The following four-part series appeared in August-September 2025 on Medium.
LETTERS FROM WORLD WAR II
By Chris Matthew Sciabarra
LETTERS FROM WORLD WAR II: LETTERS FOUND (August 12, 2025)
Last week marked the eightieth anniversary of the dropping of atomic bombs on the cities of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, a shocking turn in the final weeks of the deadliest war in human history. With its expanded use of military technology, that war claimed the lives of somewhere between 70 and 85 million people — the vast majority of whom were civilians. No war was more costly or more dramatic in fundamentally changing the ways in which people lived and died.
The Second World War had a profound impact on my family. From countless conversations that I’d had over the years with my parents, uncles, aunts, cousins, and friends, I knew that the war experience had been brutal on so many levels, both at home and abroad. I knew that some had paid the ultimate price in key battles of that war, while others returned home to families that were changed forever. I had even formally interviewed one of my uncles for a school project that illuminated the difficulties of military service—difficulties faced not only on the field of battle but in the aftermath, as postwar traumatic stress altered the quality of life and of life’s relationships.
And yet, nothing quite prepared me for the education I’d receive upon discovering and reading scores of letters, which my mother had saved, written during the war — transporting me back to a time and place that enabled me to feel the daily trials and tribulations of a generation in ways that I could never have imagined.
A Remarkable Discovery
When my sister Elizabeth Sciabarra died in November 2022, I was faced with the enormous task of sorting through several lifetimes of family stuff — “stuff” defined broadly as clothes, closets, cabinets, and collectibles. I must have trashed or donated over five tons of stuff, and that’s not an exaggeration. The downsizing took nearly two years and enabled me to move into a new apartment clutter-free.
One of the most remarkable consequences of downsizing was my discovery of about a hundred letters that my mother, Ann Sciabarra, had saved — communications to and from relatives and family friends written during World War II.
This modest selection of letters pales in comparison to the collection of over 200,000 communications that historian Andrew Carroll amassed over many years of archiving war correspondence going back to the American Revolution. Author of Letters of a Nation: A Collection of Extraordinary American Letters, Carroll is the founding director of the Center for American War Letters and the Legacy Project, “an all-volunteer initiative to honor veterans, active-duty troops, and their family members by preserving their wartime correspondences.”
I marvel at the breadth and depth of Carroll’s research given that it took me some time to organize a mere hundred letters. As I packed for my move, I made sure to put all those letters into a single file box, to be sorted and read later. Knowing that we were headed toward the eightieth anniversary of the end of that terrible global conflict, I was intent on publishing my family’s correspondence as part of a series, “Letters from World War II.” I sorted them first by name and then, for each of the six people whom I identified, I organized them chronologically to create the semblance of a given individual’s timeline.
Unfortunately, anyone whom I could have asked to provide additional information about these individuals is now dead. I knew three of them personally; they were my uncles. Of the other three whom I never met, one was a family friend, another was a cousin, and the last was an uncle who died in combat. Doing the requisite biographical research for each person would have made this a much more robust endeavor. That worthwhile project awaits.
For now, however, I have decided to publish lengthy transcriptions and commentary based almost purely on the letters themselves. I will provide whatever biographical or historical details I can, but for the most part, my intention here is to give voice to these people through their own words. I have included excerpts relevant to the war experience, leaving out much of the family drama that sometimes preoccupied the correspondents. I could not possibly recreate the complex context that informed some of the discussions of relationships, marriages, squabbles, birthdays, and tragedies of people from the 1940s whom I never met and whose names weren’t even remotely familiar to me. In some isolated instances, it was necessary for me to correct some misspelled words so that readers could properly grasp the meaning of a few sentences. I have not edited any of the excerpts for content, no matter how raw or ‘politically incorrect’ some of that content might be to twenty-first century readers.
These letters speak to a certain moment in history. They reflect the thoughts of members of the so-called “greatest generation,” a term popularized in the title of a 1998 book by Tom Brokaw. It was a generation that came of age during the Great Depression, suffering its severe deprivations and answering a ‘call to duty’ as the dark clouds of war consumed the entire world. It is not the purpose of this series to debate the causes or consequences of that Depression, that War, or the politics of that time. While the larger context cannot be ignored given its impact on the correspondents whose letters are the subject of this series, my focus here is on the individuals themselves, their personal interrelationships, and how they processed the whirlwind of events — what they often called “this damn mess” — that consumed them.
