War Stories

Linda Grisolia

June 30, 2021

Army Sergeant Casey Presta

As a member of the 34th Infantry Division during World War II, he battled his way up the peninsula where his father was born.

One of five children, Ferdinand Prestia was born in 1921 to Peter and Jenny (Tavolina). His father immigrated to Chicago from Marsala, Italy, by himself when he was 17 years old. The family moved several times during Prestia’s childhood, always in Italian neighborhoods, before settling in the 3900 block of West Flournoy Street.

Prestia graduated from Sumner Grade School and attended Crane Tech High School. Over the years, his father worked hard to bring his brothers, sisters and parents over from Italy, and Prestia grew up with many relatives close by. “At that time, you had a big family you all get together,” he says. “Christmas, my mother would bake everything.” He remembers his mother as a good cook. “She used to make breaded veal, out of this world,” Prestia says. “That was a favorite, everybody’s favorite, I guess.”

Baseball was a popular pastime for Prestia, his brothers and friends, and they played whenever they could. During a game, someone called him “Casey at the Bat” and the nickname, Casey, stuck and remained with him through life. “My mother called me that; my father called me that; everybody called me that,” says Prestia.

He was working at a tailor shop when he was drafted into the Army in October 1942 and completed basic training at Fort Carson, Colorado. Prestia remained there for a year learning survival and combat skills as an infantry soldier in both the mountains and jungle. “We didn’t know where we were going to go,” he says.

Prestia was assigned to the 168th Regiment, 34th Infantry Division, and in June 1944 boarded a ship for a 10-day voyage across the Atlantic Ocean. “We were lucky no German boat was allowed to sink us,” says Prestia. After a two-week layover in North Africa, he shipped to Naples and remained in Italy until December 1945.

Fluent in Italian, Cpl. Prestia led patrols from Naples through Rome and the northern Apennines, searching for Germans. He carried a Thompson submachine gun and a .45. “Well every nighttime, they wanted somebody to lead a patrol to talk to the Italian people; that was me,” he says. “We’d go around to the Italian people and ask them ‘Did you see the Germans? Were the Germans here?’” Most of the patrols were at night to avoid being seen by the German soldiers.

Day and night, Prestia and his fellow soldiers were always on the move looking for the enemy, in and out of many towns, taking shelter when and where they could. “Sometimes you slept; sometimes you never slept and sometimes you didn’t get anything to eat,” he says. After about 30 days on the line, the soldiers were pulled back. “If you’re lucky, you get a rest … a shower and something hot to eat,” Prestia recalls. In the mountains, they ate K rations. “You got to eat it,” he says, “or starve.”

Going through the mountains was treacherous, and, “It was cold, plenty cold,” says Prestia. One night they came across a bomb-damaged house and the lieutenant told his men to go inside. Prestia noticed a wood-burning stove along the wall. “Boy I wish this thing would throw some heat,” he said to the others. “No sooner than I said that a bomb comes through the roof, lands about two inches away from my stomach, never went off,” he says, shaking his head in disbelief. The soldier next to him gently picked it up and carefully carried it outside. “There was a whole bunch of us in there. If it went off, I don’t know how many would have been killed,” Prestia says. “I tell you, I prayed to the Lord. I said, ‘Give me another day.’ When you go to war, it’s day by day. You live today, you don’t know if you’re going to die tomorrow.”

He had many close calls. One night, Prestia took his turn in a foxhole. “All of a sudden someone takes a shot at me, and I could feel that thing a couple inches from my head,” he says. “I could feel the breeze alright.”

Another night, taking shelter in a dark barn, Prestia lay down to get a few winks, felt someone next to him and said, “Hey, move over!” No response. “I was sleeping next to a dead German!” he says, voice rising with emotion. “I didn’t know that. Yeah, I had a lot of fun,” Prestia adds sarcastically.

Walking through a town where the Germans had fled, Prestia suddenly heard someone call out behind him, “Comrade!” He quickly turned to find a German soldier surrendering to him. “I didn’t know where his gun was. Maybe inside the house where he was hiding,” he says. “But he could have shot me.”

One night, the soldiers took shelter in an empty cow barn. “We go in, take our stuff off. I don’t know how long we stayed, until the lieutenant says ‘Saddle up men, we’re going out,’” Prestia says. They were about 50 feet away when a bomb flew in and flattened the building. “If we were in there, God knows how many would have got killed.”

One of Prestia’s cousins was also in Italy, and on a particular night they were both under attack on the mountain. After a gruesome shelling by the Germans, Prestia’s unit was pulled off the line. He was handed a note from his cousin that read, “I’m hit! I’m in the hospital.” Prestia hitched a ride to the hospital in Naples for a quick visit with his cousin, whose leg was torn up by shrapnel. Unfortunately, the doctors couldn’t save his leg. Prestia later spent six weeks in that same hospital when he became ill with hepatitis and jaundice.

Prestia remembers being at the Piazzale Loreto in Milan, where he saw the bodies of Mussolini and his mistress, Claretta Petacci, a horrible sight. “They were on the ground. They tied their feet with rope and upside down they hoisted them,” he says.

When the war ended, Prestia became a mess sergeant and cooked for the soldiers but was rotated home before he could receive his sergeant’s stripes. Prestia was discharged on Dec. 31, 1945, and returned home to Chicago. He married his wife, Jeroma “Jerri” DiGangi in 1946, and they have two sons and two grandchildren. They were married for 72 years until Jerri recently passed away. Prestia is retired from the car parts business.

“I was lucky in a lot of ways; survived about four times that I should have been dead. You worry about your life everyday, one day to another,” Prestia says. “War is hell! I don’t want to see anybody go to war.”

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Linda Grisolia

June 24, 2021

Navy Corpsman Rich Morbidoni

Assigned to Plane Captain School after boot camp during the Korean War, his dream of entering the medical field came true when he transferred to Hospital Corps School.

The oldest of two children, Richard Morbidoni was born at Norwegian American Hospital in Chicago. His parents, Alfredo Flora (Ricci), were both born in Castelfidardo, Italy, the accordion capital of the world. Alfredo came to Chicago when he was 17 years old to work in his uncle’s accordion factory. Flora immigrated with her mother and siblings when she was a toddler, taking a train from New York to San Francisco where her father was working. Morbidoni’s grandmother didn’t speak English and made the long voyage alone with three children under the age of 5. “You talk about pioneers and heroes, those were the pioneers and heroes,” Morbidoni says. “My grandmother was really a super, super person.”

Morbidoni grew up in the Logan Square neighborhood and attended St. John Birchman Grade School and Tuley High School, graduating in June 1952. He remembers Sunday gatherings with his aunts, uncle and cousins. “My mom was the best cook and baker,” Morbidoni recalls. “My sister and I always called her the Queen of the Raviolis; nobody made them as good as she did.”

With a 1A draft status and knowing he could be called up at any time, Morbidoni joined the Navy, leaving for boot camp at the United States Naval Training Center in Great Lakes, Ill., on Sept. 4, 1952.

It was the first time he was away from home. “I thought I might be homesick,” Morbidoni says, “but I felt fine.” After four weeks, his parents were allowed to visit and came every Sunday.

