War Stories

Sam Tinaglia

November 18, 2021

Princess Mafalda of Savoy

Known for her piety and charity, Princess Mafalda of Savoy spoke out against Hitler with predictably tragic results.

I have to admit I have always been fascinated by royalty. My father’s middle name was Umberto, in honor of Umberto I, the King of Italy who was assassinated in 1900. Many people know the story of the Russian czar and his family who were killed, so danger in troubled times is not unknown to royals. But then I ran across the amazing story of an Italian princess named Mafalda of Savoy. Mafalda is the Italianized version of Matilda, which appropriately, as you’ll soon see, means “strong in battle.”

Our storybook tale with a tragic twist begins with Mafalda’s birth in 1902. She was one of five children born to Vittorio Emmanuele, King of Italy, and his consort, Elena of Montenegro. Her younger brother became King Umberto II of Italy, and her sisters were married to counts, princes and even the czar of Bulgaria. Her royal family lived in a villa outside of Rome, and Mafalda received an education befitting an aristocrat, speaking five languages and playing numerous musical instruments. She visited World War I military hospitals with her mother to raise the morale of wounded soldiers and became known for her piety and charity.

In 1925, Mafalda met Prince Philipp von Hesse at a Roman garden party and was taken by his charm. He was an architect, a designer, and a wounded and decorated veteran of World War I. He was also the nephew of the last Kaiser of Germany, Wilhelm II, and great-grandson of Queen Victoria. The engagement of the two was a cause célèbre as the marriage would be the first between royals of former World War I enemies. The union was complicated by their religions, Catholic vs. Protestant, but love won out. The couple married at the family Castle of Racconigi in the province of Cuneo in the Piemonte region of northern Italy. While a “medieval ceremony” was being held at the castle, the couple slipped away to visit a dinner they hosted for villagers in the town. Holding the nuptials at the remote castle points to Mafalda’s simplicity and kind-heartedness and was quite a contrast to the more elaborate setting of her sister Yolanda’s wedding, at the Quirinal Palazzo on the highest hill in Rome. The newlyweds settled near Rome in the Villa Polissena, where they had four children: Moritz (1926), Heinrich (1927), Otto (1937) and Elisabeth (1940).

The 1930s were a politically complex time for all people, particularly royals, with fascist dictators first taking over Italy and then Germany. Philipp and his younger brother Christoph unwisely joined the Nazi party, hoping that Hitler might one day allow the German monarchy to return to power or position, as in Italy. Philipp dined with Nazi leader Hermann Goering, who promised to protect the prince’s family and wealth. Other nobles sided with fascist governments in opposition to the communists, who wanted them dead and their land confiscated. Philipp moved up the Nazi hierarchy and became a governor of Hesse-Nassau, as well as an art agent for Hitler in Italy.

Because he was the son-in-law of the King of Italy and could act as a useful channel of communications between Mussolini and Hitler, Philipp was appointed to Hitler’s personal staff in 1939. At the time, some Italian royals and military leaders, including Italo Balbo, were decidedly against Mussolini’s pact with Hitler. According to some authors, when Philipp realized the dark realities of Nazism, he used his position and money to provide passports for Jews to help them escape to Holland. Publicly, however, he continued with his duties and occasionally made private missions to Italy for Hitler. Philipp eventually tried to resign, but he was prevented from doing so and “kept” at the Fuhrer’s headquarters. The arrest of Mussolini by Mafalda’s father in July 1943 made life even more precarious for the couple and their children. Leaders in Germany began to question the loyalty of Philipp and Mafalda, as her brother, the crown prince, was known to be working for peace and thus connected them to the demise of Mussolini.

According to one website: “Mafalda, for her part, too frank and open-hearted for her own good, never hid her antipathy for Hitler.” The feeling was mutual. Hitler deeply mistrusted the princess, suspecting her of working against the war effort. He called her “the blackest carrion in the Italian Royal House.” His lackey and minister of propaganda, Joseph Goebbels, was even more direct and vulgar. He said Mafalda was “the biggest whore” of the Italian royals, reflecting Mafalda’s stature as an outspoken opponent of the Nazi regime.

Mafalda’s sister, Princess Giovanna, was married to Boris III, czar of Bulgaria. Boris was also resistant to Hitler’s demands for more support of Germany’s war and anti-Jewish efforts. In August of 1943, Czar Boris was summoned to the Fuhrer’s headquarters in Rastenburg, East Prussia. After a “heated meeting” with Hitler, Boris refused to have Bulgarian Jews deported to concentration camps or to even declare war on the Soviet Union. The czar returned home to Bulgaria where he died under the suspicion of having been poisoned during his visit to Hitler’s headquarters. Goebbels claimed that Mafalda was involved in the poisoning as she was visiting her sister when Boris died. Mafalda was still in Bulgaria when her father declared an armistice with the Allies on Sept. 8, 1943. This action resulted in her husband being formally arrested by the SS and sent to a concentration camp the next day.

Mafalda headed to Rome to be with her children, who found shelter at the Vatican after her father, the king, fled the German occupying forces in the wake of his alliance with the Allies. On Sept. 23, 1943, she was tricked into going to the German Embassy, ostensibly to speak with her captive husband. Upon arriving, she was arrested and taken to Berlin, where she was interrogated about her knowledge of the Italian alliance with the Allies. Fortunately, her children were able to escape, along with a governess, back to their grandmother in Germany.

Mafalda was far less fortunate. She became a prisoner under the name Frau Weber in the infamous Buchenwald concentration camp. Testimonies by fellow Italian inmates, who quickly recognized the princess, revealed that she shared her food with her countrymen because she had access to better provisions as a political prisoner. One inmate, Luigi Versasso, spoke of the encouragement the princess gave. “The only beams of light in Buchenwald were the eyes of Mafalda,” he said. After almost a year in the camp, Mafalda was horribly injured during an errant Allied air bombing. To the Italians who surrounded her stretcher as she was taken to the camp infirmary, she said, “As I die, remember me not as a princess but as your sister.” On the night of Aug. 26/27, 1944, the princess succumbed to her wounds and was buried, according to one source, in grave No. 262 as “an unknown woman.” From being born in a palazzo as a princess to her burial in an unmarked grave, the story of Mafalda is haunting and one that should not be forgotten.

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Sam Tinaglia

November 4, 2021

Medal of Honor recipient Luigi Palma di Cesnola

The first Italian American to earn the Medal of Honor, Luigi Palma di Cesnola was instrumental in establishing the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York.

Cavalliere Emmanuele Pietro Paolo Maria Luigi Palma di Cesnola would never be mistaken for the “Modern Major General,” Gilbert and Sullivan’s satirical take on the overly educated officers of 19th-century England. While Cesnola didn’t know everything “vegetable, animal and mineral,” he knew enough about the martial, pedagogical and archeological to more than get by.

Cesnola led an amazing life, fighting wars on three continents, marrying an American blue blood and conducting groundbreaking archaeological digs in Cyprus. Born near Torino into a military family of lesser nobility in the Kingdom of Piedmont in 1832, he was the second son of a count and countess. Given the laws of primogeniture, which dictate the first son inherits the title, he had to make his own way in the world. After being kicked out of a Jesuit elementary school, he went to military school. As rebellion swept through Europe in 1848, young Luigi joined the fight to free Northern Italy from the shackles of Austro-Hungarian rule. (See page 39.) He fought with distinction, receiving the silver medal for bravery and was promoted to under-lieutenant at the age of 16.

After the war and his commissioning as an officer, Cesnola attended Piedmontese military academies, including the cavalry school at Pinerolo, and for several years, enjoyed the life of a young, handsome cavalry officer. Strangely, he resigned his commission and became an aide to several Italians fighting alongside the British in the Crimean War. Among those Italians was Sicilian General Enrico Fardella, who was serving with the British army in Crimea after being exiled by the Neapolitan Bourbons for his role in the Sicilian Revolt of 1848. Some writers surmise that, given Sardinia’s later involvement in the Crimean War, Cesnola may have been placed there as a prelude to Piedmont sending troops to aid the British and French and their Turkish allies in the conflict with Russia. Other writers with a more romantic turn of mind say Cesnola stopped serving the House of Savoy due to a love affair. Cesnola may have been present at the battle of Balaclava and was surely at the siege of Sevastpol. His experience with the Turks would serve him well much later in his life.