On the nature of war, however, I found this observation from an unlikely source, to ring true. In the book, Gospel of the Living Dead: George Romero’s Visions of Hell on Earth, Kim Paffenroth writes: “As a bumper sticker I just saw proclaimed, ‘You can no more win a war than you can win an earthquake.’ The most one can hope for with wars … is to make the best of a bad situation and to emerge with the least number of physical, psychological, emotional, and spiritual scars possible” (Waco, Texas: Baylor University Press, 2006, p. 67)
Many of these letters were written under the strain of wartime experiences that left profoundly deep scars in their wake. These experiences are well outside my frame of reference. I would never even think of judging any individual herein for what they wrote. In many cases, because of the constraints of military censorship, I couldn’t know for sure the precise backdrop that informed the style or the substance of what was being conveyed by the correspondents. But what was written was so powerful that uncovering the full details of the experiences seemed irrelevant. The letters could be moving, joyful — and horrifying.
If anyone out there is a surviving relative of any of the folks identified in these installments, I trust that they will be touched by the words herein. The fears and foibles, volatility, patience, fortitude, and hope conveyed in these letters are a testament to the authenticity of those who wrote them in the face of war’s brutality. These letters honor not only the memory of their authors but also their generation, which lived through one of the most tumultuous periods in human history.
This series will conclude on September 2, 2025, to mark the eightieth anniversary of Japan’s formal surrender aboard the USS Missouri in Tokyo Bay.
As an historical footnote, Emperor Hirohito’s announcement of Japan’s unconditional surrender was broadcast on August 15, 1945, just days after the atomic bombings. But even the signed instrument of surrender on September 2, 1945 wasn’t officially acknowledged by the United States as the end of the war. President Harry Truman declared the cessation of all hostilities on December 31, 1946, to allow for the continued U.S. occupation of Japan and Germany and the conclusion of a series of War Crimes Trials. Alas, though war crimes trials ended in Germany in 1946, it wasn’t until 1948 that the International Military Tribune for the Far East adjourned. Moreover, the U.S. occupation of Japan lasted until April 28, 1952. The situation in Germany was even more complex, given its joint occupation by the United States, the United Kingdom, the Soviet Union, and France until the establishment of West Germany in May 1949 and East Germany in October of that year. By then, of course, the Cold War was well underway.
In the Coming Weeks …
Every Tuesday through September 2, I will post another installment in this weekly series. We will learn about a man who yearned to battle fascism at home and abroad; two brothers, who fought in Germany and Italy, respectively, with vastly different fates; and three men whose lives were intertwined as they faced Japanese military forces in the Pacific. And we will confront the thoughts and feelings of the people they left behind — the mothers, siblings, wives, and friends, who waited patiently for each letter, spiraling into despair every time one showed back up in their mailboxes, marked “Missing” or “Undeliverable as Addressed” or “Returned to Sender by Direction of the War Department.”
In my next installment, I will focus on the experiences of Frank J. Rubino, married to my mother’s sister Joan, who fought gallantly in the European theater of the Second World War.
Memorabilia among the letters that my mother saved; left, a receipt from the National War Fund, which operated from 1943 to 1947 and coordinated overseas relief efforts for organizations like the USO; right, War Ration Book Two, from 1942, issued by the U.S. Office of Price Administration, in my father’s name: Sal Sciabarra.
LETTERS FROM WORLD WAR II: FRANK J. RUBINO (August 19, 2025)
My mother’s sister Joan married Frank J. Rubino before the U.S. entrance into the Second World War. Frank was a principled man who was ideologically committed to defeating fascism and racism — both at home and abroad. In the wake of the 1942 Nazi annihilation of Lidice, a small Czech town about 12 miles from Prague, Frank wrote a long poem entitled “Nazi Fool!”:
Nazi fool that could not know, that this frightful bloody flow,
Has been tried before!
For where the soil is deepest
red, amidst the
Heap of rotting dead
That is where the battle’s fiercest.
No, they haven’t died in vain, who suffer death’s last and sharpest pain
In Freedom’s heritage.
Nazi swine! The dead will rise to haunt you,
And forever will they taunt you,
In your helpless frenzy.
Nazi beasts who rant and rave and seek to murder
And enslave all peoples,
Your end is nigh.
Yes, you’ve neared the end of your
foul plan, to
Crucify and conquer man —
It won’t be done!
Nazi murderer, did you think that you could stop the flood,
by the pouring of the blood
of helpless Czechs, and Jews,
and Russians.