Morbidoni was interested in becoming an aviation photographer, but because there were no openings at the school, he transferred to the Naval Air Station in Pensacola, Fla., for Plane Captain School after graduating from boot camp. He was responsible for two planes, keeping them fueled, cleaned and ready to go. He would have the plane up and running before the pilot instructor and student came and then went through the checklist with them, signing off on it. Once the plane was in the air, Morbidoni had free time and became bored with this type of work. As a kid, he wanted to be a doctor, pharmacist or a dentist. “I always had a thing about the medical field,” he says.

When he learned of an opening as a striker for on-the-job training in sickbay, he interviewed and was accepted. He worked in the treatment room for three months, learning the basics of patient care, including giving shots.

Next came 20 weeks of intensive training at Hospital Corps School in Portsmouth, Va. A Navy corpsman cares for the sick and the injured. Morbidoni studied anatomy, physiology, pharmacology and lab work every day. “I loved it; that’s what I always wanted to do,” Morbidoni says. At night, he did chores and studied. Rules were strict, with lights out at 9 p.m. because the day began at 5:30 a.m. “We went to the head (bathroom), sat on the floor with our coffee and studied until 11 or so,” Morbidoni recalls.

He was assigned to the contagious ward at the naval hospital in Charleston, S.C., for a short time and then transferred to the “dirty surgery” ward. Patients were treated for such ailments as pilonidal cysts, hemorrhoids and vein strippings. “Well, I loved it,” Morbidoni says. “You really had to know what you were doing. This is where I learned to be a corpsman.”

After six months, Morbidoni was assigned to serve as the master-at-arms in charge of security at the Corps quarters where he lived. He periodically checked the grounds and buildings to make sure lights and plumbing were all in tip-top shape, and kept records in the logbook. “At first I kind of enjoyed it because it was a little less intense,” Morbidoni says. “After a while, I wanted to go back to corpsman work.”

In October 1954, he was transferred to Camp Pendleton, Calif. “I thought, for sure I was going over to Korea,” Morbidoni says. Instead, he attended Marine classes with other corpsmen for four weeks, learning how to live and practice medicine out in the field. Next he trained on the obstacle course and the infiltration course. Cold-weather training took place at Pickle Meadows, Nev. “That had to be the worst week of my life,” recalls Morbidoni. Finally, after more drills, exercises and class work, Morbidoni shipped out on the General AW Brewster, a troop ship. Recalling the crowded, horrible conditions on the ship, he says, “I wasn’t really happy about it.”

The ship entered the port in Kobe, Japan, on Feb. 14, 1955, after 17 days at sea. Morbidoni was on deck as the sun rose. “I remember thinking, ‘The Land of the Rising Sun’ and here I am experiencing the rising sun.”

Morbidoni was stationed at Camp Fuji, attached to the Third Marine Division in the C Med outfit. Initially he worked in supply and records and then became an X-ray technician. “I liked that because I was taking care of patients,” Morbidoni says.

Occasionally, Morbidoni’s outfit left camp. “We would do whatever we had to do and then come back,” Morbidoni says. LSTs (Landing Ship Tanks) took them to such places as Chigasaki Beach, Iwo Jima, and Inchon, Korea. They carried the casualties on cots from the LSTs to the hospital ship.

During one of these landings, Morbidoni’s foot slipped on the wet rope ladder while climbing down to the landing boat in the rolling sea. His buddy, Felix Valdez, lifted his legs back onto the ladder rung. His quick actions saved Morbidoni from being crushed to death between the two ships.

Morbidoni was the lead petty officer one night when he made the call for a chopper, saying “I have a guy that if he doesn’t get to the hospital soon, he’s gone.” He loaded the patient into the ambulance and headed to the landing area where vehicles waited to shine their lights to guide the chopper in. Morbidoni rode along with the patient as they flew through the mountains, with its lights off to escape enemy detection. He got the patient safely to Yokosuka Naval Hospital and then had to find his own way back to camp. “I felt good, that was my job,” Morbidoni says. “I just was doing what I was supposed to be doing.”

After 18 months in Japan, Morbidoni departed for the states on Aug. 1, 1956, and was discharged on Aug. 23, returning to his family in Chicago. His rank was 2nd class petty officer.

Morbidoni served in both the U.S. Navy and U.S. Army Reserves from 1976 to 1987 and remains active in numerous veterans as well as Italian-American organizations. He had a dental supply business for 30 years and was employed as superintendent of the Veterans Assistance Commission of Cook County for two terms.

Morbidoni loved his time in the Navy and remains in touch with several of his fellow corpsmen. “The military is a brotherhood that nobody understands unless they’ve been in it,” he explains. “It’s something special.”

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Linda Grisolia

June 17, 2021

Army Sergeant Luco Clarizio

After guarding the Korean DMZ for most of his tour of duty in the Army during the Vietnam War, Luco Clarizio watched over fallen soldiers returning to the States, escorting their caskets from the airport to the cemetery.

The oldest of two sons born to Dominick and Mary (Viola) Clarizio, Luco was brought into this world by his maternal grandmother in a fourth-floor walk-up on Loomis Street in Little Italy. “I was born blue, and my grandma put me in the oven,” he says. His parents were born in Chicago, and his grandparents emigrated from Calabria and Bari.

The family lived on Loomis Street for four years until his parents divorced. Clarizio and his younger brother lived briefly with the Viola family before moving in with his father, grandfather, aunt and uncle. Eventually, they bought a two-flat on the South Side of Chicago. Clarizio grew up surrounded by aunts, uncles and cousins on both sides of the family. “I had two places to go and two places to eat,” he says. “It was really nice. You didn’t go a week without seeing them. Everything was family oriented then.”

He graduated from Luke O’Toole Grade School and attended Harper High School, playing many sports. “My biggest fan, Uncle Botty, was at every game,” Clarizio says. “He was like a father to me because we all lived together.” His Aunt Antoinette also lived with them. “She made the homemade raviolis, and I used to help her,” Clarizio remembers. “She gave up a lot of her life to take care of us.”

Graduating high school in January 1966, Clarizio was offered baseball and football scholarships to several Big Ten universities. He was in the middle of college visits when he was drafted in July 1966. “Uncle Sam gave me a nice diploma,” Clarizio chuckles. “I was shocked. I expected to go to school, to tell you the truth.”

He reported for his physical downtown, where they were drafting for the Army and Marines. The men stood in line in their skivvies as they were counted off: Army, Marine, Army, Marine, etc. Clarizio was selected for the Army. “I went downtown, and I stayed downtown,” he says. “My dad had to come and get my car. I didn’t get to say goodbye to nobody.”

Clarizio boarded a train to Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri, where he completed Basic and Advanced Infantry Training. He was assigned to the Seventh Infantry Division, 13th Engineer Battalion. “We were being trained for Vietnam. Then our whole company caught spinal meningitis, and we were all hospitalized for about two weeks,” Clarizio says. By the time they recuperated, the troops had already deployed. “Everything was messed up,” he says. Clarizio’s company was reassigned to Korea. “Everybody [in the family] was happy I went to Korea,” he says, especially because his father and three uncles served during World War II, with one fighting in the Battle of the Bulge.

Clarizio arrived in Korea in January 1967 and was stationed at Camp Casey, near the Demilitarized Zone. In camp, he lived in barracks, but as a member of the Combat Engineers, he spent most of his time in the field. The first night, fully clothed in his sleeping bag in below-zero temperatures, he could not get warm. “I never was so cold in my life,” says Clarizio. His sergeant yelled, “Take your clothes off, dummy!” Clarizio undressed, warmed up in his sleeping bag and fell asleep. He woke up for guard duty and grabbed his clothes, which he had flung outside the sleeping bag. “Everything was frozen, and I had to put all that stuff on and get up the hill and walk the guard duty,” Clarizio says.