After peace was declared in Crimea, Cesnola traveled to New York City around 1858 with a flute and not much more. He tried to make a living by teaching French and Italian and doing translations, but he barely scraped by, even after anglicizing his name to Louis. In April 1860, however, he had the great fortune to take in a new pupil by the name of Mary Jennings Reid, who was a member of the American aristocracy. One of her grandfathers was at the Battle of Lexington in 1775, and her father, Capt. Samuel Reid, was a hero of the War of 1812. (It was Reid who came up with the concept of limiting the American flag to 13 stripes, then adding stars for each new state.) In 1860, a man named Lincoln was nominated at the Republican convention in Chicago. By the time Cesnola and Reid tied the knot in June of 1861, storm clouds were gathering. The match was made to the chagrin of Mary’s friends and family, who believed she was marrying beneath her.

As war fever was everywhere and money was an issue, Mary came up with the idea of using Luigi’s vast military knowledge and experience and starting a school to train aspiring officers. With Cesnola’s pedigree and noble mien, the school quickly flourished and ended up training 700 officers for the Union war effort. Clearly, a man of his skills, talents, and political leanings toward freedom and human rights was destined to join the ranks of Lincoln’s army.

Cesnola was soon appointed colonel of the 4th New York Volunteer Cavalry and started recruiting at his and Mary’s expense. In the eyes of the young men he brought into the fold, he was a born soldier who would train and drill them even though many had yet to ride a horse!

In simplest terms, the Civil War was a battle of city boys versus country boys who grew up on horseback and were being led by beau sabres such as Jeb Stuart and Wade Hampton. Thus, in the early part of the war, the Union troops were outmatched and repeatedly defeated. Cesnola brought an aggressive and attacking approach to fighting. He also brought conflict upon himself with a slightly arrogant manner that brooked no slight to his honor. He was nevertheless doing well under Brig. General A. Duffié, himself a European emigre who had also seen service in the Crimea with the French cavalry.

Soon, Cesnola’s abilities were noticed. He was given command over five regiments (5,000 troops) under General Carl Schurz and was involved in numerous clashes in Virginia with units under the command of Lee’s brilliant cavalry commander Jeb Stuart. Through live action and constant drilling, Cesnola’s troops were becoming increasingly professional, no longer boys riding plow horses. Unfortunately, his career was sidelined for a few weeks after he was falsely accused, perhaps because of jealousy, in a matter of five pistols that were unaccounted for amid vast looting and war profiteering. The pistols were found.

The truth having won out, Cesnola was back as colonel of the 4th NY but was passed over for brigade commands in favor of his American-born counterparts, even though he had more experience and seniority in rank. As such, he was back in the saddle when his division fought the first engagement in which the Union cavalry claimed victory, sabre to sabre, against their albeit outnumbered Southern opponents at Kelly’s Ford in March 1863. Though a small action by Civil War standards, with only 3,000 men involved, it was important in that Jeb Stuart was present; the rebels were commanded by the well-regarded Brig. Gen. Fitzhugh Lee; and, for the first time, a Virginia cavalry unit retreated in the face of a charge. A close reading of the battlefield maps produced by the American Battlefield Trust suggests it was Cesnola’s own 4th that made that successful charge.

Cesnola’s unit was then involved with General Stoneman’s first major Union cavalry raid. Taking place over four days behind enemy lines, it was designed to influence Lee’s movements before Chancellorsville. Given his recent success, Cesnola was placed in command of a brigade for what would be the largest predominantly cavalry battle of the Civil War, involving more than 20,000 men. It took place at Brandy Station, Virginia, in June 1863. The battle was a confused affair fought over nine square miles of rivers, hills, farmhouses and train tracks. Again, Cesnola was in the thick of things, even though his division was stationed at a corner of the battlefield. His brigade charged two Confederate cavalry regiments of about 600 men at Hansbrough’s Ridge, forcing them to fall back. Always leading from the front, he was said to have crossed sabers with several rebel officers in this engagement.

Cesnola’s next engagement would be his finest hour. The Battle of Aldie, about 40 miles west of Washington, D.C., was described as a “severe, savage fight between 4,000 men in 94-degree weather” in an American Battlefield Trust video. Aldie was important as a junction of two major turnpikes. The Confederate cavalry was moving north as a screen for Lee’s army, which was ultimately heading to Gettysburg. Lincoln was quite concerned as to the whereabouts of Lee’s troops and ordered his cavalry to learn what they could at all costs.

Unfortunately for Cesnola, Duffié had been demoted and replaced by divisional commander General Gregg. This reshuffling of officers resulted in a junior officer, some say a relative of Gregg’s, taking command of a brigade. Understandably angered by this perceived slight, Cesnola argued with General Gregg and, as a result, was placed under house arrest, with his sword and pistol taken away from him. His beloved 4th went into battle without him and was pushed back. Seeing his unit routed, he jumped on a horse and, with his unit’s acclamation, led them in a second charge that was successful.

Another general, witnessing this amazing feat, went over Gregg’s head and had Cesnola released from arrest just as another charge was called for. Seeing Cesnola had no weapon, the general offered him his own sword and said “bring it back with some rebel blood.” By a “gallant charge, [Cesnola] turned apparent defeat into a glorious victory for our arms,” according to a New York Times article. Unfortunately, the third charge (some say fifth) resulted in Cesnola not returning with his men. The colonel ended up “laying under his dead horse, a sabre cut three inches long on the crown of his head, a large cut in the palm of his hand and a gunshot wound in the upper part of his left arm,” Elizabeth McFadden wrote in “The Giitter and the Gold.” Cesnola was captured and sent to the Libby Prisoner of War Camp. In 1897, for his bravery during that battle, Cesnola received our nation’s highest military decoration, the Medal of Honor, becoming the first Italian American to do so.

Libby Prison in Richmond was the second-most infamous prison in the Confederacy after Andersonville. It housed roughly 1,000 Union officers in cramped and unhealthy conditions. Fortunately, a fellow officer helped nurse Cesnola back to health. Numerous letters to his “dearest Mary” from her “Luigi” still exist. Besides requests for blankets and food, he asks for articles of women’s clothing, humorously telling her not to be jealous as he had no sweetheart. The items were clearly to be used as bribes for the mail censors to let her letters come through to him. Another amusing request was for flute sheet music from Verdi’s “Il Trovatore” to entertain the men. Cesnola was held captive from June 1863 to March 1864. His letters imply that other officers with more political connections were freed more rapidly.

After seeing his beloved Mary and his first-born daughter in New York, Cesnola was back in the fight in Virginia. His unit was part of General Sheridan’s cavalry, which was working with General Grant to defeat Lee. The 4th New York was in violent battles such as Cold Harbor and Trevilian Station, where Cesnola’s brigade was involved in seven assaults and repulsed with heavy losses. (There was another dashing young commander in the Union cavalry division at that time by the name of Custer). In private letters, Cesnola was critical of senior officers for the pointless loss of lives at Trevilian, the steady looting and burning of the homes of Southerners, and the mistreatment of women, which the cavaliere found horrible and attempted to prevent. His unit’s service was over in September 1864 after having fought in 47 battles of the great American struggle.

Following the war, Luigi and Mary were basically penniless. Fortunately, through friends in New York, Cesnola was able to secure the consulship of Cyprus. He became an American citizen in August 1865 and, somewhat controversially, began calling himself “general” in Cyprus to impress the Turkish authorities who controlled the island. There is much confusion over who was breveted a general during the Civil War, but this author believes Cesnola was only officially entitled to the rank of colonel. For the most part, he stopped referring to himself as count, which he occasionally did before becoming a U.S. citizen, though as a second son, he was entitled only to cavaliere.

