addressing machines, Mirabelli was sent to Fort Lee, Virginia, to serve in the Army Finance Branch as a machine instructor at a newly created training school for Army Payroll Operations. Three months later, the school still had not opened, and Mirabelli was put on a train to California where he boarded a crowded troop ship to Korea.

During the two-week trip, he and his buddies didn’t talk about the war. “I really didn’t give it much thought,” Mirabelli says. “We had a little phonograph and listened to music.” He disembarked in Pusan, South Korea, and waited for orders along with the other soldiers.

Mirabelli was assigned as a driver on an M4 Sherman tank with A Company, 72nd Tank Battalion, Second Infantry Division. He and a crew that included an ammunition loader, a gunner and a tank commander nicknamed their tank “Agitator.” They supported infantry soldiers by clearing fields for troop movement, providing artillery cover and knocking out hillside fortifications. “When something happened, we’d get a call. They’d say, ‘Get in the tank, tanks are moving out, infantry is moving out to a certain hill,’” Mirabelli says. “They gave us bearings where we had to fire our weapons, and we’d fire large cannons at the North Koreans.”

Battles raged back and forth over the 38th Parallel in the rough, hilly terrain. The Americans would cross over the line and then get pushed back as the North Koreans crossed in the opposite direction. Thousands of soldiers fought for their lives in the hills, which offered protection and gave observation, artillery and mortar advantage to whichever country controlled them.

Between battles, Mirabelli and his crew kept their tank clean, loaded with gas and ammunition, and ready to move out at a moment’s notice. At night, they slept in rat-infested bunkers dug into the side of the hill and relied on heat from the tank engine for warmth. “There was a time when you wonder why you’re there,” Mirabelli says. “You’re fighting for your country!”

On Christmas Day 1952, Mirabelli and his crew were in their bunkers anticipating a holiday dinner when the call came in. “We jumped into our tanks and went up the hill to protect the troops that were out there, and that was it [Christmas or not],” Mirabelli says.

Mortar shells flew through the air, one of them hitting Mirabelli’s tank. “The sound was very loud, very deafening,” he says. “It hit the bogey wheels, and we were stranded.” Mirabelli switched places with the gunner, and the shells kept coming down. “One of them found its way through the broken hatch up on top and exploded inside the tank,” he says. Mirabelli’s left leg was hit. “All I know is when the explosion happened, I didn’t know what happened to me,” Mirabelli says. “The next thing I knew, the helicopter came down, and they put me in the basket.”

The chopper flew Mirabelli to a MASH unit for treatment. Laying there, talking to a doctor, he heard, “Do I hear the voice of Lou Mirabelli?” The medic on the other side of the curtain turned out to be Howie Johnson, an old football buddy. When his wounds were stabilized, Mirabelli traveled to a Tokyo hospital for surgery. While recuperating, he was presented with the Purple Heart. After three months, he returned to Camp Crowder in Missouri and was discharged.

There were a couple of bright spots while Mirabelli was stationed in Korea. “My sister sent me date nut bread in cans every few weeks,” he says. Mirabelli shared the bread with his crewmates, and they all looked forward to this special treat. Also, the Salvation Army somehow managed to safely follow the soldiers from hill to hill to provide them with donuts and coffee. “The Salvation Army was great,” he says.

Mirabelli enjoyed a successful career in furniture sales. He and his wife, Elvira, whom he married six months after returning from Korea, have been happily married for 66 years. They have three children — Enrico, Jodi and Lou — who gave them 14 grandchildren and 10 great-grandchildren.

Named after his grandfather, Enrico is a prominent family law attorney, former president of the Justinian Society of Lawyers, and current general counsel and board member of the National Italian American Sports Hall of Fame. His sister, Jody, recently retired from the media department at Moraine Valley Community College, and their brother, Lou Jr., operates Sweet Lou’s Chicago Style Dogs in Phoenix.

Shrapnel remains in Mirabelli’s leg as a reminder of a time he does not like to talk about. “Our country picked on us to go, we went and that was the end of it. We just did what we were told. No heroes, no nothing, just serving your country. That’s it.”

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Steve Corbo

January 14, 2021

Army Ranger Sammy DiTusa

Part of an elite strike force that led the charge to unseat Panamanian dictator Manuel Noriega, Sammy DiTusa and his battalion left the country 20 days later with a victory in hand.