His job was building and maintaining roads, Bailey bridges and floating bridges; demolishing any obstacles that stood in the way; and keeping the trucks in tip-top shape. He also rotated on guard duty. “We had to protect our bridges, and we had to worry about infiltrators that would come across [the DMZ]. We were busy all the time,” Clarizio says. “Whatever they wanted, you did.”

The soldiers rode in the back of dump trucks with their duffel bags as they traveled from one workplace to another. Upon arrival at Camp Casey, the sergeant asked who was Italian and who was from Chicago. “There were six of us, and I didn’t know what they wanted,” he says.

They were chosen to guard the duffel bags. The South Korean people were very poor, and as the soldiers jumped on and off to shovel sand onto the roads or perform other duties, “slicky boys” jumped onto the trucks, threw the gear down and ran off with it. “They would steal anything, so you had to watch them,” Clarizio says. “We were told, ‘Anybody who comes on the truck, you throw them off.’”

Bridges were especially vulnerable, as the South Koreans would pillage them for steel parts. “They knew exactly what to take off,” says Clarizio. “If you tried to go across, it would collapse.”

Children, some carrying younger ones, watched the soldiers as they ate. “I’d say, ‘Here, take this,’ and gave them food,” he recalls. “You feel guilty even though it’s your food … little kids begging for your food,” Clarizio says. “It was a rough time for me because I wasn’t used to it at all, and to see all the [poor] people … it was a sad state.”

Clarizio became acting sergeant and was promoted during his 13 months in Korea. He returned to the States in 1968, was once again stationed at Ft. Leonard Wood and lived in the barracks with the trainees. “Everywhere they went, I went,” he says.

Clarizio volunteered to escort bodies returning from Vietnam. “I didn’t know what it would entail,” he says. Clarizio represented the Army as he met the casket at the airport and stayed with it until burial. He met with the soldiers’ families and stood at attention at the funeral home. “Whatever [the family] wanted us to do, we had to do,” Clarizio says. “If they wanted us to open it, we had to open the casket, but you’d try to talk them out of it.”

Clarizio was discharged in July 1968 and returned to Chicago. He married Mary Lou Ingram in 1969, and they have five children and seven grandchildren. Clarizio drove a truck for 30 years and was a fireman/paramedic in his community for 17 years. He also managed the ground unit for the Air Angels, a company that provides emergency air transport.

Had it not been for spinal meningitis, Clarizio would have deployed to Vietnam. Reflecting upon that, he says, “I went wherever they sent me, did the orders they gave me and tried to make the best of it that I could.” Remembering the escort duty, Clarizio says, “There were so many bodies coming home. It really upset me because I figured I should have been in Vietnam, but I don’t know. I might have been dead, too … you don’t know.”

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Linda Grisolia

June 10, 2021

Army Specialist 3 Guy Cardarelli

Stationed in Germany more than a decade after World War II, Guy Cardarelli witnessed firsthand the lingering devastation wrought by fierce Allied bombing.

Guy Cardarelli and his twin sister, Judy Ann, were born in Chicago in 1935 to Guido and Marie Mele Cardarelli. They lived behind the family grocery store/meat market on 5^th Street and Kedzie Avenue. Cardarelli’s father immigrated from Morrovalle, Italy, and his mother’s family from Castelvetere in Campania. His father passed away shortly before Cardarelli’s fourth birthday, and the family moved in with his maternal grandparents and uncle in the North Austin neighborhood.

Cardarelli grew up in a very traditional Italian family. “My grandfather was the head of the household,” he says. “When he came home and blew his horn, it was time to sit down for supper.” Every Sunday, the family gathered for dinner at his grandparents’ home, a tradition that continued even as the family grew. “The special Italian dish in our family was ravioli stuffed with ricotta cheese,” Cardarelli recalls.

His grandfather’s homemade wine was always on the table. “It made no difference whether you were 4 or 40,” says Cardarelli. “We grew up with wine as another beverage. If you wanted to have some, that’s fine.”

Cardarelli graduated from St. Peter Canisius Grade School and Austin High School. He was accepted to St. Joseph College in Indiana but decided instead to work while attending night classes at Wright Junior College. Knowing he would eventually be drafted, Cardarelli went to the Draft Board and said, “Push my number up.” Soon after, in August 1954, he was drafted into the Army.

After basic infantry training, Cardarelli was assigned to advanced training as a clerk/typist at Camp Chaffee, Arkansas. Once completed, he became a member of the Quartermaster Corps, which acquires, maintains and distributes supplies. Shortly thereafter, he boarded a troop ship on the East Coast and set off into the stormy North Atlantic in January 1955. “I may have been out of the hold once or twice, but most of the time, you couldn’t leave the hold because it was so dangerous,” Cardarelli says.

After 10 tumultuous days, he disembarked in Bremerhaven, Germany, as part of the Army’s massive postwar presence and boarded a train to Frankfurt where he was assigned to Strassburg Kaserne in Idar-Oberstein. After a short stint in the supply warehouse, he was transferred to the base fire department. One day, Cardarelli was outside the firehouse when a civilian car came speeding up and the fire chief yelled, “Get in. Get in. Get in.” They raced over to civilian quarters on base to find smoke billowing out of the maid’s lower-level apartment. They broke in, and the mattress was in flames. The fire chief grabbed the woman and took her for medical attention. Cardarelli dragged the mattress outside, tore it apart and watered it down. The fire department showed up soon after and put the fire out.

Cardarelli was complimented for his quick actions. When orders came through for a transfer, the fire chief invited him to stay on as a member of the fire department, but Cardarelli declined. He moved on to the Cambrai Fritsch Kaserne in Darmstadt, Germany, a former Panzer base where the accommodations were “pretty comfortable.” The brick building housed 30 soldiers. “I was in the Headquarters Company, so we had even better accommodations,” says Cardarelli.

Cardarelli occasionally pulled guard duty while at Cambrai-Fritsch. One day, he and another soldier were at the main gate when a German taxi came through. Cardarelli and his fellow guard immediately stopped the car and told the driver to leave. He refused, got out of the car and began yelling. Cardarelli momentarily turned away and looked back to see the other soldier raise his MI rifle and hit the driver in the head with the rifle butt, knocking him to the ground. “I couldn’t believe it,” says Cardarelli. He called the corporal of the guard, and the Military Police soon arrived to handle the situation.

Cardarelli also worked with Labor Service crews made up of displaced people from across Europe who were given food, lodging and uniforms, and employed in clean-up efforts. The U.S. Army had confiscated private homes for officers to live in right after the war, and now they were preparing to return the homes to their owners. Cardarelli would head out into the community with the crews to remove furniture and appliances that belonged to the U.S. government. “Something really hit me while we were doing that,” Cardarelli says. The items were taken to a mud-floor warehouse and stacked one on top of the other. “They were all getting damaged, and I thought to myself, ‘You know, the government is not going to get much use of this stuff,’” says Cardarelli.