The late 1800s were an era of amazing archaeological finds, such as the discovery that the city of Troy was an actual place, not just a story by Homer. It was in this atmosphere that Cesnola threw himself into scouring Cyprus for artifacts. Through several years of excavations and purchases, he was able to amass a significant collection. One of Cesnola’s goals was to prove that Cyprus was the link between Egypt and Greece in antiquity. Such were the significance of his finds that both the Russian and French governments considered purchasing them for their museums. Fortunately for him, the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York wanted to flex its muscles versus its European counterparts. As the museum states on its website, “When the Metropolitan Museum opened at its current site in Central Park in 1880, the [Cesnola] collection was the focus of attention, heralded as a great asset to the city of New York, which was then aspiring to become a major cultural as well as business center. The richness and fame of the collection also did much to establish the Museum’s reputation as a major repository of classical antiquities and put it on a par with the foremost museums in Europe.” To substantiate his efforts, Cesnola published a tome on his work in Cyprus and the artifacts he uncovered. The archaeological field was nascent at this point, and there are criticisms that his excavations and those of other European explorers removed the cultural heritage of countries. Several men who clearly resented Cesnola’s success attempted to paint him and some of his findings as frauds but failed in the courts of both law and public opinion.

As part of his negotiations with the museum, Cesnola was named director, and in so doing, secured a place for himself and his wife in New York society. Mary became involved in “benevolent activities and helped to found an Italian Orphanage and the Christoforo Colombo Hospital in New York,” McFadden wrote. Luigi served tirelessly as the first director of the museum and was instrumental in the construction of its beautiful building along Central Park. “The Cesnola Collection remains a wonderful storehouse of ancient art and artifacts, and it is by far the most important and comprehensive collection of Cypriot material in the Western Hemisphere,” the museum website states. He worked at the museum until his death in 1904 and received praise for his dedication from the likes of J.P. Morgan and the Vanderbilts. As someone with a significant amount of Italian blood, I enjoyed this line of the memorial resolution honoring Cesnola: “Somewhat restive in opposition and somewhat impetuous in speech and action but at all times devoted to his duty.”

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Peter Belmonte

October 29, 2021

Army Corporal Anthony Cardamone

Anthony Cardamone’s application for a victory medal

One of hundreds of thousands of Italian Americans who fought with valor during World War I, Anthony Cardamone left behind a precious legacy in the form of an account from the front.

World War I was the first American war in which large numbers of Italian immigrants served in the armed forces. Although they were certainly present in U.S. military units in previous conflicts, the timing of their heaviest immigration — the 1890s, 1900s and 1910s — ensured there would be an ample supply of young men from Italy to fill places in the burgeoning United States Army in 1917. Although it’s impossible to determine how many men and women of Italian origin served in the U.S. military during World War I, estimates of up to 300,000 are probably not a gross exaggeration. For many Italian immigrants living in America when the war broke out, serving in the military offered a fast-track to citizenship for both them and their families. It’s truly inspiring to think about how many of our ancestors risked their lives to make a better life for their loved ones in America.

With so many Italian Americans at the battlefront, it’s not surprising many of them earned medals for heroism. During the war, there were three awards soldiers could earn for acts of valor on the field of battle. The highest was the Medal of Honor, created in 1863. Next in line was the Distinguished Service Cross, created in 1918. Beneath that was the Silver Citation Star, a small device that was affixed to Victory Medal ribbons to show that the wearer had been cited for bravery in action. Upon creation of the full Silver Star medal in 1932, veterans who had received a Silver Citation Star could apply for the award in its new incarnation.

Only one Italian American earned the Medal of Honor during World War I. It was bestowed upon Michael Valente, an immigrant from Casino, for his actions while serving with the 107th Infantry Regiment, 27th Division, near Ronssoy, France, on Sept. 29, 1918. Deployed to the front lines, where his regiment was suffering heavy losses under a withering barrage of fire, Private Valente and another soldier dodged bullets as they rushed two machine gun nests, killing the gunners, capturing 21 enemy soldiers and providing the first penetration of the Hindenburg Line by Allied forces.

Dozens of men of Italian descent earned the Distinguished Service Cross during the war, but there is no way to know how many earned the Silver Citation Star. We are fortunate to have a first-hand account of one such soldier.

Anthony Philip Cardamone was born on Feb. 12, 1895, in Soveria Manelli, Catanzaro, Calabria. He came to the United States with his family in 1898 and settled in Conshohocken, Pennsylvania. He was a trimmer’s helper in an iron mill when he was inducted into the Army on Nov. 2, 1917. Assigned initially to a machine gun unit, Cardamone was soon transferred to Company C, 30th Infantry Regiment, 3rd Division, as an automatic rifleman. He shipped to France in April 1918 and soon saw heavy combat with one of the hard-fighting regular Army regiments that racked up an impressive record during the war. Cardamone served in the Aisne, Aisne-Marne, Champagne-Marne, St. Mihiel and Meuse-Argonne offensives, suffering a shrapnel wound in his side on Oct. 14, 1918.

After the war, Cardamone was cited for gallantry in action, probably for what he did south of the Marne River on July 15, 1918. In a letter to his father, dated Nov. 28, 1918, Cardamone described his role in the battle:

“[O]n the night of July 15th [1918], we held a position on the railroad running along the [Marne] river. I was an automatic gunner, and Pettive [sic, an error in the transcription; Private Antonio Pettine, a fellow Italian from Conshohocken] was my helper and loader, and we defended a little hill along the railroad. Around 1 o’clock the Germans began their bombardment, and it sure was hell on earth, you can never imagine what it is to be under a barrage from the Germans. We were in a little hole, and Pettive [sic] and I expected to die every minute. The shells were landing all around us. To give you an idea of what a barrage is, I will tell you that it is like as if somebody was throwing steel and iron at you. A shell when it bursts breaks into a hundred pieces and if one of those pieces hits you, it will tear you to pieces, it is a million times worse than a bullet. When a shell bursts, it breaks into shrapnel, and it looks like scrap iron. Just imagine being hit with a piece of steel scrap, only with such deadly force.

“Well, thank God, we laid low in our little hole, and we survived that barrage; it lasted from 1 o’clock until 4, and those three hours were anxious hours. It was now beginning to be daylight, and we expected the thing to stop, but when the fog from the river had lifted; oh, what a sight was before our eyes, the Germans had crossed the river Marne, and had broken through our right flank, and had us surrounded. We had Germans in front of us, Germans in back of us, and Germans on our flanks. We were surrounded, and we felt like goners. We then decided to break our way through; it was either life or death, so we formed a line, and at the command we all fixed bayonets and charged the Germans in the rear. We did it so good, that we surprised the enemy, and we broke through capturing 135 Germans into the bargain. It was only about 25 of us so you see we did good in getting 135 Fritzs. It was here that Volpe [Corporal Alfred Volpe, a fellow Italian immigrant from Conshohocken, who was reported killed in action on July 15, 1918, but was actually captured; he was released after the war] was killed, and Sassi [Sergeant Damiano Sassi, a fellow Italian immigrant from Conshohocken and a member of the same company as Cardamone] wounded. I helped Sassi to the rear, and two days later we were reorganized. I was made corporal, and in charge of all six automatic men [sic].”

Cardamone saw still more combat before he was wounded during the Meuse-Argonne offensive, as he reported to his father: “At last, on Monday, Oct. 14, at 3:30 p.m. Fritz hit me in the side, and put me out of the war.” After spending many weeks in the hospital, Cardamone returned home to Pennsylvania and found work in the steel industry. In 1923, he married Anna Patitucci, and the couple had two sons, one of whom died in infancy. Cardamone passed away in July 1972 and is buried in his American hometown of Conshohocken. Anthony Cardamone is just one example of the thousands of Italian Americans who were cited for gallantry in action during World War I. We are indeed fortunate to be able to read his own description of his actions on the field of battle.

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Frank Alduino

October 21, 2021

Rear Admiral Bancroft Gherardi

The most prominent Italian-American naval officer of the 19th century, Bancroft Gherardi distinguished himself in both war and peace.

During the American Civil War, several officers of Italian descent served in the Union Navy. The highest-ranking among them was Bancroft Gherardi, a versatile officer and distinguished leader in the modern American Navy.

Gherardi’s father, Donato, migrated to the United States from Tuscany in the 1820s. He settled in the Boston area and in 1825 married Jane Bancroft, the daughter of Secretary of the Navy George Bancroft. Several years later, Donato moved his growing family to Louisiana so he could take a teaching position. Bancroft Gherardi was born there on Nov. 10, 1832.