On Dec. 17, 1989, President George H. Bush gave “Operation Just Cause” the green light, setting in motion the U.S. invasion of Panama. The goal was to capture Panamanian dictator Manuel Noriega and restore democracy to Panama. The invasion was set for the predawn hours of Dec. 20, a scant three days later.

The lead elements of the invasion represented a cross section of the U.S. military’s finest. They included Navy SEALs, Marine Force Reconnaissance, Delta Force, Air Force Special Operations, and the U.S Army’s elite 75th Ranger Regiment. They were to secure critical objectives such as Noriega’s personal boat and aircraft, seize and control Rio Hato Airfield, knock out radar installations and pave the way for the almost 26,000 U.S. troops to follow.

The 2nd Battalion/75th Rangers parachuted into the Panamanian sky at 1 a.m. in the U.S. military’s first combat night jump since World War II. Among them was Specialist Salvatore “Sammy” DiTusa from Melrose Park.

The son of first-generation Italian Americans Salvatore Sr. and Catherine DiTusa, young Sammy grew up in a family with a rich military tradition. “My father was the youngest of five brothers. His four older brothers served in WW II, and my father saw combat in the Korean War,” DiTusa says. “I grew up listening to their stories and joining the military was something I always wanted to do.”

Born at St. Anne’s Hospital in Chicago, DiTusa grew up on the West Side of the city until the age of 11, when his family moved to Melrose Park. A graduate of Stevenson Elementary School and Proviso East High School, he was a standout athlete at Proviso East, where he starred on the football, track and hockey teams. He also got pretty good with his dukes, learning to box at LaFollete Park and added several amateur fights at Chicago’s fabled Boston Ballroom to his athletic resume.

“When I volunteered for the military I wanted the toughest training available,” DiTusa explains. “I enlisted in the Infantry, became a paratrooper and got a chance to try to become an Army Ranger.” He entered the Army on Oct. 1, 1987 and was sent to Ft. Benning, Georgia, for basic and airborne training. “I enjoyed the physical aspect of the training and I passed with flying colors,” he recalls. “It was the Ranger indoctrination program that truly tested me, both physically and mentally. To this day, completing that program and being awarded the distinctive black Ranger beret remains one of the proudest moments in my life.”

After training, DiTusa was assigned to the 2nd Battalion of the 75th Ranger Regiment at Ft. Lewis, Washington. While stationed at Ft. Lewis, DiTusa and his Battalion got the word, and began immediate preparations for combat. On Dec. 19, 1989, DiTusa and his fellow Rangers boarded 13 C-130s and took off from Fort Lewis’ Lawson Army Airfield. It was their D-Day!

“We were loaded with equipment, dressed in full combat gear,” DiTusa says. “Between my rifle, helmet, my ruck [backpack], parachute and other miscellaneous items, I was carrying about 100 pounds.”

The flight from Ft. Lewis took eight hours, and DiTusa had the distinct honor of being on the lead bird, the first plane in, with the battalion commander and sergeant major. He was one of the very first Americans to land in Panama.

“The plan was to parachute in and jump from 500 feet,” he says. “As we approached our drop zone, we started taking incoming fire. Our C-130 was riddled with enemy rounds. We could hear them hit and pass through our plane! Taking evasive action to avoid being shot down, our pilot veered down and banked sharply. We jumped immediately at an altitude of 450 feet. Within seconds we were on the ground.”

As a result of jumping from such a low altitude, their parachutes barely had time to fully open, and upon landing, many of the Rangers suffered serious injuries from the impact.

“When my parachute opened, the lines tangled and I began to spin out of control,” DiTusa says. “Training took over, I kicked my legs and bicycled until my chute stabilized. Just as it did, I hit the ground hard, landing alone in eight feet of elephant grass. I immediately came under enemy fire, so I crawled on my belly, returning fire with my own weapon until I came upon a road. I got my bearings, knew where I was and knew I had to cross that road to hook up with the rest of my platoon. But there was a Panamanian vehicle covering the road. I fired on the vehicle, which momentarily caused them to take cover. That gave me the window I needed to cross that road and meet up with my unit. I had been missing for about an hour; they thought I had been killed.”

