A Veteran's Take

The bumper stickers on the car in front of mine in the Shop Rite parking lot stoked an uneasy feeling that no amount of broccoli, lemons, and pistachio ice cream could assuage. A drooping American flag was affixed to the car’s roof above a collage of angry messages: “Bidenflation – the price of your vote,” “Go Brandon,” and “Dumb and Dumber” next to pictures of the President and Vice President. There was no way the puny flag atop the car could put a patriotic spin on that vitriol. As the Republican party moves closer to crowning a candidate with authoritarian designs, I can almost hear Colombo’s shocked intake of breath.  

As a sophomore at Joel Barlow High School in the fall of 2000, our daughter’s history assignment was to interview a veteran and invite him or her to a breakfast panel at school later in the year. Very few students were able to find World War II vets to interview; even then, there weren’t many left. Casey was fortunate her grandfather, Colombo, was alive and eager to tell his stories.   

In the war against Fascism under dictators Hitler, Mussolini, and Hirohito, Colombo had been aboard a B-24 Liberator that bombed the Brenner Pass through the Alps between Italy and Austria. When Dave and I backpacked through Europe in the ‘70’s, Colombo directed us, “Check out the pass; I expect it’s still smoldering.” But, beyond that, his war stories had been tucked away - linen-wrapped in the bundle of letters in his sister’s closet, packed with his flight jacket and mementos in storage. 

            

As a first generation Italian born of immigrant parents who’d arrived only two decades before, Colombo and his three siblings were staunchly American. They wanted little to do with the country their parents had left behind, although Nanny’s homemade pasta and fresh garden vegetables always lured them home for meals. Like so many young men of the time, the three boys responded to the Nazi threat and enlisted as soon as they were old enough: Phil shipped out to the Pacific, Jack to North Africa, and Colombo to Italy.What must the crawl of days and nights have been like for the parents, worrying about all three of their sons?  

 

When Casey and Colombo settled into wicker chairs on the porch in Rhode Island for the interview, the soothing calls of gulls on salt-scented air were a far cry from the echoes of war. Yet, those years reeled closer as Colombo sifted through memories, and his granddaughter jotted notes.

 

With practised precision, Colombo recited his rank, base, duties and missions: “Army Aircorp Staff Sargeant, Cheringnol, Italy.” He recalled an ill-fated flight from Bangor, Maine to the continent, with Louie Prima, barely audible over the plane’s rumble, crooning “That Old Black Magic” on the radio. Engine troubles plagued the journey, necessitating layovers in Iceland and England. Snorting in disgust, Colombo shook his head, “That plane was a brand new B-24 Liberator. Turned out it was a lemon, scrapped once we reached Italy. Never even saw duty.”

  

And in 1945, he was with the crew that flew into Rome with the “Stars and Stripes” newspaper staff that covered Mussolini’s death and the fury of the mob that strung him up. 

 

In December of 2000, Colombo came to Easton to participate in the veterans panel at Barlow. Of those WW II vets attending, Colombo was the hardy exception: strong, healthy, and in great spirits. Beyond sharing his experiences, he brought a satchel of fishing line, morphine and a reflecting mirror: the emergency survival kit he’d been issued for use had that lemon of a Liberator gone down.  

            

On the morning of the panel discussion, Colombo left an inscription in our guest book:  “12/7/2000 – Pearl Harbor Day – How well I remember it! I was sixteen years old and had just finished a sand-lot football game in the snow at Lake Park, Worcester. We won the Park’s league. Little did I know that two years later I’d be in the Air Corps, finishing off the Nazis in May of 1945. On this day, my granddaughter and her class of the year 2000 will be commemorating the fifty-ninth year of Pearl Harbor. I am happy to share this day with her and her classmates.”  

 

So much has changed since that day. 

 

What would those who fought Fascism in the ‘40’s have thought of the bumper sticker bile on that car in the parking lot in 2024? Of the American flag wielded as a weapon in an assault on the Capitol to prevent the peaceful transfer of power? Of the virulence that divides America, and the forces that support an aspiring authoritarian?     

                                                

While interviewing Colombo, Casey had asked what he fought for. His response was immediate, “For the freedom of the United States and all the countries involved.” 

 

To her final question, “What message would you pass on to the people of today?” Colombo said, “Have respect for the soldiers and servicemen, and respect for the American flag.”

Colombo, center

 

 

 

The Flag: for Country or Self?

As many did, after the 9/11 attacks, Dave and I hung an American flag on our front door. We were proud and emotional in this show of solidarity and love of country. It was particularly meaningful as the flag had belonged to Anthony Sylvestro, Dave’s father, a WW II veteran who’d been a radio operator on a B-24 Liberator.  All three Sylvestro brothers served during the war, in Italy, the Pacific, and North Africa, and it is extraordinary to imagine the sacrifice of their parents, recent Italian immigrants, as their boys put their lives at risk for their new homeland.  

Through our forefathers, Dave and I represent the melding of people who have sought and fought for America’s promise of equality, justice, freedom, and opportunity. My ancestors arrived centuries ago and my grandfather fought in WW I. Dave’s father and uncles fought to uphold American ideals and stop the spread of Nazism. While America has never lived up to the ideals professed in our Declaration of Independence and on the Statue of Liberty’s pedestal, in a mystical way, our flag has been a symbol of the country’s aspirations to those ideals.

Now the flag that liberated concentration camps and gave hope to refugees fleeing oppression is brandished by those decrying the trampling of their freedoms when asked to wear a mask to protect themselves, their loved ones, and those around them. 