In 1846, Gherardi received an appointment to the United States Naval Academy in Annapolis, Maryland, at the tender age of 13. He graduated in 1852, ranking 14th in his class. Following graduation, Passed Midshipman Gherardi served aboard vessels in the Mediterranean, Atlantic and Pacific. When war broke out in 1861, Lt. Gherardi was stationed off the coast of Southern California and tasked with protecting gold-laden Union vessels from rebel commerce raiders. In November 1861, Gherardi became executive officer of the gunboat Chippewa in the North Atlantic Blockading Squadron. Between December 1861 and August 1862, the ship served on the blockade off the coasts of Virginia and North Carolina. During that period, the Chippewa took part in the capture of a Confederate blockade runner, and Gherardi participated in his first combat action when ships of the North Atlantic Squadron bombarded Confederate-held Fort Macon in North Carolina. The fort surrendered to a combined Army-Navy force in late April.

In July 1862, the 29-year-old Gherardi was promoted to commander. Shortly thereafter, the Chippewa went on a cruise in search of the Confederate commerce raider Florida that took it to the Azores, Europe, Africa and the West Indies. The Union vessel also took part in a futile attempt to capture the Confederate blockade-runner Gibraltar, known formerly as the commerce raider Sumter. Captained by the legendary Raphael Semmes, the Sumter had taken or destroyed 18 northern merchant ships in 1861 before being forced into port at Gibraltar in January 1862. Eventually resold to the Confederacy at auction in December of that year, the vessel was renamed the Gibraltar and used as a blockade runner from 1863-64.

The rebel ship remained a concern for all U.S. commercial vessels. The commander of the Chippewa received orders to “destroy the Sumter whenever he had an opportunity to do so out of neutral jurisdiction.” According to one account, the Chippewa was “watchful as a lynx cruising at the entrance of [Gibraltar] bay, and never losing sight of the [enemy vessel].” Unfortunately, the Gibraltar covertly left port during a gale in February 1863 and sailed into the Atlantic. The Chippewa remained in European waters until it was transferred in April 1863 to Admiral Samuel DuPont’s South Atlantic Blockading Squadron off the coast of Port Royal, South Carolina.

Gherardi soon left the Atlantic for the Texas Gulf Coast and command of his own ship, the steam gunboat Chocura. The young officer captured several blockade-runners during his six-month stint in Texas waters, including the schooner Fredric the Second, which the Chocura seized while towing another prize, the British schooner Agnes. Gherardi’s efficiency caught the attention of his superiors and proved lucrative for both him and his men. As prescribed by maritime law at the time, the commander and crew were entitled to a percentage of any contraband found aboard ships attempting to penetrate the blockade.

In May 1864, Gherardi was transferred to the waters off Mobile, Alabama, and given command of a new gunboat, the Port Royal. Fame soon followed. In the summer of 1864, Union Admiral David Glasgow Farragut was poised to attack the Confederate forts defending Mobile Bay, the last major Confederate stronghold on the Gulf Coast. Farragut’s fleet would have to contend with the guns of forts Morgan and Gaines (which commanded the entrance to the bay), more than 100 underwater mines, the Confederate ironclad Tennessee and her escort ships.

On Aug. 5, Farragut assembled four ironclad monitors and 14 wooden frigates and headed for the entrance to Mobile Bay. To protect themselves from the murderous fire of the southern forts, the wooden Union ships were paired and tied together. Gherardi’s ship, the Port Royal, and its companion frigate, the Richmond, were third in line of the wooden warships, immediately behind Farragut’s flagship, the Hartford. The monitor Tecumseh led the Union fleet toward Fort Morgan, but it hit a submerged mine and sank almost immediately, killing 113 of 135 crewmembers. Urged on by Farragut’s legendary words, “Damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead,” the Union flotilla sailed past Fort Morgan’s heavy guns and the rebel minefield at the bay’s entrance. Farragut’s ships then encountered the Tennessee. Admiral Franklin Buchanan, commander of the Confederate ironclad, had left the safety of the fort’s guns to confront the Yankee ships. During a three-hour engagement, Farragut’s vessels rammed the Tennessee several times and eventually bombarded it into submission. The loss of the Tennessee and the passage of the Union fleet into the bay led to the surrender of Fort Gaines on Aug. 8 and Fort Morgan two weeks later.

Gherardi and the crew of the Port Royal played a significant role in one of the most pivotal naval battles of the war. As the ship made its way into the bay, the Port Royal trained its 10-inch pivot gun on Fort Morgan and its rifled cannon on Fort Gaines. Gherardi’s ship also blasted the Tennessee as it “passed down the [Union] line.” Finally, the Port Royal was cut loose from the Richmond and gave chase to the Tennessee’s three escorts. In his official report of the battle, the captain of the Richmond praised Gherardi “for his cool and courageous conduct, from the moment the attack commenced to the time his vessel was cast off by my order to go in chase of the enemy’s three wooden gunboats.” In a dispatch to Secretary of the Navy Gideon Welles, Admiral Farragut also commended Gherardi for his actions. The battle of Mobile Bay gave the Union effective control of the entire Gulf of Mexico. Coupled with William Tecumseh Sherman’s capture of Atlanta, it helped stifle peace rumblings in the North and ensure Lincoln’s reelection.

Gherardi remained in the Navy for nearly 30 years after the end of the Civil War, eventually rising to the rank of rear admiral. Over the decades, he helmed the Brooklyn Navy Yard and the North Atlantic Squadron, led a diplomatic mission to Haiti, and commanded a squadron dispatched to South America to prevent war between the U.S. and Chile. A highlight of Admiral Gherardi’s post-Civil War career occurred in April 1893 when he was appointed to lead the Hampton Roads Naval Rendezvous. This grand armada of 38 warships from 10 nations was the first of many activities leading to the opening of the Chicago Exposition.

Gherardi retired from the U.S. Navy in 1894 after 48 years of service. The most prominent Italian-American naval officer of the 19th century died in his Stratford, Connecticut, home on Dec. 10, 1903, and was buried in Annapolis on the Naval Academy grounds.

This article was co-authored by Dr. David Coles.

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Jim Distasio

October 14, 2021

World War II resistance fighter Giuseppe Lella

A spy for the Allies and a participant in the underground railroad that protected Italy’s Jews during World War II, Giuseppe “Pino” Lella considered himself a coward until an American author persuaded him to share his story with the world.

The war came to Giuseppe “Pino” Lella right as he watched Fred Astaire dance with Ginger Rogers. It was the summer of 1943 and Lella, then 17 years old, was sitting next his brother, Mimmo, at a movie theater in his native Milan watching the cinematic duo twirl across the screen. For a brief moment, the war that had engulfed Europe and Nazi-occupied Italy was extinguished by pure Hollywood escapism.

Then reality came crashing down. First the projector eerily froze on the smiling faces of Rogers and Astaire. Moments later, an air raid siren echoed just outside and the crackle of anti-aircraft guns sent panicked moviegoers screaming from their seats into the chaos outside. Lella and his brother surged toward the exits right as Allied bombers dropped their deadly payload at the rear of the theater, tearing through the back wall and the once magical big screen, hurling pieces of debris toward the escaping throng, striking Lella on his cheek and drawing blood.

“We were lucky enough to be among the first to make it out into the open,” says Lella, now 91 years old and living once again in Milan. “Some people were killed.”

The Lella boys began the walk home through a city with no electricity — its only illumination was the fires burning from the attack. Pino and his brother made it safely back to their mother and father, but this wouldn’t be the first time Pino Lella narrowly averted death. Over the next two years he would put his life on the line numerous times to help others and define what it means to be a hero.

As the war in his home country intensified, Lella became part of an underground railroad helping to move Jews out of Italy through the Swiss Alps, and later served as a spy for the Allies while driving for German General Hans Leyers. He sat on this amazing story for decades until writer Mark Sullivan sought him out after hearing about this exploits at a party in 2006. Sullivan flew to Milan for a marathon interview session with Lella, who claimed his actions were unremarkable.

“I did not want to talk about the war,” Lella told Fra Noi. “I saw things that I did not want to be involved in.”

But Sullivan persisted, conducting lengthy interviews with Lella and touring many of the landmarks of his life in Milan and the surrounding areas. After a decade of research and writing, Sullivan released “Beneath a Scarlet Sky,” a lightly fictionalized version of Lella’s story, in May 2017. Trained as a journalist, Sullivan intended to write the book as a piece of reported nonfiction, but tracking down every one of the corroborating pieces proved elusive.