One of the objectives of the operation was to secure Noriega’s Beach House. There, they came across a treasure trove of everything from the best alcohol money could buy to gold, jewels, weapons and anything else imaginable. “We all grabbed souvenirs, but everything we took was taken away from us!” DiTusa recalls. “Teams of U.S. customs agents were flown in to fully search everybody departing Panama. Anything we weren’t issued was confiscated.”

DiTusa was able to leave the country with one special souvenir. “Noriega had a pool table, and as we were getting ready to leave, my squad members and I each grabbed a ball from Noriega’s pool table. I got the 8 ball and I still have it today!”

“Operation Just Cause” officially lasted from Dec. 20, 1989, to Jan. 31, 1990, but DiTusa’s unit returned to the U.S. after 20 days of combat. Total U.S. casualties were 23 killed and 325 wounded.

For his service and combat action, DiTusa received the Armed Forces Expeditionary Medal with Arrowhead device for making a combat assault, the Combat Infantry Badge and a coveted Bronze Star to his jump wings, signifying his participation in a combat jump. Since the end of World War II, only a handful of Army paratroopers has been entitled to wear that combat star on their jump wings.

After leaving the Army, DiTusa was offered the chance to serve as a police officer in Seattle. Stationed at Ft. Lewis and living in the Seattle community, it was a natural fit. He stayed 20 years and retired.

He then moved back home to where it all started, living in the Chicago area. He is presently employed by Southwest Airlines and works with kids in a local boxing gym. He recently appeared on national television working in the corner of one of his fighters.

During World War II, more Italian Americans served in the U.S. military than any other ethnic group. Sammy DiTusa kept alive that spirit. He has forged his own history and rightfully takes his place among the ranks of previous generations of Italian Americans who have proudly sacrificed and served our country so well.

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Linda Grisolia

December 20, 2020

Naval NCO Georgiann Callaway

Opting for the Navy instead of college, Georgiann Callaway found professional fulfillment and adventure on six continents during a stellar 20-year career.

Georgiann “Gigi” Callaway was born in Chicago and grew up in LaGrange Park, one of four girls born to Andrew and Ann (Beres) DiDonato. Her father’s family was from Calabria.

Callaway enjoyed a close relationship with her paternal grandparents, who lived in the Little Italy around Taylor Street. “It was Sunday at my grandparents’ house,” says Callaway. Aunts, uncles and cousins gathered together for pasta. A cherished memory is making ravioli with her grandmother.

Callaway attended Forest Road Grade School and graduated from Lyons Township High School. Her parents owned a restaurant and encouraged her to go to college, but Callaway, undecided about her future, did not want to waste their hard-earned money on tuition. “I think I’m going to take a year off and work,” she told them. Callaway found a job downtown working at a garment company. During the week she lived with her grandparents and, depending on her plans, went home on Fridays to spend the weekend with her parents. A year later while having lunch at the family restaurant her mother said, “It’s time to apply to go to school.” Callaway replied, “Well, I’ve been thinking about joining the military.” Her mother stood up, “gave that wave that mother’s always give” and said, “You’re all talk!”

Six of seven uncles had served in the military in World War II and Korea. Callaway remembers looking at their pictures and asking her mother questions about what they did during the war. She was intrigued with their experiences. “I was the type of kid that any patriotic movie or song came on, it just pulled at my heartstring,” she says.

The next day, 19-year-old Callaway went to the recruiter’s office downtown, not sure which branch she wanted to enlist in. The uniforms were all on display and she had to make a decision. “I looked at what was the prettiest uniform,” she says. Callaway spotted a “gorgeous powder blue seersucker suit,” saw it was Navy and immediately joined for four years. Her mother and grandmother urged her not to tell her father and grandfather. Friday evening came around and as usual her grandfather asked, “Is Gigi coming for dinner?” Her grandmother replied, “Tony, I have to tell you something.” About the same time her father asked her mother, “Ann, is Gigi coming?” Her grandfather upon hearing that Callaway joined the Navy immediately phoned her father, who yelled, “What! She did what!?” By that time, Callaway was on a plane to Orlando for basic training. “Knowing my father or grandfather, they would have gone to O’Hare and tried to talk me out of it,” she says.