The bomb shelters scattered throughout the town also made an impression on Cardarelli. “They had big steel doors,” he says. The shelters must have come in handy during the war given the level of devastation in the town. More than a decade after the war had ended, many of the buildings were still in partial ruin because of the bombing, with missing roofs and walls. Cardarelli recalls a particular business, Roma Pizza, that was operating out of one such building. “There was still a great deal of destruction, and it hadn’t been repaired yet,” Cardarelli says. The autobahn remained largely unused, with a cobblestone street serving as the main thoroughfare between Darmstadt and Frankfurt.

Cardarelli was 5 years old at the start of World War II and vividly remembers ration books, air raids and blackouts. His Uncle Tony earned a Bronze Star while fighting in Italy with the 10^th Mountain Division, and he also acted as an interpreter. At 20 years old, Cardarelli was now witnessing the aftereffects of the war that captured his imagination as a child.

Cardarelli’s family sent him $100 to visit relatives in Italy, and he happily met aunts, uncles and cousins on both sides of the family. He left Germany for the States in August 1956, serving two years of active duty and one year in the active Reserves. His time in the Reserves was spent in monthly meetings at the National Guard Armory in North Riverside and training at Camp McCoy, Wisconsin. Cardarelli was discharged as a Specialist 3.

With help from the G.I. Bill, Cardarelli earned a bachelor of science in education from Illinois State University and a master’s degree in theater arts from Northern Illinois University. He also did grad work at the University of Arizona.

Cardarelli enjoyed three successful careers. He was a high school teacher for 30 years, including two years teaching children of military personnel at Kaiserslautern High School in Germany. He also was a commercial photographer and a licensed talent agent. He has two stepchildren with his wife, Rita, three grandchildren and one great-grandchild.

Reflecting on his Army experience, Cardarelli says, “It really was a great benefit to me, and I do appreciate it.” He adds, “I admire the men who went to battle, who were in combat. My uncle, who was my hero, fought in the Second World War, and I knew what he went through.”

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Linda Grisolia

May 28, 2021

Air Force Specialist Dominick Gobbo

An electronics specialist for the Air Force at the tail end of World War II, Dominick Gobbo also did a 21-month tour of duty as an aircraft operator in Korea.

Editor’s Note: Ralph passed away March 2017. This article was published in the April 2016 issue of Fra Noi and is being republished here in his memory.

The youngest of five children born to Sicilian immigrants, Dominick Gobbo was born on the kitchen table in his family’s home at 1147 Townsend St. in Chicago. His parents, Vito and Victoria (LaPorta) Gobbo, wanted to raise their kids in a better neighborhood, so when Gobbo was 3 years old, they bought a building on Sheffield and Grace.

Gobbo attended St. Mary of the Lake Grammar School, transferring to St. Vincent DePaul when his family moved. While in seventh grade, he saw a movie with his dad, telling his teacher about it afterward. “Well,” Gobbo recalled, “the nun didn’t approve of the movie and sent a note home saying it was wrong.” Gobbo’s dad immediately transferred him to Mulligan Grammar School.

After graduating from Lane Tech High School, Gobbo attended Wright Junior College, registering for the draft on his 18th birthday in December 1943. Given the options of choosing a branch of the military or having the choice made for him, he picked the Air Force. “I didn’t want to go in the subs,” he explained. “I didn’t want to sleep in foxholes. I thought, ‘If I die, I’m gonna die in a ball of fire, that’s it.’”

Gobbo reported for induction in February 1944. Thinking he was only going for a physical, he ended up swearing in and immediately boarding the train to Fort Sheridan. “I was surprised,” recalls Gobbo, who had assumed that he would have 60 days after reporting to spend with his family. “My mom was waiting for me to come home and eat!”

Gobbo deployed to Keesler Airfield in Biloxi, Miss., for basic training, followed by 26 weeks of radio mechanic training at Truax Field in Madison, Wis. Six weeks of electronic school came next at Chanute Field in downstate Illinois. Gobbo then completed advanced electronic training at Boca Raton Field in Florida. While there, he fabricated classified material known as “windowing.” Bombers were equipped with these strands of aluminum foil, which they discharged into the night air over Germany or France. A diversionary tactic, the strands were picked up by enemy radar, giving the illusion of a tremendous air raid.

Gobbo was attached to the Third Air Force, 88th Bombardment Group, 316th Bombardment Squadron, whose main mission was coastal defense. He patrolled along the southern shores of the Atlantic as well as the Gulf of Mexico.

One of his responsibilities was maintaining the IFF, the radio system used to identify friend or foe. Gobbo said that technology was in a constant state of flux during World War II, becoming outdated soon after he studied it. “Nothing was for certain,” he explained.

During his free time, Gobbo attended dances. He fondly recalls a buddy of his who always carried a camera. Whenever he saw a pretty girl, he would snap her picture and ask for an address to send the photo. “He never had any film in the camera,” Gobbo chuckled.

When the war ended in Europe, Gobbo’s unit regrouped for an attack on Japan, which never occurred thanks to the bombing of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. He was discharged in May 1946 at the rank of corporal.

Gobbo returned to Chicago after the war, working for the family business, which supplied other companies with coal, oil and building materials. He planned on working three days a week while attending college, but when Texaco Oil Co. approached them with a contract, three days a week became five.

In March 1950, Gobbo joined the Inactive Reserves. “A friend of mine talked me into it,” he explained. “[It was] something to do on weekends.” Once a month, he reported to Orchard Air Base, now called O’Hare Airport, for training and maneuvers. Five months later, Gobbo received a telegram from President Harry Truman telling him to report for 21 months of active duty in a “police action” in Korea. “I never thought I’d end up on active duty,” Gobbo remembered. “My mother was ready to kill me!”

After deploying to Shaw Field in South Carolina for a crash course in radio operator code and maintenance, Gobbo was assigned as a senior aircraft operator for the recently issued C46 military transport plane. The aircraft was equipped with long-range fuel tanks, enabling it to fly 2,400 miles without stopping. The nonstop flight from South Carolina to Sacramento, Calif., went off without a hitch. Journey legs between California and Japan included Hawaii, Johnson Island and Guam, after which the plane was deemed ready for combat.

Gobbo was stationed in Fukuoka, Japan, about 90 miles from Busan, Korea. Roads were practically nonexistent in Korea and especially impassable at night and in the winter. “Everything had to be brought in by plane,” Gobbo noted

. “Every day, whatever they wanted, we brought it round the clock.” The C46s hauled paratroopers, gasoline, food, supplies, bombs and petroleum products to the battlefront, returning with POWs and the wounded. “You name it, we did it!” Gobbo exclaimed.

During the battle at Wonsan, the U.S. Navy was firing artillery shells to stop the advance of the North Korean army while Gobbo and his crew flew back and forth, evacuating U.S. troops as quickly as possible. The planes returned filled to capacity, with the wounded lying on stretchers in the aisles.

Artillery explosions roared as the C46s continued the evacuation. “You’re so scared you’re not scared: It’s a horrible feeling,” Gobbo recalled. “You don’t want to show that you’re afraid, lest it become contagious. It’s surreal, like it’s not happening.”

When he wasn’t flying, Gobbo lived 12 men to a tent on an airbase in Fukuoka. Conditions were terrible, Gobbo said, but “we got used to it.” Every 60 days, he received a care package from home: a whole wheel of provolone that he hung from a string and divvied up with a knife for all to share. The aroma of cheese filled the tent, prompting a master sergeant to complain that the tent smelled like dirty feet. One night, after several drinks, he tried the provolone and fell in love with it.