“So many other characters had died before I heard about Pino Lella, and the Nazis had burned so many documents surrounding his story that even after 10 years of research I had to make informed assumptions in the narrative,” Sullivan says on his website. “Once I surrendered to that, I knew I was in the realm of historical fiction. I gave in to it and adjusted by switching obligations.”

In the end, Lella estimates that “Beneath a Scarlet Sky” is “80 to 90 percent true,” and says he is thrilled with the book and its launch, which started out small and has slowly gathered steam, selling hundreds of thousands of copies in multiple languages. Perhaps most impressive, it was recently optioned by Hollywood for feature-film treatment. Current “Spider-Man” star Tom Holland has been tapped to play young Lella, and famed mogul Amy Pascal (“The Post”) is producing.

Lella’s life is certainly the stuff of thrilling cinema. Born in 1926, he was raised in Milan by parents who designed, manufactured and sold leather goods. He was the oldest of three siblings, including Mimmo and his sister, Francesca, both now deceased. In his youth, he spent three months every year up in the Alps near Lake Como at Casa Alpina, mountain-climbing when the weather was warm and skiing when the snow began falling.

“I was always in the mountains,” says Lella, who developed into an exceptional skier. “That’s where many of the people went out of the city to be in peace.”

And while Casa Alpina served as the backdrop to many carefree days in his youth, it also became a refuge for Lella and his brother, who were sent there by their parents for safety during the war. But when the Nazis began rounding up Italian Jews for extermination, the boys stepped into the fray, regularly taking groups as large as eight through the treacherous mountain terrain and past German checkpoints to get them to safety in Switzerland.

“We were lucky enough to have a place where we could take them away,” Lella says.

Eventually, Lella returned home, but the German army began conscripting Italian youth to send them to the Russian front as forced laborers. His parents, fearful for their son’s life, strongly urged him to enlist in the Army to avoid being sent into what amounted to slavery. Lella hated the Nazis with a fury, but reluctantly agreed, so in 1944 he joined the German army. His facility with languages — including French, English, some German and his native Italian — caught the attention of General Leyers, who was Hitler’s right-hand man in Italy, and soon Lella found himself as the Reich general’s personal driver.

Members of Lella’s family were involved in the anti-German partisan movement surging through Italy at the time, so Lella quickly used his new position to be the eyes and ears of the resistance, gathering up valuable intel that could be passed on to the Allies. During that time, Lella put his personal safety on the line more than two dozen times to save the lives of others.

To say any more about Lella’s life story as chronicled in this fascinating novel would be a spoiler of the highest order. Suffice it to say, throughout “Beneath a Scarlet Sky,” Lella’s story proves to be a riveting page-turner that shines a light on a young man who became an unsung hero of World War II by performing truly extraordinary and selfless feats without ever acknowledging them.

“I was afraid, but I also was very lucky,” says Lella, who only whispered his story to a handful of people before Mark Sullivan came knocking. “Life for me started when the war finally ended in 1945.”

Sullivan wrote that Lella once described himself as more of a coward than a hero during one of their earliest meetings, but Lella says this massive retelling of his life story has given him some perspective on his fateful actions more than 70 years ago.

“If you would’ve asked me then I would have certainly been without a good answer as to why I did what I did,” Lella says. “The history should be known, but it’s not for me to say that I’m brave. I’m not brave. I was there and I was lucky to do what I could.”

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Linda Grisolia

October 7, 2021

Army Staff Sergeant Bernie Izzo

Having prepared for 18 months to invade Japan, Bernie Izzo gratefully shifted gears after the dropping of the atomic bomb on Hiroshima and Nagasaki.

Editor’s Note: Bernie passed away in August 2016. This article was published in the June 2016 issue of Fra Noi and is being republished here in his memory.

The youngest of four children, Bernard “Bernie” Izzo was born in Rochester, N.Y. His mother came to the United States with her family when she was 5 years old, and his father traveled alone at the age of 12 to join his older brother. Both parents were from Campobasso, Italy.

After working at several odd jobs, his father opened a jewelry store with the help of a friend, but lost it during the Depression. Izzo’s mother was a homemaker until the Depression, when she worked as a seamstress to help the family.

Growing up in a tightly knit Italian neighborhood, Izzo attended #5 Grammar School and Jefferson High School. Music was taught daily at all public schools in Rochester thanks to the influence of the local Eastman School of Music, founded by George Eastman of Eastman-Kodak acclaim.

The lessons, along with the influence of his high school music teacher, inspired Izzo to study music at Heidelberg College in Ohio. “I just wanted to be like my high school teacher. He was happy, had two children, every other year he bought a new Pontiac,” Bernie says. “I figured, that’s the life.”

Pearl Harbor was attacked when Izzo was completing his first semester at Heidelberg. He immediately went to enlist, but being only 17 years old, he was sent back home. When he turned 18, he tried to enlist again, but was told, “We don’t need you now: We don’t have enough uniforms, we don’t have enough camps.”

His two older brothers were already serving, one in the Navy and the other in the Air Force. Izzo wanted to help his country, too, so he joined the Army Reserves. He completed his second year in college before being called to active duty in 1943.

Izzo deployed to Fort McClellan in Alabama for basic training and then to the Citadel Military School in Charleston, S.C., as part of the Army Specialized Training Program. Upon completion, Izzo transferred to Fort Rucker, Ala., and joined up with the 98th Infantry Division as a replacement. Once it was discovered that Izzo was a vocal music major, he sang at chapel services, funerals, officer’s parties and midnight Mass on Christmas Eve.

Izzo deployed to Hawaii in April 1944, where the 98th was tasked with defending the islands and preparing for the invasion of Japan, which was scheduled for Nov. 1, 1945. He spent 18 months training as a member of the mortar squad. Operations were continuous from island to island, alternating between jungle and amphibious maneuvers.

The troops were ready, and invasion was imminent. Izzo’s division loaded their supplies and vehicles onto ships, and prepared to join up with troops from the Philippines for the assault. “When you’re 19 or 20, you don’t think anything will happen to you, so we were anxious to get over there and get involved.”

But Hiroshima and Nagasaki were bombed within three days of each other in early August 1945, ending the war before the 98th was deployed for active combat. Instead, they landed in Japan on Sept. 27, the first division to arrive, and served in Osaka as part of the occupying force.

“We could not dock!” Izzo remembers. “All the docks in the country were bombed out.” The soldiers waded through the water as though they were invading forces and hiked a couple of miles to reach their train.

“In Osaka, half of the city was flat … block after block,” Izzo says. Before the war, it had been the second largest manufacturing city in Japan. In certain areas, some blocks were not completely destroyed: Only those buildings identified by Allied intelligence as being sources of war materials were bombed.

As a member of a squad of 10 men and an officer, Izzo participated in the demobilizing of the Japanese armed forces. The mountainous coastal terrain camouflaged caves where the Japanese soldiers hid and camped. Connecting tunnels were filled with supplies, weapons and ammo, enabling the soldiers to survive for months. Izzo’s squad made daily patrols into the region, searching for these caves, and flushing out the soldiers.

The Japanese officer in charge would formally surrender his sword to the America officer and his men were automatically discharged, free to go home. “They always surrendered,” Izzo remembers. “They wanted to go home as much as we did!” The tunnels were emptied of all supplies and equipment, loaded onto trucks and taken away to be destroyed. Some were dumped into the ocean. These operations went on twice a day for months.

In his off time, Izzo sang whenever he could and was asked to form a glee club, which became quite successful. He began working with an officer who scheduled social events.

Many Japanese choirs and dance groups contacted the Army to perform for the soldiers. Izzo scheduled the events, arranged transportation and took care of the entertainers while they were with the troops.

During this time, the glee club performed in several concerts, and Izzo sang for a radio station in Osaka that was part of the Armed Forces Radio Network. For 10 weeks, he had a Sunday afternoon radio show.

Izzo was discharged in February 1946 as staff sergeant and returned home to Rochester. Back at Heidelberg College, Izzo earned his degree in music on the GI Bill and reconnected with his future wife, Jean, who he met on his first day as a freshman. He received his master’s degree from the American Conservatory of Music in Chicago.