Callaway graduated from training school and was assigned to Midway Island working for the Judge Advocate General’s Corps (JAG) officer on base. During her 18 months there, Callaway became a scuba diver and voluntarily assisting scientists in defining different species.

An avid diver, she applied for Explosive Ordnance and Disposal (EOD), a field newly opened to women. Callaway was accepted into the first female class and called home to share the exciting news. Her father asked, “What is EOD? What does that mean?” She explained she would be learning to attach, detach and disarm bombs. “What!” her father yelled. “Please, please … ” “It was more than he could take,” says Callaway.

After talking with her dad and hearing his anguish, she asked for a desk job instead and deployed to Meridian, Mississippi, for Yeoman school. Noticing something special in Callaway, her superiors asked her to “challenge the course.” They felt she could complete the eight-week course in two weeks, and she did. When asked what she wanted to do, Callaway responded, “Something exciting: Joint Chiefs of Staff, NATO, Embassy duty, something exciting like that.” She was assigned to a spot with NATO but first needed to learn French through the Defense Languages Institute. After completing the intensive course, Callaway envisioned going abroad to serve in one of the 13 (at that time) NATO countries. Much to her disappointment, her orders sent her to Norfolk, Virginia.

Callaway was assigned to the Ambassador to International Affairs, working with Ambassador Anderson handling classified information, and found both her work and Anderson to be extremely interesting. Callaway was very young and felt that working for Ambassador Anderson was like having a grandparent on hand at times. “When he needed to be professional, he was very professional, but when he saw that I needed guidance, he would go into that role, which was very, very nice,” Callaway says. While stationed in Virginia, she met and married her husband, Michael Callaway, a Merchant Marine.

She worked with NATO for three years and, looking for an “exciting European assignment,” Callaway decided to stay in the Navy. “I wanted something different,” she says. “It would be a chance to go and see Europe, which I did, both on leave and while working there.” Callaway accepted an offer with the Naval Investigative Service in Rota, Spain. Her job was again classified, working for nearly four years with criminal activity and counter intelligence. “After that tour, I didn’t want to know what I knew anymore, so to speak,” Callaway says. She asked to get out of that field into a new rating called Navy Counselor.

Callaway attended school in Pensacola, Florida, for recruiting, part of the Navy Counselor rotation. The only female in the class, Callaway was the top recruiter. During her three-year stint, headquartered in Columbia, South Carolina, Callaway’s territory included the southeastern part of the state plus northeastern Georgia. Her son, Jonathan, was born while Callaway was stationed in South Carolina.

Next in rotation was the Family Service Center in Charleston, South Carolina. Callaway assisted deploying sailors with any issues they or their families might have. “We did briefings on deployments and what services were available for families and deploying units,” Callaway says. “I loved that job.”

Eight months later, it was decided that Navy Counselors would no longer be part of Family Service Center. Callaway was transferred to Mine Squadron 2, the only female assigned to that staff. “It was not a pleasant time,” she says, “probably one of my least favorite tours.” Fortunately for Callaway, her shore tour was almost over and it was time to go to a deploying unit.

When her detailer (a person in charge of assigning Navy personnel to various commands) told her, “You can go wherever you want to go.” Callaway replied, “Anywhere south sounds fine to me.” He said, “Okay that’s a deal.” She was transferred to Point Mugu, California, and deployed south to Antarctica where she had four tours of duty, spending five to six months at a time at McMurdo Station with the National Science Foundation and detachments in Christchurch, New Zealand and Williams Field, Antarctica.

As Navy Counselor, Callaway negotiated orders for anyone in her unit. Navy personnel talked to her about continuing in or changing their career, or where to go in their next rotation. If someone had a problem with their job, they came and talked to Callaway. She compared her job to that of a school counselor. Negotiating orders over the Antarctic satellite phone system was very difficult and phone time was precious. Callaway had an arrangement with her Commanding Officer, a pilot, to use his call time when he was flying. She phoned Washington, D.C., speaking with detailers to find the best duty for her charges and stressing that they shouldn’t hang up, but transfer the call if and when she needed to speak with a different detailer.