Gobbo finished his tour in January 1952, returning home to Chicago as a sergeant. He remained in the inactive reserves until 1957. He joined his brother in an asphalt company, later taking over the business until his retirement in 1990. Gobbo met his future wife, Mary Ann, at a Catholic youth dance and they married in 1955. They raised three children in Park Ridge and have many grandchildren. He passed away on March 28, 2017.

There was a vast difference between World War II and the Korean War, according to Gobbo. “In World War II we fought for our freedom,” he said. “When I came back [from Korea], nobody knew there was a war on. I was totally disgusted. But I made lifelong friends, which was a wonderful thing.”

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Paul Basile

May 20, 2021

Lt. Col. Robert Ruffolo (U.S. Army, Ret.)

Albert George Edwards and his final resting place

While stationed in Italy at the end of his military career, Retired Army Lt. Col. Robert Ruffolo helped an RAF officer find the grave of a grandfather who gave his life while storming Monte Cassino during World War II.

Prior to my retirement from the U.S. Army, my last military assignment was to the United States Diplomatic Mission to Italy in 2012. These are normally capstone assignments that wrap up a career, but, looking back, a greater power “arranged” that assignment for another reason.

An adjunct duty in my assignment to Italy was serving as one of the seven national representatives to the Italian Ministry of Defense. An officer I grew remarkably close to was Royal Air Force Wing Commander Michael Edwards, the U.K. liaison officer to the ministry, along with his Scottish wife, Carol. He speaks Italian with a markedly British accent, making him an interesting fellow to listen to. He was incredibly important for our diplomatic mission, as there were many joint operations the U.S. and U.K. conducted and coordinated with our Italian military partners.

Wg Cdr Mike Edwards, retd RAF, and his wife, Sqn Ldr Carol Young, retd RAF

Destiny had also assigned Mike to Rome, and I met him for the first time in October 2012. We immediately became known in the Ministry of Defense as “Il Blocco Anglo-Sassone” (the Anglo-Saxon block), because where there was one of us, the other was never far away. We traveled up and down the Italian peninsula conducting World War II commemorative ceremonies and other representational events, and we spent lots of personal time together, as well. We became quite close.

Genealogy is one of my personal hobbies, and, in 2014, Mike asked if we could create a family tree for him and research his line, as his father had passed away without transferring the family history. I felt Mike was missing a key component in his life; he was desperate to find something. We both sensed this research would further deepen our relationship and help fill a void for Mike.

Mike’s grandfather, Albert George Edwards, married a young woman named Elizabeth “Betty” Hoare in 1941 near Buckinghamshire, Great Britain. That same year, Albert departed London for service in Tunisia as part of First Battalion, the Royal Fusiliers (the city of London’s infantry regiment), leaving a pregnant Betty behind. Late in 1942, a son, Anthony John Edwards, was born to the couple in High Wycombe, Buckinghamshire.

Albert fought alongside his fellow Fusiliers and endured military campaigns across Tunisia and up the Italian boot as part of the “One More River” campaign. Then, British commanders ordered the Fusiliers to assault Monte Cassino.

The four-month-long Battle of Monte Cassino was a morass of poor intelligence, miscalculation and ego that fueled a critical Allied error — a desire to take the rocky fortress known as the Abbey of Monte Cassino instead of isolating and bypassing it. The battle was already at an impasse, as dug-in Axis forces held the hill around the abbey.

On May 15, 1944, during the opening day of the Fourth Battle of Monte Cassino, an Axis sniper killed Fusilier Albert George Edwards. Albert never met his newborn son. His wife eventually remarried, but assured Anthony kept the last name Edwards in honor of his father. Anthony later married and had three children of his own: Michael, Helen and Robert Edwards. Over the decades, Betty became unsure of which regiment Albert had served in as well as the details surrounding his death. Albert was lost to time.

As I got to know Mike, I learned more about his own military history. After completing a university degree, he went to a military recruiting interview organized for both him and his roommate. The RAF had one billet for officer training that rotation. Mike passed a series of in-person written and oral examinations. He interviewed so well that he was granted the position and, in 1988, entered officer training, eventually becoming an officer in Her Majesty’s Royal Air Force. Mike served in a variety of both combat and noncombat roles, which placed him on a similar path to mine, in a capstone assignment as a foreign liaison officer to Italy.

As I continued to build the Edwards family tree, I could sense Mike (who was always a happy-go-lucky Londoner) was becoming anxious and emotional. So I said, “Let’s move to the other part of the tree.” I asked Mike open-ended questions to try to confirm birth and death dates and locations of his ancestors, but also to get a sense of who he was and how he felt about this experience.

After about 45 minutes, we had six generations of Edwardses in the family tree. I learned that Mike’s great-grandfather Sergeant Walter Edwards also served in the Royal Air Force and died in Baghdad, where British Forces interred him in the nearby Commonwealth War Cemetery. Mike had passed that cemetery every day while serving in Baghdad during Operation Iraqi Freedom in 2004-05, but never knew that his great-grandfather was buried there. I could tell by his reaction to that discovery that he was aware he would never get to see that grave in Iraq because of the current security situation there. As a result, it was imperative that we find his grandfather in Italy. It was not a coincidence we had both been assigned there.

Refocusing our research, we quickly discovered that Fusilier Albert George Edwards rests eternally in the Cassino Commonwealth War Cemetery, Plot XVIII, Space K6, two hours south of Rome. I watched Mike’s face; he was stunned. It was as if his grandfather was speaking to him across seven decades, exhorting Mike to come visit for the first time. It gave me chills. We immediately called his sister, Helen, and she agreed to come to Italy.

On March 13, 2015, by the grace of God and the kind friendship of Suor Myriam Castelli and the RAI Italia Cristianità TV staff, a tour was organized of the Abbey of Monte Cassino, and a film crew accompanied us on the journey. As we examined the terrain, I could see Mike reflecting on what his grandfather must have endured as he charged up the hill before the Axis sniper felled him. After the tour, we captured in perpetuity the reunion of a brother and sister with their grandfather for the first time in 71 years. RAI Italia Cristianità globally televised this story.

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Linda Grisolia

May 12, 2021

B24 crew member Arturo Del Monaco

After a stint with the Air Transport Command Band, Arturo Del Monaco flew countless supply missions in the China-Burma-India Theater during World War II.

The second of five sons, Arturo Del Monaco was born at home in an Italian neighborhood on Lake Street in Chicago. When Del Monaco was 4 years old, his father was killed in a hit-and-run car crash. His father had been a member of the Chicago Moose Lodge No. 3, which entitled the five young brothers along with their mother, Mary, to live at Mooseheart, a facility for widows and their children near Batavia. The brothers thrived, attending grade school and high school on the grounds while their mother worked as a seamstress and house mother. Del Monaco cultivated a love for music while there. He played the euphonium and trombone and performed at various venues. Upon graduating from high school, he became a member of the American Federation of Musicians in Chicago.

Del Monaco’s older brother, a college music major, heard about auditions for the Air Transport Command Band in Santa Fe, N.M., and thought it would be great for the two of them to be together. Both qualified and became part of the 200-piece ensemble. Only 17 years old, Del Monaco needed his mother’s permission to enlist. “Join the Navy,” she told him. “You’ll always have a clean place to sleep.”