He and Jean married in 1949 and settled in Chicago, where he began a very successful career in music. Izzo sang in commercials, clubs and churches, and for radio and TV shows. For 10 years, he traveled the country, spending a week or two at each engagement, singing alone or in duos, quartets or larger groups.

During this period, he and Jean had four children and moved to Elmhurst. Izzo decided to find work closer to home and began teaching in the Music Department at North Central College in Naperville.

He continued to perform in concerts, occasionally traveling, and he sang the National Anthem for the Blackhawks for 15 years. Upon retiring from teaching, Izzo sang with the Chicago Symphony at Ravinia, the Grant Park Symphony and the Lyric Opera Chorus.

Izzo has many photos that he took during his time in Osaka with the Brownie camera that he carried with him. He also has letters that his brothers sent him during the war.

Having recently celebrated the 70th anniversary of his discharge from the Army, Izzo reflects, “I was very lucky. I was very lonesome, homesick, but everybody else was, too!

“I could have kissed Harry Truman’s feet because he planned the bomb,” he concludes. “It was terrible, but I was just thankful we didn’t have to go through the invasion.”

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Linda Grisolia

September 24, 2021

‘Merrill’s Marauder’ Dominic Baracani

A member of the legendary Merrill’s Marauders, Dominic Baracani battled his way through nearly 1,000 miles of jungle to loosen Japan’s hold on Burma during World War II.

Editor’s Note: Egidio passed away in August 2019. This article was published in the June 2017 issue of Fra Noi and is being republished here in his memory.

One of six children, Dominic Baracani was born in Mark, Ill., to Adolfo and Ermelinda Baruffi Baracani. Ermelinda grew up near Lizzano in Belvedere, northwest of Florence, and Adolfo came from the Po Valley in Northern Italy. Adolfo was a coal miner and a farmer. When his son Dominic was 4 years old, he took him along every Saturday to sell watermelons. “He always took me because I had long eyelashes so they came out when I was there,” Baracani chuckles.
The Baracanis moved to Highwood to be near his mother’s family after his father suffered injuries during a mine cave-in. Baracani attended Oak Terrace Grade School and Highland Park High School. An All-County football player, he visited Michigan State on a recruiting trip. “But,” he says, “World War II came along.”
He remembers sitting in class with his buddies on the morning of Dec. 8, 1941, reading about the Cubs. His teacher came in and said, “Hey you kids gotta stop reading the sports page … look at the front page! You’ll all be in the Army pretty soon.”
Baracani graduated from high school in 1942 and was drafted into the Army in November of that year. He completed basic training at Camp Wolters, Texas, jungle training at Camp Van Dorn, Miss., and advanced infantry training at Camp Carson, Colo. Baracani and three guys he met at Camp Wolters formed a close friendship and when they heard volunteers were needed for a “dangerous and hazardous mission,” the four pals eagerly signed up.
Destination unknown, they and other volunteers boarded the Lurline, a converted troop ship. Disembarking from San Francisco on Sept. 21, 1943, the ship arrived in India on Oct. 29, 1943. Baracani was in the 3rd battalion of the 5307th Composite Unit (Provisional), code named Galahad, famously known as Merrill’s Marauders after their commander, Brig. Gen. Frank Merrill.
Their main objective was long-range penetration into Japanese-held Burma. The plan was to throw the enemy’s positions into chaos by cutting their communications and supply lines. This would lead the way for General Stilwell’s Chinese American Force to reopen the Burma Road, which was closed by Japanese invaders.
Baracani trained at a British Camp outside of Bombay, then went to Deogarh where he and the other men in the 5307th CUP trained intensively in the art of guerilla warfare. Under the direction of Merrill, the commando unit, consisting of almost 3,000 volunteers, was composed of three battalions, each having two combat teams. Baracani was assigned to one team and his buddies were assigned to another in a different battalion.
The Marauder’s “dangerous and hazardous mission” began on Feb. 24, 1944, when they started on their almost 1000-mile march, without artillery support, over the Patkai region of the Himalayas and into the Burmese jungle behind Japanese lines. The enemy was further in. “But, they knew we were there,” says Baracani.
The soldiers marched at night, carrying their weapons and supplies on their backs. Pack mules carried equipment and ammo and the Marauders were resupplied by periodic airdrops in the jungle. Baracani recalls using leaves that “glow-in-the-dark insects” sat on to make their way through the jungle. The soldiers attached them to the back of their packs and followed the glow down the trail. Tents were dumped to lighten the load over the mountainous terrain. The soldiers kept the lightweight parachutes from the airdrops and Baracani says, “We put them down as ground cover to sleep on.”
He remembers hearing clanging noises while walking the Ledo Road and knew it was soldiers pitching their steel helmets over the edge. They were too hot and heavy for the jungle, but some were kept for cooking over small campfires coaxed out of dried bamboo. “As they tumbled down hitting rocks, they chimed like bells,” Baracani says. Once, after an airdrop, Baracani made a pie with flour and canned peaches in a coffee can. He says, “It probably wasn’t a very good pie but it tasted good to me.”
Behind enemy lines for three months, Merrill’s Marauders battled the Japanese as well as typhus, malaria and dysentery. Baracani carried a Browning Automatic Rifle and fought in many minor battles and some major. “We didn’t have big guns,” he says. “We had mortars.” Each column of Marauders attacked different Japanese units. He remembers, “It was hit and run! Hit and run!”
The Marauders were constantly alert as enemy snipers took cover in the dense jungle foliage. Baracani walked ahead of the others when he noticed twigs falling from a tree. He spotted a sniper, took aim and shot, but his gun jammed! The enemy shot back as Baracani quickly hit the ground and slid down. He says, “I felt it was time to leave there!” Another time, Baracani reached for his ammo clip, could not open it, and noticed it was dented from a direct shot. Once Baracani hung his socks to dry on a bush and later found a bullet hole through one of them. He heard shots and figured that a sniper saw movement in the bush and shot. Baracani says, “I felt that I was lucky.”
The largest battle that Baracani took part in was at the siege of Nhpum Ga, when one of the battalions fiercely fought for survival while surrounded on a mountaintop by the Japanese for almost two weeks. Baracani and the Marauders in the other two battalions came to their aid, fighting their way up the trail at Nhpum Ga to rescue their malnourished and emaciated comrades-at-arm on Easter Sunday 1944. The stench of decaying bodies permeated the mountaintop, resulting in it being called “Maggot Hill.”
Merrill’s Marauders covered more jungle terrain on their long-range missions than any other U.S. Army unit during World War II. Behind enemy lines, they succeeded in throwing the enemy positions into chaos. The Marauders captured the airfield at Myitkyina on May 17, 1944. That evening, Baracani was evacuated to a field hospital in India and treated for dysentery and malaria.
Baracani completed his service training troops at Camp Livingston, La., and was discharged in November 1945. He received the Bronze Star and a Presidential Unit Citation. Returning to Highwood, he married Margaret Pasquesi on Feb. 27, 1946. Graduating from Illinois State Normal University with a degree in accounting, he enjoyed a successful career in accounting and tax services, and still does taxes.
Widowed, Baracani has four sons, six grandchildren and three great-grandchildren. He eagerly awaits the Ranger Rendezvous at Ft. Benning in June, which kicks off a 15-month celebration of the 75th anniversary of the modern American Ranger, starting with the establishment of the 1st Ranger Battalion on June 19, 1942, and ending with the creation of Merrill’s Marauders on Oct. 3, 1943.
Reflecting on his mission, Baracani says, “I’m proud that I was there, that I served, and I realize that I was fortunate that I came out.”

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Linda Grisolia

September 16, 2021

Army Intelligence Officer Egidio Mangiardi

Fluent in several languages when he entered the military, Egidio Mangiardi became part of a Military Intelligence Unit that operated throughout Europe during World War II.

Editor’s Note: Egidio passed away in January 2018. This article was published in the August 2016 issue of Fra Noi and is being republished here in his memory.

One of 11 children, Egidio Mangiardi was born in 1921 to Concetta and Bruno Mangiardi in Spadola, Italy. Graduating from the local grammar school and going to the town of Vibo Valentia to continue his education, Mangiardi needed only one more year of studies to become a schoolteacher when his father was stricken with cancer.