At the Golden Anchor awards ceremony

Needing to communicate with all military personnel at Christchurch, McMurdo Station and Williams Field to keep them aware of various policies and ongoing events, Callaway began writing a newsletter. To make sure it was read, she printed a sports section showing scores from games played between crews and also included a section about funny things that happened around the detachments. It morphed into a popular periodical Callaway named “The Polar Press,” a publication that everyone looked forward to reading. She found her Antarctica duty to be very interesting. “I enjoyed the exciting part of being somewhere where not a lot of people deployed to,” Callaway says.

She completed her tour at Point Mugu as Base Counselor and won two Golden Anchor Awards for the base. A Golden Anchor is a worldwide competition on retention for recruitment and programs offered to the sailors and their families. Only the absolute best win the prestigious award. Callaway helped Point Mugu win two back-to-back Golden Anchor Awards, a high note to end her 20-year military career. She was discharged in February 1997 as Navy Counselor First Class. Her deployments took her around the world, having lived in or visited six of the seven continents; only South America remains for her to visit. Her most memorable times during her military career were serving for the Ambassador to International Affairs and becoming the founder and first editor of “The Polar Press.”

Callaway returned to the Chicago area and began a second career in Human Resources from which she is now retired. She is a member of various organizations, including Sovereign Military Order of the Temple of Jerusalem, DAV and NRA. A longtime member of the American Legion, Callaway is proud to serve as the American Legion Fifth District Judge Advocate and the American Legion First Division Commander for the state of Illinois. She also currently serves as the Director of State Echelon 8 of Twenty and Four, the Honor Society of Women Legionnaires.

The Navy gave Callaway the excitement she was looking for. “Funny, I was working with scientists at the beginning of my career and around birds (Laysan albatross), and at the end of my career, I’m with the National Science Foundation and a different type of birds (emperor penguin),” Callaway says.

Her military decorations include: National Defense Service Medal, Battle “E” Ribbon, Navy and Marine Corps Commendation Medal [Personal], Navy Commendation Medal, Navy Achievement Medal, Meritorious Unit Commendation Medal (with one star), Good Conduct Medal (with four stars), Sea Service Deployment Ribbon (with two stars), Navy and Marine Corps Overseas Service Ribbon, Antarctic Service Medal, Expert Pistol Medal, and Gold Wreath Award (with three stars).

“I think that everybody should serve,” Callaway says. “If you really, truly want to find out what America is, live in a different country. Live outside the U.S. for more than two weeks. You have an appreciation for who we are and the liberties that we truly have.”

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Linda Grisolia

December 17, 2020

Army Pfc. Frank Clarizio

Frank Clarizio wasn’t even 20 years old when he took part in one of the pivotal clashes in World War II: The Battle of the Bulge. At one point in the five-week-long fray, howitzer in hand, he squared off against a Nazi tank.

Frank Clarizio enlisted in the Army at the age of 18 and was assigned to the 106th Infantry Division.

Clarizio sailed on the SS Manhattan in November 1944 and landed in Liverpool, England. On his way to Le Havre, France, he saw the ravages of war. Buildings were toppled; bricks and broken glass lay strewn about the streets. The bridges on the Seine River were blown up. Clarizio remembered, “The twisted metal pieces looked like pretzels in the sky.”

Clarizio’s battery pushed on to St. Vith, Belgium, to the Battle of the Bulge. He was on patrol when suddenly, enemy guns opened up. He jumped into a foxhole, breaking through the ice into freezing water. Gunfire ripped the air. His lieutenant jumped in, said, “Stay right here, enemy is coming,” and left. Nineteen-year-old Frank Clarizio crouched in the cold, wet foxhole for hours, not knowing if anyone else was around. He was wearing only a field jacket … no gloves, no boots. Gunfire ceased and Clarizio crawled out of the hole and just made it to his bunker when explosions filled the air. In the morning, he crawled out and said, “I’m still alive.”

Clarizio spotted a German tank rolling toward him and his squad. He ran to the howitzer; loaded, fired and missed. The tank fired back. Clarizio reloaded and hit the tank with a ricochet shot. The tank fired and missed again. The third shot, a dud, hit the tank. The tank rolled closer. Clarizio reloaded, fired and hit the tank. It exploded into a ball of fire. “I heard men screaming,” he whispers.

The squad packed up the guns and moved on through the woods, snow and mud bogging them down. From the top of a hill they saw a column of German tanks approaching. Clarizio and his sergeant moved the howitzer into position and the officer said, “I’ll load, you shoot.” Clarizio fired at the first tank, blew it up and continued to hit several tanks. He had two grenades and threw one down the hill and used the other to blow up the howitzer as he and the sergeant fled.