If the veterans who saved us from Nazi rule were not dying of Covid, would they proclaim that yes, this particular freedom was what they fought for, given the resulting increased deaths of Americans? Given that this choice could lead to disease and a ventilator?  Given that exercising this right could consign unwitting passers-by to the same? What has become of those “who more than self their country loved, and mercy more than life”(1.)? How can people who demonstrate so little care for others’ well-being wave the flag and claim personal liberty as justification? How can the president and those who support him take issue with so small a “sacrifice” as wearing a mask when it might save their countrymen a terrible death? 

The freedom represented by the flag is not so trivial as license to do whatever you want. Freedom is a privilege and comes with responsibility to the greater good.  November will prove our Declaration’s current status: Who are we now, America? 

*1. From “America the Beautiful” by Katharine Lee Bates

Morning Constitutional

The day was glorious, sunny and warm, perfect for my morning walk.  I’d lathered up in sunscreen, daubed my lips with SPF 15 Chapstick, and donned Lululemon shorts, a camisole, sneakers, and sunglasses.  I grabbed a camera, just in case, my phone, just in case, and a beach button, just in case.  Ready to march.

Stride, stride, stride.  I passed through a shady stretch bordered by thickets draped in garlands of aromatic honeysuckle and multi-flora rose.  Wreathed in their scent and kissed by soft sea breezes, I broke into the sunshine by the tennis courts and saw an old man standing at the intersection. 

With his hands on his hips, he watched the white-clad kids at their lessons as they darted about swinging rackets and chasing balls.  He was tiny, wiry, and tan, clothed in a weathered blue tee-shirt and well-worn khakis.  I thought, do I take the left at the stop sign, miss him and march on, or continue straight and cross his path?  If I slowed to meet him, I knew we would walk together, a meander or shuffle, not the march I’d planned.  And I decided, without deciding - for my feet seemed to chart their own course - to continue straight. 

“World War II Veteran – Navy” was embossed on his faded green cap.  His smile embraced me, so cheerful and pleased to meet a beautiful woman (so he said) along his way.  His eyes reminded me of my Uncle Ding’s, pale blue, clear, and forthright.  As we fell into step, I thanked him for his service and told him that my husband’s father and uncles had served in Italy and North Africa.  He nodded and said, “I was in the Navy.  Didn’t want the Army.  Figured, you go down on a ship, you go down.  Wasn’t as sure of what might happen if the Germans got you.” 

I said, “So, what was the deal then, with all you young men rushing to sign up?  Didn’t know better?  Bravado?  Wanted to fight for the country?”

“Oh, you wanted to fight for the country, no matter your age.  There was this guy I knew.  Big guy.  Only fifteen years old.  Guadalcanal.  Saw all kinds of action before they found out his age and shipped him home.”  He shook his head with a thoughtful smile tinged with amusement, and perhaps pride at the guts and gall of that boy.  “Myself, I was on a destroyer.  Sunk a German sub in the Azores.” 

He waved away my admiration and I tried to picture the young sailor he had been on the deck of that ship. 

He stopped to face me.  “But we don’t learn,” he said sadly. “Korea.  Viet Nam.  Iraq.  Afghanistan.  We had no business entering those fights.  That killing’s been going on for hundreds of years.  The French got involved.  The Russians.  Got their frickin’ butts handed to ‘em.  Sorry…” he said, apologizing for his language.  We were quiet for a while, and then walked on, both of us watching our feet cross the asphalt, one slow step at a time.

“D’you think it’s like the gun thing?” I asked.  “More about money than principle?  Manufacturers of tanks, planes, and weapons keen to keep us in?” 

Again he stopped, and I mused that such pauses served as a little break as well as a point of emphasis.  “Big business runs everything,” he said.  “Runs Congress.  They shouldn’t be allowed more than three terms.  Who’s that guy?  Maybe from Michigan?  Just elected again.  Been in office for forty years or something.”

I snorted.  “Lots of people favor term limits, but no one in Congress is in a big hurry to vote himself out of a job.”

Our stroll had taken us to the water.  Feathered stalks of elephant grass swayed along the channel to the sea.  Red winged blackbirds sang and swooped low; gulls glided against the blue sky.  A burly unshaven man in mud-splattered workboots and a camo baseball cap was climbing into a truck parked by the side of the road.  He spotted my companion’s WW II insignia and descended to cross the street to us, his smile broad and hand out-stretched.  “Marine Corps.  1970’s.  Thank you for your service.”

“And you for yours.  Viet Nam?”  asked my vet.

“Nope.  Came in at the tail end.”  He touched the brim of his cap, said, “ Have a good day” and left us.

“Every day is a good day,” replied the old man.

Certainly, this was a good day, with its scent of honeysuckle, roses, and the sea.  I could hear the whoops and shrieks of children playing at the nearby beach over the rush of surf.  The halo of white sunshine was bright on the sandy road and danced on the water in the channel.  Eras seemed to layer and unfold even as we stood there: the past seen by the clear blue eyes that met mine, my own childhood, and that of my kids in this place, blurring with this moment of sand crunching beneath my sneakers and the sun’s warmth on my skin. 

We stood at a crossroad; his path lay over the bridge, mine, straight along the shore.  I hesitated, willing, ready, wishing, to walk further with him.  A car had stopped and the driver graciously waved us on.  Suddenly, after all that meandering, there was no time to pause.  We had to move.   

“You go,” said the old man.  “I take my time.”  Of course I knew this.  We’d been taking our time together, stopping and talking and stopping and talking.  But I sensed he was ready to part; maybe I’d rushed him even though, to my sense, I had slowed down.

So I waved at him and the waiting driver, and, inexplicably teary, marched away.