At the time, his father and older brother were living and working near Austin and Madison in Chicago. His brother had a family to support and his father was sending money home to his wife and younger children in Spadola. Now Mangiardi’s help was needed. He crossed the Atlantic along with his sister in 1939 and moved in with his brother and family. Upon his discharge from the hospital, his father returned to Spadola to spend his final days.

Already fluent in French and Latin, Mangiardi studied English at Austin High School and attended Dante School in the Taylor Street neighborhood with other Italian students. He quickly earned his 8th grade diploma and two years later graduated from Austin High. Along with attending school, Mangiardi worked at various jobs, earning money to send home. His family needed money and his sisters needed dowries! And so carrying a dictionary under his arm to help him communicate in English, he found work.

Drafted into the Army in 1942, Mangiardi completed basic training in Cheyenne, Wyo. Based in part on his ability to speak several languages, he was chosen by the Military Intelligence Unit and transferred to Camp Ritchie in Maryland.

Its proximity to Washington, D.C., along with the remote location and rugged terrain, made this an ideal training facility. Secrecy prevailed as soldiers were told not to tell anyone, not even their families, they were with military intelligence. During the intense eight-week session, all ranks of soldiers studied together morning to night, learning such things as signal intelligence training and interrogation techniques. “At that age, it was not difficult,” Mangiardi says. “I found it very interesting.”

Close combat training was taught in a mock German village built at the camp. Many of the soldiers were German Jews who fled the country during the beginning of Nazi control. They came to the United States, joined the Army and were stationed at Camp Ritchie, where the soldiers were nicknamed the “Ritchie Boys.”

“We had to know what kind of plane was coming from the engine noise. We had to learn to recognize a soldier from the uniform,” Mangiardi says. “We had to know how to behave and how to get information.” He traveled to an Army base in Oregon to teach American soldiers how to act in case they were taken prisoners. “Say only your first name, last name and serial number,” he taught them. “Say no more!”

Prepared for battle, Mangiardi shipped out to England with the Military Intelligence Unit. Once there, he remembers boarding a train and the Salvation Army feeding all the troops. He traveled to Northern Ireland for more intensive training and then returned to England. In London, destruction was everywhere. Buildings were in ruins, collapsed into heaps, and streets were filled with rubble, “What could you do, it was a war,” he recalls. “Wherever you went you saw some bombing.”

The Germans launched their V1 flying bombs, called “doodlebugs,” over London. “We used to watch these planes,” Mangiardi says. “As long as we saw the flame, the motor was on and there was nothing to worry about. We knew it would keep going.” Once it ran out of gas, the plane spiraled down, exploding on impact. “We were watching the flame. If the flame ran out, we tried to run and hide someplace … anyplace … you got used to it.”

From London, Mangiardi travelled around Belgium, Germany and France, often translating for the American officers. The soldiers occasionally lived in abandoned homes in towns taken over by the Allies, and at one time in a castle in Northern France. In Germany, they had no food, and Mangiardi took on the responsibility of rustling up provisions for the soldiers.

Continuously honing their military intelligence skills, the soldiers participated in training exercises whenever possible. One in particular, in Northern France, stands out in Mangiardi’s mind. Soldiers, either alone or in groups of two or more, were taken blindfolded and dropped off in the mountains. Relying upon their extensive training and skills, they had to find their way back to camp. Mangiardi recalls, “At that time it was fun.”

He was stationed for a time at the Maginot Line, situated at the border of France and Germany. The line of defense included 22 large underground fortresses and 36 smaller fortresses, as well as blockhouses, bunkers and rail lines. Engaged in battles at the line, Mangiardi recalls, “bombs and gunfire, on and off, on and off.” Bombs flew through the air and the soldiers tried to stay close and look out for one another. “We were scared when the bombs came close,” says Mangiardi. His group suffered casualties, but thankfully no fatalities, “We tried to help whenever it was possible,” he recalls regarding the wounded.

Mangiardi was able to spend some time in Versailles and Paris. “I was lucky. I always had a lot of fun because I spoke the language.” He was in Fontainebleau, France when the war ended. The soldiers were thankful and excited, “We went out and got drunk,” he recalls. Before heading back to the states, Mangiardi traveled to Italy to meet with his mother and family in Spadola: the first time he saw them since leaving home in 1939.

Discharged in 1945, Mangiardi returned to Chicago and then moved to California. After operating a restaurant for three years, he came back to Chicago, where he was a successful salesman for Metropolitan Life. He then launched a second career operating a currency exchange in the city. Mangiardi married his wife, Maria, in 1965 and they have a close-knit family of three children and six grandchildren.

Always the provider, from sending money home to Italy for his sister’s dowries, to foraging for food for his soldier buddies, to sponsoring and providing for his two brothers and their families to come to Chicago from Italy, Mangiardi says, “The Army was a good teacher!”

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Linda Grisolia

September 9, 2021

Army Corporal Edward DePasque

As a corporal in Korea, Edward DePasque readied howitzer shells for loading, shot flares to guide troop movement at night and even did a stint as a cook.

Edward DePasque was born in his parents’ home on 36th and Francisco in Chicago. He was one of nine children; two died as infants. His mother, Victoria Marino, was from Salerno and his father, Giovanni, from the Abruzzi region of Italy.

DePasque’s parents grew a vegetable garden to keep their large family fed, using free tomato plants provided by the Campbell Soup Company. The close-knit family worked in the garden, jarring tomato sauce and making their own sausage, pasta and ravioli. “In those days we would go out and pick dandelions and make dandelion wine out of the flowers,” DePasque recalls. They also made barrels of red wine. At the young age of 6, DePasque’s job was to push down the fermenting grapes as they rose to the top.

DePasque attended Burroughs Grade School and Kelly High School, and worked for the railroad until he was drafted into the Army, reporting for active duty in October 1951. “I don’t think my mother was too happy about it, but I figured, it’s a job,” he explains. “They call you and your duty is to go help your country.”

He completed 16 weeks of basic maneuvers at Camp Chaffee, Ark., specializing in artillery and becoming a fire direction specialist. After a short furlough, DePasque boarded a Liberty ship in Seattle and headed across the Pacific.

The voyage to Pusan, Korea, took eight days, with DePasque working KP duty because “I heard I would get plenty to eat.” Recalling the mood and the camaraderie on the ship, he says, “People in those days were willing to go and if you were called for duty to fight, you didn’t put up a fuss about it.”

DePasque was part of the 999th Field Artillery Battalion, based near the 38th Parallel. His unit had 18 155mm self-propelled howitzers, each typically having an eight-man crew. The powerful guns were capable of shooting a 95-pound shell 12 miles. Fuses were put on shells according to the different operations. If they were targeting troops coming up a hill, a particular fuse was put on so the shell exploded above the troops, raining down shrapnel. Cpl. DePasque’s job was to ready the shells to load into the breech of the cannon.

Forward observers searched for the enemy and relayed the target information to the guns. Most often, DePasque’s unit covered the Marines, who preferred to make night raids. DePasque shot flares, carried by parachutes, over or under the target, depending on the wind, to light the way for the foot soldiers. He recalls a frigid New Year’s Eve, when the wind blew the flares back over their position, lighting up the sky. Luckily, the enemy did not see them. “We froze half to death,” DePasque chuckles, “but they did not shoot.”

DePasque’s unit moved between the front, middle and rear positions, depending on the need, but were usually three to four miles behind the front lines. Sometimes fighting persisted around the clock if the North Koreans and Chinese were making a big push. “You didn’t want the enemy to know where you were, so when you did shoot, you had to get rid of them so they wouldn’t shoot back at you,” according to DePasque.

Occasionally there was a lull in fighting, but the soldiers were always ready. “We were called upon because we could move out so fast,” DePasque says. “We could go to another position or we could strike the enemy.” He saw many wounded soldiers and too many deaths. “You feel bad,” he says. “Who’s next?”

DePasque carried a .30-caliber carbine. “That saved your life,” he says. “Sometimes the enemy broke through the lines. They’re out to kill you. They blew their bugles and we knew they were coming, but the Marines generally fought them off.”

The snowy, mountainous terrain was treacherous, with temperatures often falling below zero. “It was rough … a rough country,” he recalls. In the forward position, he was too busy to think about the cold. When they could, the soldiers took turns resting. “You would wrap yourself in a sleeping bag and crawl under a tank sometimes and that’s where you sleep,” he says.