He respected his mother’s opinion, but he had already taken an oath to the ATC. After basic training at Fort Bliss, Texas, Del Monaco was stationed at Camp Luna, N.M., the staging area for the ATC Band. They performed throughout the 2nd Air Force area, playing swing and classical music. The B24 claimed Del Monaco’s attention and before the year was up, he applied for Aviation Cadet training to become a pilot.

Del Monaco with his brother John, during their time together in the Air Transport Command Band.

He deployed to Keesler Field, Miss., for preflight training and “I washed out,” says Del Monaco. He was recommended for B24 bomber school at Curtis Wright in Buffalo, N.Y. Next came crew training as a flight engineer and turret gunner in Clovis, N.M.

Headed for Oran, North Africa, Del Monaco boarded a ship in New York, along with about 5,000 other troops. The carrier was loaded above and below deck with planes. When an armored plate cracked below the water line, causing leakage, the ship made port in Casablanca instead of Oran. Del Monaco ended up in a Replacement Depot with hundreds of Allied troops waiting for reassignment. He flew several trips between Casablanca and Alexandria, Egypt, as air bases were being established along the North African Coast. Orders landed him in Persia before deploying to Tezpur, India, “flying the Hump” to Kunming, China.

Del Monaco became part of a mobile squadron, assigned or attached wherever he was needed at the time, flying on the B24, C46, C47, C54 and the C109 in the combat zone known as the China-Burma-India Theater.

The only way in to China was “flying the Hump” in the uncharted Himalayans, where the soldiers needed oxygen for the high altitude. “Joke was, don’t worry about charts, just follow the aluminum trail,” says Del Monaco, pertaining to airplanes that crashed. He recalls, “It was very hazardous due to monsoon weather and uncharted navigation.”

Combat airdrops were made to Merrill’s Marauders, under the command of General Stilwell in Burma. The Marauders’ job was to fight the Japanese and reopen the Burma Road. Del Monaco’s job was to drop combat cargo to support the ground troops in their efforts. Food, shelter, ammo … whatever the troops needed.

Tropical diseases were rampant in India, and Del Monaco contracted malaria and dengue fever. While recovering, he worked with a mapping crew for three months in Calcutta, and then was stationed at an Air Base in Kunming.

As a crewmember on the B24, Del Monaco flew many missions along the east China coast. “We bombed everywhere,” says Del Monaco. They destroyed ports and other “targets of opportunity.” He remembers being shaken awake by the night officer in charge and being told, “‘Wake up, you’re going to fly today,’ and I just thought, where do I have to be and when!” He adds, “You want to do the job, do it right and you don’t want to make any mistakes. It sticks in my mind, as soon as we left the ground, I used to wish that I could just be asleep until it was over.”

“The Japanese were always somewhere in the jungle,” says Del Monaco, trying to prevent the Americans from landing and taking off from the airstrip. He recalls one particular skirmish. Planes were getting ready for take off when small arms fire was engaged. Del Monaco used an M1 carbine and a side arm. The battle went on for three days before planes could take off again. “I felt I was doing the best I could to save my soul,” Del Monaco says. “I had a great awakening to the nearness of life and death.”

The Japanese routinely targeted the airstrip with clusters of small anti-personnel bombs. They were designed to be used against troop concentrations and also on airfields. Some were fitted with delay action fuses. They were dropped by the hundreds and many did not detonate. After the air raid, Del Monaco helped clean up the airfield. “That was a continual hazard and after a while we just took it as routine duty,” he says. “That was a scary thing that we took care of.”

Del Monaco stayed at Kunming until the atomic bomb was dropped. He was discharged in 1946, ranked as flight engineer and earned two Battle Stars. Del Monaco lived with his grandfather in Cicero while attending college and fell in love with the girl next door. They married in 1946. He attended classes at University of Illinois at Navy Pier, Roosevelt University, Illinois Institute of Technology and The Art Institute, and is a retired consulting engineer for Sargent and Lundy. A recent widower, Del Monaco has four children, 10 grandchildren, 11 (soon-to-be 12) great-grandchildren, and one great-great-grandchild.

The five Del Monaco brothers all graduated and served in the military during World War II. Due to the Sullivan Act, they deployed to different combat areas. Del Monaco fondly recalls his years at Mooseheart, saying, “We did enter to learn and leave to serve.”

“The happiest day in my life is the day I married Georgien. The second happiest day was when they dropped the Atomic bomb!” Del Monaco concludes. “My family is worth all the trials I had to make and I am happy … happy I did what I did so my family could be happy.”

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Linda Grisolia

May 6, 2021

Army heavy artillery specialist Ralph DeBartolo

Trained in heavy artillery, Ralph DeBartolo switched from the smaller 105 howitzer to the massive 8-inch howitzer, targeting the enemy as far as eight miles away.

Editor’s Note: Ralph passed away in January 2021. This article was published in the November 2016 issue of Fra Noi and is being republished here in his memory.

The oldest of six children, Ralph DeBartolo was born to Anthony and Katerina DeBartolo in June 1933. The family lived together with Katerina’s parents at 1029 S. Almond St. between Taylor and Grenshaw Street. “The whole block was from Calabria,” DeBartolo says. The neighborhood was close-knit and everyone helped one another.

DeBartolo attended William Penn Grade School and Farragut High School and was 17 when the family moved to Berwyn to live closer to relatives. Shortly afterward, DeBartolo’s father passed away at only 37 years of age, and DeBartolo went to work on the railroad at age 18 to support the family. His brothers and sisters ranged in age from four months to 15 years old and times were tough.

The Korean War was going strong and DeBartolo enlisted in the Army in July 1952. “I decided to join the Army to do my job as an American,” he says. “My mother wasn’t too happy!” His pay was $90 a month at that time. “When I first joined, I made them aware that I wanted my whole check, but for $10 to go to my mother.”

DeBartolo received basic training at Fort Sill, Okla., followed by specialized artillery training and was assigned to the 105 Howitzer Battery in Korea. After a five-day furlough, he traveled to Washington and along with about 2,500 troops boarded the General John Pope headed across the Pacific. DeBartolo recalls, “I was excited.”

Storms and rough seas made the 17-day voyage “horrible.” The young soldiers — 18, 19 and 20 years old — were homesick, seasick and worried about what they were headed into. “We were all talking about going out there, doing our job and coming back home,” DeBartolo recalls.

The ship anchored in Inchon, Korea, about 2 a.m., and in the dark of night, the troops climbed down rope ladders onto a barge that took them to shore. “Going ashore we could hear all kinds of explosions which naturally made us nervous,” DeBartolo remembers. Trucks were lined up and waiting in the sub-zero temperature to drive the troops to their various locations. DeBartolo was assigned to Battery A, 17th Field Artillery Battalion, I Corps. While still on the ship, he was transferred from the 105 howitzer to the 8-inch howitzer, the largest artillery in Korea.

DeBartolo’s unit moved daily. “Our biggest concerns when we were moving from location to location were land mines,” he says. A minesweeper led the convoy followed by six half track tanks, each hooked up to an 8-inch howitzer. Trucks carried the troops.