Only a small group of soldiers remained. Communications were cut off; they were lost and surrounded by the enemy. Clarizio was one of four soldiers chosen to go and “make contact with someone.” The four marched down the narrow forest road, cold, wet, tired and hungry. Clarizio felt the effects of the icy cold foxhole on his feet and legs and lagged behind the others. He told them to go ahead, but they would not leave him. Suddenly, they heard an approaching vehicle. The men hid, two on each side of the narrow road with their guns drawn. It was an American jeep carrying four officers, including their colonel. The soldiers relayed the battle details. The colonel gave them some rations, showed them their location on a battle map and told them where to head.

A farm woman gave Clarizio and his fellow soldiers food and shelter. The men stayed at the farmhouse a couple of days, sleeping with the windows open in case they had to leave fast. Not trusting anyone, they took turns guarding themselves. One day, the woman screamed, “German’s are coming, get out of here!”

The soldiers fled and Clarizio’s feet were getting worse as they headed for Liege, Belgium. There, at a medical station, Clarizio’s shoes had to be cut off. His feet were frozen and his legs were in bad shape. After being bombed out of a couple of hospitals, Clarizio finally made it to Camp Carson hospital in Colorado in April 1945. He and three other soldiers were the only survivors from his unit.

While recuperating there, Dinah Shore visited Clarizio’s ward. She sat on the edge of his bed and said, “Hi soldier, how are you doing?” She put her arms around him, kissed him and said, “I’m here to sing some songs for you. What would you like to hear?” He answered, “You Belong to My Heart.”

After receiving a Certified Disability Discharge, Clarizio returned to Chicago and found a job where he met his future wife. He married and was employed as a furniture salesman before opening his own store, Clarizio Furniture. He retired in 1996, and passed away peacefully on April 7, 2012, surrounded by his wife and three daughters.

To read Steve Corbo’s incisive synopsis of the Battle of the Bulge, click here.

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Steve Corbo

The Battle of the Bulge

By late Fall 1944, British, Canadian and American troops had cut across France, liberated Paris, pushed into Belgium, and crossed the German border. So swift and complete was the Allied advance, the prevailing thought was the war in Europe would be over by Christmas of that year.

Completely unknown to the Allies, the Germans had massed almost 250,000 men and some 1,000 tanks opposite their positions in Belgium’s Ardennes Forest. The objective was to attack through the lightly defended American lines, drive all the way to Antwerp and cut the British and American forces in two.

In what may be the single greatest U.S. Intelligence failure in the Second World War, the German attack commenced with a 90-minute artillery barrage at dawn on Dec. 16, 1944. So complete was the surprise, top Allied commanders were initially slow in responding. They believed Germany was all but defeated and had neither the manpower nor materiel to launch such an assault.

With inexperienced American troops taking the brunt of the initial attack, the Germans quickly advanced through the American lines. Thousands of GIs were killed and thousands more taken prisoner. This created an inroad, or bulge, in the American lines, hence the name “Battle of the Bulge.”

Isolated pockets of U.S. troops, often greatly outnumbered, fought desperately to slow the advance while reinforcements were rushed to the scene. Poor weather aided the German efforts, but the weather cleared on Dec. 23 and the U.S. Air Corps attacked with a vengeance. By Dec. 25, the advance had effectively stalled. One month later, the Germans had been pushed back to their original positions. The war in Europe would drag on for another four months.

U.S. casualties from the five-week battle numbered roughly 75,000, of which 8,400 were killed, 46,000 wounded and 21,000 listed as missing or captured. German casualties are estimated at about 100,000 along with the loss of materiel and equipment that would never be replaced.

Several veterans associated with the museum fought in the Battle of the Bulge. They include Medal of Honor recipient Gino Merli and reconnaissance trooper Larry Maffia, whose stories are spotlighted in our exhibits, and paratrooper Louis Venditti, whose remarkable tale will be added to our Hometown Heroes display in 2021. So did Frank Clarizio, who was featured in our award-winning documentary, “5,000 Miles From Home.”

— Steve Corbo

To read more about Frank’s military history, click here.

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