Even worse were the torrential rains that lasted for a week or more. The tank engines were always running and sometimes the soldiers stood on top to dry off from the engine’s warmth. “You’re constantly wet and you always had to take care of your feet,” he explains. “You would wring out your socks and put them on your body to dry them out.”

DePasque manned the big guns for three months before becoming a cook. He told the mess sergeant, “Hey Sarge, you’re always complaining about the cooks, make me a cook.” When asked if he could cook, DePasque replied, “Yea, I’m from a good Italian family, we had to learn how to cook.”

The cooks prepared three meals a day for 150 soldiers, wherever they were. If they were in the front position, food was brought up to them. If they were there for several days, DePasque brought the kitchen up. The kitchen moved often, according to need, and could be loaded up and on its way 25 minutes after getting the call. Breakfast was usually bacon, eggs and toast, and always coffee. Lunch and dinner meals included chicken or turkey and, DePasque recalls, “We had a lot of hamburger meat.”

Food came up from Seoul every day. If the truck couldn’t make it, they ate K rations. “We never let a guy go hungry,” says DePasque. The 30-gallon pot of “cowboy coffee” constantly brewed. The water was kept boiling and grounds were continuously added. Occasionally they even had ice cream. “Summertime, you wouldn’t get it,” says DePasque, “because they used all the ice for the bodies of the Marines to preserve them.”

When in the rear position, DePasque received care packages from home that included salami and cheese. “I would invite all the Italian guys and make pizza,” he says. “Everybody’s your friend when you’re the cook.” The soldiers bought beer from the PX to go with the pizza. “You gotta have some pleasure,” DePasque notes.

After one year in Korea, DePasque completed his service at an Army base in Joplin, Mo., and returned to Chicago when he was discharged in 1953. He married in 1955 and has two daughters and three grandchildren.

A widower since 1990, DePasque is retired from a sheet metal career, enjoys traveling around the country and spending time at his cabin in Colorado, and remains active with the American Legion. His daughters live nearby and they all continue the family tradition of making homemade Italian sausage and pasta dishes.

Last fall, DePasque made the Honor Flight to Washington, D.C., and would recommend it to any veteran. “They really take care of you,” he says.

Reflecting on his time in Korea, DePasque says, “It was an honor to serve our country.”

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Linda Grisolia

September 2, 2021

Air Force Tech Sergeant Ted Micci

Born a century ago in Chicago Heights, Ted Micci is a living testament to the determination of the crews who flew bombing missions over Europe during World War II.

Attilio (Ted) Micci was born 100 years ago in his parents’ home in Chicago Heights. Massimo and Frances Rotaloni Micci emigrated from Marche, Italy, and settled in the Hungry Hill Italian neighborhood of the city. Micci’s maternal grandparents lived across the street, and his aunts and uncles lived down the block. They all shared Sunday dinners together. Micci loved everything his mother prepared. “She was a pretty good cook,” he says.

Micci graduated from Garfield Grade School and attended Bloom High School before transferring to Joliet Central High School when his family moved. After graduating, he was employed as an apprentice electrician until joining the Army Air Forces in October 1942 with three buddies. “In order to get what we wanted, like the Air Force, we volunteered,” he says. “I was interested in airplanes.”

Micci completed basic training and airplane mechanic school in Texas. While working on a cadet plane, the pilot asked Micci if he wanted a ride. Micci grabbed his parachute, harness and jacket, jumped in, and they took off. “He did everything he possibly could with that airplane. I almost got sick,” says Micci. “Oh man, especially when you first ride — it was an experience, and from then on, I loved it.”

Micci worked as an airplane mechanic until he volunteered to become a radio operator. He received his training in Wisconsin and began flying with B-17 (Flying Fortress) bomber groups. Micci was assigned to a 10-man crew: four officers and six enlisted men. Based in Walla Walla, Washington, they trained daily, “in order to get yourself indoctrinated into the plane itself, get to know your crew people and get to know your job that you’re supposed to do on the plane,” Micci says.

They picked up their B-17 at Fort Sheridan, Illinois, flew to Maine and then on to Scotland. Micci was assigned to the 364th Bomb Squadron of the 305th Bomb Group. Each bomb group consisted of four bomb squadrons, and every squadron had 21 B-17s.

Micci was stationed at the Chelveston air base in England with the Eighth Air Force and arrived shortly after a fateful August 1943 bombing run over Schweinfurt, Germany. “They lost 60 bombers with 10 men on each one. That’s 600 men,” says Micci. “We were replacements for those who didn’t come back.” When Micci arrived, the personal effects of those killed in action were being collected and removed from the barracks. “The feeling was not good,” he says.

The 305th Bomb Group did not have fighter escorts until their later missions. They flew in formation over Norway, Belgium, Holland and Germany, targeting such strategic areas as oil refineries, ball bearing factories, airplane manufacturing plants and mineral mines.

The men faced not only enemy gunfire, but also extreme below-zero temperatures. “You get frost on your oxygen tank, frost on your eyelids,” Micci says. They were shot at by anti-aircraft artillery on the ground and enemy fighter planes in the air. “There’s no foxholes up there!” says Micci. “You’re trying to save your fanny and shoot at them if possible. There’s nothing you can do when they shoot from the ground. You can’t evade them; you can’t dodge them.”

Micci and his crew had several close calls with their plane, Thundermug. On one bombing mission, the B-17 in front of them blew up after being hit by ground cannon fire. “No parachutes, no nothing from that plane!” Micci remembers. Debris from the explosion nearly hit the Thundermug. “We had to do some maneuvering,” he says. “I felt sorry for the guys there.”

Another close call occurred flying over Oslo, Norway. While his crew dropped bombs over the targeted mineral mine, the 70-below-zero temperature in the plane was causing the gas valve to freeze. The Thundermug left formation and flew low over the choppy ocean waves in the frigid November weather. “We threw all our guns out and everything to make our ship lighter because we weren’t getting any gas into our main tank,” says Micci. “We kept flying, kept flying, kept flying, and meanwhile I was sending out SOS messages on my radio.” The crew was ready to ditch the plane when they spotted English territory. They barely made it and landed at the very end of a runway. “All four engines stopped: no gas! That was it!” Micci says. “I got out and kissed the ground.”

Planes were lost on every mission. The Thundermug was riddled with holes, but it was always able to stay in the air and did not lose any men. “We lucked out,” Micci says.

During battles, Micci manned a gun and assisted the crew. “You’re more or less a runner between all the gunners, take their place because they got hurt or they’re frozen, because we’re 50 below zero up there,” he says. “Maybe their ammo is low and you help replenish them. There’s always something to do to help out.”

Every mission began the same. The men awoke at 2 a.m., ate breakfast, were briefed, grabbed their gear, boarded the plane and were ready for takeoff at 6 a.m. They were debriefed upon their return. “They’d want to know how many fighters, how many this and how many that,” Micci says. “You just go up and do your work and that’s it, and take it as it comes when the fighters come at you or they shoot cannons up at you.”

Micci completed his last mission on March 22, 1944, over Berlin. “I flew 25 missions; that was the max at the time,” he says. He returned to the States in April, became a radio instructor at Lowry Field in Denver and married Esther Buccarelli in December 1944 while on leave. Micci was discharged in October 1945 with the rank of Tech Sergeant. Among his decorations are a Distinguished Flying Cross and an Air Medal with three Oak Leaf Clusters. Micci is featured in the American Air Museum in Britain and is a member of the Joliet Stone City Veterans of Foreign Wars Post 2199.

A retired electrician, Micci has four children, eight grandchildren and five great-grandchildren. His interest in planes continues, and through the years, he has ridden in B-17s during military airplane tours. At the time of his interview with Fra Noi, he was looking forward to his eighth ride in a bomber as a civilian.

Micci’s late wife is buried at Abraham Lincoln Cemetery, which he visits regularly. The proposed NorthPoint Compass Project is troubling to him, as the trucking depot would greatly impact the serene environment of the cemetery by bringing an additional 5,000 semi trucks per day into proximity with the hallowed grounds. Micci is among many veterans and others who are plaintiffs in a legal battle against the project.

Reflecting on his time in the Air Force, Micci says, “It was a surprising adventure. You’re getting into situations where you have to think for yourself and try to survive for yourself … you do a lot of praying.”

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