When they arrived at the designated area, the soldiers quickly dug a trench just deep enough to put the back end of the gun in so it wouldn’t move. “There was a hell of a recoil,” says DeBartolo. It took three soldiers to load a shell, one on each end of the shell and the third to guide it into the chamber, put the gunpowder in and shut the door. “The noise was unbelievably deafening,” recalls DeBartolo. “We barely had enough time to cover our ears.”

The gunfire was constant and the sounds filled the air as shots echoed in the mountainous terrain. The 8-inch howitzer had a firing range of eight miles so the men in DeBartolo’s unit were back from the front line and could not see the enemy. They communicated with the Fire Direction Center stationed on a hill. The FDC radioed location information to the soldiers. “They would tell us how to set up and aim,” says DeBartolo. “We would fire maybe 100 shells … it was continuous.”

The FDC radioed if they got a hit and advised how to maneuver the howitzers to target the Chinese troops and tanks. “The poor guys in the front, the 105s,” DeBartolo says, “they had it the toughest because they were right up front with the infantry.”

At night, the soldiers each stayed in their own small tent in a sleeping bag trying to stay warm in freezing conditions. They could not build a fire as it would give away their location and they ate cold food right out of the cans. “The weather was horrible and we had no way to warm up,” DeBartolo remembers. “All we had was one metal hand warmer … the nights were long because we were so cold!”

DeBartolo and his men returned to their base near Inchon every week or two and stayed for a couple of days before heading back to battle. Twenty men shared a tent heated by a small heater. The highlights were warm food, a shower and getting mail from home.

DeBartolo wrote to his mom and she sent letters and care packages with provolone, salami and Italian cookies. Most of the soldiers in his unit were Italian and they also received packages with goodies from home. “We would share,” DeBartolo says. “And then we’d have a party.”

Celebrities visited occasionally to entertain the troops. A makeshift stage was set up and the show would go on to the delight of the battle weary soldiers. “Terry Moore was our Betty Grable, our girl during the Korean War,” recalls DeBartolo.

Most of the men in the 105 howitzer battery that DeBartolo was originally assigned to were killed after being overrun by the Chinese. “During the war, I felt very lucky that I was transferred from the 105s to the 8-inch howitzers,” he says.

The Korean War ended in July 1953, but DeBartolo remained in Inchon until 1954. He was discharged as a corporal and returned home to Berwyn. He married his wife, Helen, in 1956 and they have two sons and one grandson. DeBartolo was a Chicago Police Officer for 32 years. After retiring from the CPD, he was with the Cook County Sheriff’s Department for 25 years, the last 15 as a chief.

Two of DeBartolo’s brothers served during the Korean War. Bernard was with the infantry in Alaska and Patrick was with the Air Force in Hawaii. His youngest brother, Arthur, fought in Vietnam with the army infantry and was awarded two Purple Hearts.

DeBartolo remains in contact with several of the men from his unit and regularly sees Dominic “Mase” Narcissi, who lives in the Chicago suburbs.

Reflecting on his time in Korea, DeBartolo says, “Korea was one of the most horrible places you could be at that time.” The people lived in straw huts and health conditions were horrible. “The Korean people were very nice to us and appreciative,” he continues. “They suffered a lot, too … I’m just lucky to be an American.”

Remembering the battles and all the young men whose lives ended too soon, DeBartolo says, “God was watching over me.”

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Linda Grisolia

April 29, 2021

Army Sergeant Tony Figlioli

Drafted into the Army right out of high school, Tony Figlioli fought his way across Europe, earning five Battle Stars, a Purple Heart and a Bronze Star along the way.

The oldest of two boys, Tony Figlioli was born in Marsala, Sicily, in 1924. His father, Vito, came to the United States at the age of 17, fought in World War I, returned to Italy, married, and traveled back to the States. When Figlioli was 2 years old, his father had earned enough money to send for his wife and son to join him.

The family first lived on the South Side of Chicago and then settled in the Italian enclave at Taylor and Racine. Figlioli remembers the close-knit neighborhood and family and friends gathering together for Sunday dinners. “I didn’t think anyone was poor because we were all in the same boat,” he says.

Figlioli attended Skinner Grade School and graduated from Crane Tech High School in January 1943. One month later, he was drafted into the U.S. Army. Figlioli, who had tried to enlist while still a student, says, “I felt great, I was ready to go.” His parents were “scared, frightened, but proud.” His father had seen action as a doughboy in WWI and because of this experience, “I’m sure that he was more afraid than my mother,” Figlioli says.

Figlioli completed four months of basic training at Fort Warren in Wyoming and two months of additional training at Camp Ellis in Illinois. He was attached to the 101st Airborne Division and in December 1943 he traveled by troop train to Halifax, Nova Scotia, to embark overseas on the lle de France.

Filled with more than 5,000 soldiers, the ship sailed the northern route to avoid enemy submarines. Stormy weather, rough seas and icebergs made the crossing treacherous. Five days later, the ship docked in Glasgow, Scotland. “All of us guys were pretty gung ho,” Figlioli says. “We were anxious to go overseas and fight for our country.”

The men boarded a train to Lands End in the lower part of England and settled into a makeshift camp. Figlioli remembers wooden barracks that were about 70 feet long and lined with beds on both sides with only two small charcoal burner stoves for heat. “You practically had to sit on one to get warm,” he recalls.

Figlioli engaged in more training and maneuvers as the soldiers prepared for combat. As sergeant, he and his 12-man squad became scouts for their unit. His job during training was to “make believe and locate places where camp could safely be set up to make coffee and bread for the 101st Airborne,” Figlioli remembers. “We baked tons of bread.”

On D-Day, June 6, 1944, the 101st parachuted in and on June 9, Figlioli and his men approached Utah Beach on LSTs (Landing Ship Tanks). Three LSTs carried about 75 men each, and as they got closer to shore, Figlioli heard the constant barrage of the big guns. “This is it,” he thought, telling his squad, “Now we’ll know the men from the boys. … Well now, we want to be the men!”

The front flap dropped open and Figlioli led his men through the shallow water to the beach. The scene was gruesome: Bodies floated in the water and the beach was littered with American soldiers who were killed during the invasion. “We saw all these bodies,” Figlioli says. “We felt pretty badly.”

Figlioli carried a Thompson submachine gun and a .45 pistol as he led his squad inland. The terrain was rough and wooded with hedgerows all over. On the second day, Figlioli found a safe spot to set up camp, the location was radioed back to the rest of the outfit and trucks came in with the bakery ovens. The sounds of combat were continuous, “especially the big guns … cannons and 88s,” Figlioli recalls.

The squad kept moving forward through towns until they reached the Battle of the Bulge. Figlioli was scouting with his partner in the snowy cold when he suddenly sank into a soft spot. He felt something hit his shoulder and thought it was his backpack. His partner said, “Sarge, he’s up there!” and shot a few rounds. Figlioli kept walking and shooting and saw blood dripping off the barrel of his gun. “And that’s when I really knew that I got hit. I never felt the pain until then. In the excitement and adrenalin, I didn’t feel any pain.” The medic sewed up his shoulder and Figlioli returned to combat. “There was no place to go,” Figlioli says. “We were trapped!”

The men took shelter in foxholes, camouflaging them with tree trunks. “You only slept in fits: an hour here, half hour there,” he says. “You were always cold … always cold.” After about a month of being trapped in the forest, Figlioli’s unit was finally relieved by General Patton’s 3rd Army and they moved into Germany.

Scouting in Augsburg, Figlioli spotted hundreds of German soldiers in the distance coming down the road. His squad was outnumbered! A member of his squad who spoke German said, “I think they’re surrendering, Sarge. They look raggedy.” The pair moved closer to the approaching enemy and their colonel lifted his arms and asked Figlioli if he was in charge. He answered, “Yeah,” and the colonel responded, “Well, we’re surrendering!” and he handed his Lugar to Figlioli.

Figlioli’s squad of 12 led the 200 German soldiers a couple of miles back to camp where he remembers, “Everybody’s eyes popped out” as they marched in. “They were ready and willing to give up,” Figlioli says. “They were afraid of the Russians.”

Figlioli stayed outside of Augsburg until the war ended in Europe. He remembers all the battles and destruction and says, “I saw small villages and cities where the highest wall wasn’t higher than my head. We had bombed it all out, first the planes and then the artillery. The smell was terrible because there were bodies inside the debris and you’re glad it isn’t you.”

Figlioli returned home to Chicago, was discharged in September 1945. He received five Battle Stars, one for each of the major campaigns in which he fought; the Bronze Star for heroic/meritorious achievement in a combat zone; and a Purple Heart for wounds received in action. He attended George Williams College for five terms, intending on becoming an athletic coach. But, influenced by his buddies, he took a test to become a policeman, scored high and joined the Chicago Police Department in January 1946. He retired 40 years later, attaining the rank of sergeant.

He married his wife, Wilma, in 1951, and they have four children and seven grandchildren. He is active with a hunting club, he still golfs with his wife and he recently spoke about his war experiences in his grandchildren’s classrooms.

Reflecting on the war, Figlioli says, “You’re really not thinking much, you’re thinking of tomorrow. … Am I going to be here tomorrow? What’s going to happen?”

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Sam Tinaglia

April 22, 2021

Marine Guard Joe Priola

A Marine Guard in Europe after World War II, Joe Priola had the time of his life while serving his country.

This is a war story where no one gets hurt: Goodwill and humor are the weapons of choice.

My first cousin Joe Priola was in the Marines at the tail end of World War II and a bit thereafter. Though 40 years separated us in age, I loved my cousin Joe like a big brother. Joe and his younger brother, Sam, were my dad’s nephews, and my grandparents and father raised them in the ’30s and ’40s. My father taught them to be men of honor and to love their country and their God.

The son of Peter and Agnes (Tinaglia) Priola, Joe grew up in Little Sicily on Chicago’s Near North Side. He loved football and played at Waller High School, now Lincoln Park High. He took me to my first Bears game; I took him to his last.

As the war was effectively over when Joe signed up, he was sent to Europe in a peacekeeping capacity. One of his favorite duties was being a guard at the U.S. Embassy in London. With his great sense of humor, he said he was given the job because he was so darn good looking in those Marine dress blues.

After spending his days all spit-and-polish, watching over the embassy as politicians and generals came and went, Joe had plenty of time for R and R. One story he regaled us with was about the time he and a group of fellow Marines went out on the town with Tyrone Power. Not only was Power a famous actor, but he was also a decorated USMC pilot.

While in England, Joe got it into his head to tell his superior officer he spoke fluent Italian, and if the brass needed an interpreter, he was their guy. Well, much to his surprise, the next day he was departing rainy London for sunny Italy. Knowing only Chicago Sicilian, he bought an English-Italian dictionary and started boning up on the flight.

Before putting his newly acquired skills to the test, he was assigned to work shipboard security. I remember him telling us how he was pulling guard duty on a ship in Naples, and all personnel had to show identification passes before entering a high-security area (HSA). It didn’t matter what their rank was. If they didn’t show their passes, they weren’t allowed through.

According to Joe, there was one 4-star general who left the HSA without his pass. When he came back, the general vehemently argued with Corporal Joe that he had just left the HSA a few moments before. Joe’s orders were to shoot any unauthorized personnel who tried to force their way into the area. Orders were orders, so Joe began to unsnap his holster.

At that moment, a superior officer came by and went crazy. Joe said he got chewed out by the Army general but was commended by his Marine commander for following orders. Joe’s son Steve asked him what would have happened if he had shot the general. Joe replied that he most likely would have been charged a dollar for the bullet and shipped out to Asia.

Then, one day, he was asked to translate. He gulped. Despite his studies, he had not been able to pick up much of the “local lingo,” as he called it. High-ranking Italian officers were coming to visit the U.S. officers on his ship, and evidently the other translators were busy. Fortunately for him, he had a chance to chat with the Italian officers before the larger meeting.

I remember him telling me about the nobility and class the Italian officers exuded and how beautiful their uniforms were. It became quite apparent to both Joe and the Italians that this Chicago Sicilian was, shall we say, a bit lacking in the linguistics department. At one point, one of them chuckled and spoke up: “It is not ‘amunninni;’ it is ‘andiamo,’ my friend.” The kindly officer explained that he’d been to Oxford or Cambridge, and Joe could tell. “He spoke beautiful English,” Joe told me. “Better than mine.” The officers wondered why they needed a translator in the first place. “It’s just like some Americans to think their Italian allies are uneducated,” one of them complained.

Joe figured his cover was blown, and his proverbial goose was cooked. Thinking quickly, he came up with a plan he sold the Italians on, honing his skills as a future top Allstate salesman in the process. The officer would talk to him in very basic Italian with a few words of broken English thrown in for good measure, and Joe would translate to the best of his ability. The officer knew perfectly well what the Americans were saying, so the meeting went amazingly well for all parties.

So how did Joe ice the deal? Was it his innate charm and good looks, or did the officers feel sorry for a Sicilian-American Marine in a tight spot?

Not exactly. Joe was a classic Chicagoan: He knew a guy who knew a guy. He had a knack for making connections and cultivating friendships in key places wherever he went. Joe’s end of the bargain was to give the officers access to supplies that were incredibly hard to come by in impoverished postwar Italy. A deal’s a deal, and both sides made good on their commitments.

The supplies included chocolates, cigarettes and vitamins, as well as pantyhose for the officers’ wives or girlfriends. I think Joe even threw in a few bananas as an extra treat for his new friends. And so a potential international incident was avoided by some quick thinking on the part of my cousin Joe!

As a reward for his good work, Joe was allowed to go on leave to visit Sicily, where he was able to meet his grandparents’ families in Vicari, provincia di Palermo. He vividly recalled how tough the Allied invasion was on the already poor island.

When I visited family there in the early ’80s, they still had Joe’s picture on the wall. Peppinu, as they called him, was the handsome U.S. Marine who broke the hearts of a few young ladies who still hoped he would come back one day. He also might have been the Chicago guy who somehow managed to arrange for the family house to be a Marine Corps alternate supply depot. Then again, who knows? As they say back in the old county, omertà.

The author attends a Bears game with his beloved cousin

Joe’s younger brother, Sam, became a decorated Marine in the Korean War. I often wonder how our grandfather, Settimo Tinaglia, felt about being declared an enemy alien during World War II, along with hundreds of thousands of other Italian immigrants, when two of his grandsons served their country with honor.

Joe came back to the states and married the lovely Helen Mikul, whom he met at Midwest Bible Church in Chicago. They had four kids, six grandkids and 10 great-grandkids. Joe went home to be with the Lord in 2013, but we all remember his smile, jokes and laughter. Semper fi.

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