This is our answer!!!
Let the flag of Freedom wave.
Let the banner of the slave be brought
to earth.
We will smash the tyrants’ heathen
laws.
And crush his cruel and bloody claws.
In the dust.
For the tyrants come and go.
As all history does show
But the people never die!
A War So Close to Home
Though Frank yearned to join the war against fascism abroad, he was also appalled by the racism and injustices he witnessed at home. In late 1943, en route to Camp Jackson, in South Carolina, he encountered the conditions of American apartheid. He wrote to his relatives up north:
By the way, I had a very interesting time on the train down here. … We had reached Raleigh, N.C. at about 8:30 A.M. I woke up after having slept all night — in fact I went to sleep immediately upon reaching my seat — which must have annoyed a garrulous 1st Lt. sitting next to me — no end! He wanted conversation and all I did was sleep! I felt (when I awoke) that I was much in need of coffee — so I went to the rear car — a diner — to get some — killed about 30 minutes — came back to my car and found the entire car taken over by Negroes — including my seat.
It seems while I was away — Jim Crow was busy working and the Negroes had to be herded into these 3 or 4 consecutive cars — was I burned? I sizzled in the grand ‘Rubinoesque’ manner — and what do you think I did? I politely asked a colored woman if the seat next to her was taken — and she replied in the negative — so I plopped myself down and remained there for the last 5 hours of the train ride! … I just had to do something. … I thought that as long as they did not ask to be separated nor did I — then it was a political necessity to show my solidarity. I had an interesting conversation with the woman — which turned to politics — she fed me some cookies — so I felt as though I had really achieved something.
Frank’s courage grew in that train car as he confronted servicemen who were being disrespectful:
I also bawled out 3 lieutenants — the Navy! no less. They were stewed to the cars and using foul language. I didn’t mind — but there was a sailor behind me with his wife — who didn’t know what to do — so as I am not a member of the U.S.N. … I just walked over and said: ‘Why the hell don’t you cut it out’ and they subsided much to my surprise! And officers too! …
Well, I didn’t care because I knew I was absolutely correct, see? And the other servicemen in the car would bear me out. I acted real tough — like Humphrey Bogart — and they were young — and a bit scared — I think — so my ego bloomed out — to about 1000%. I think I am absolutely nutty at times. …
Take care of yourself; and hope for a speedy victory — in fact let’s work for a speedy victory — the hell with hoping!
Frank’s politics found further expression in his poem, “I Knew at Last,” a paean to conscience and nobility in the face of those dark forces engulfing the world:
I
A soldier came up to him and said, said he,
“I’m afraid to die! You see
I’ve always feared and looked
with dread upon the thought of
Lying dead in some far distant place —
Away from home!”
II
He said: “Gosh! But I’m ashamed, and feel I’m wrong and should be blamed.
But what’s a guy to do
Who doesn’t have the urge to
kill or drive the foe from distant hill —
Far, far away from home!
III
“Don’t get me wrong, bud,” said this boy, “I love this land and
All the joy that life has so far
brought to me —
Wife — kids — a family —
But I don’t see why I must roam so far
— so far
Away from home!”
IV
This man thought of what the soldier said — about the living and the dead.
He thought in silence for a while,
Then suddenly there came a
smile upon his tired face
And he knew the anguish the soldier
felt.
And so he answered him in whispers almost to
himself,
V
“Don’t feel so badly, son, so filled with shame!
VI
Yes! “CLOSE TO HOME!” he said. “Right here in our very hearts
Has that foul beast aimed all his
darts of hate and vicious crime
Against the people who had
not time to close the gate —
And had no choice but — death!
AND CLOSE TO HOME!”
VII
“Death’s not the greatest tragedy, my boy.
There are far more tragic things.
To take the air we breathe
that nature gave,
To make of man a bonded slave to
grovel in the earth.
To make of life eternal misery
Is worse than death!
VIII
“Yes, you born of this land so free have now been called by history
At this most crucial point,
To square the score and drive
the foe
Forever more, from off this earth!”
IX
“The WORLD is HOME to you. It’s furthest hill your closest door,
X
“My son, your noblest deed shall be to wipe this scurvy breed
Clear of the home you love so well,
Thrust them back into the
darkest hell where they must perish,
And you will live
And know that you did give to make it
so.”
With this I turned — I was alone!
The voice I’d heard had been my own; my
conscience!
Knowing — strong — steadfast,
I walked away.
I KNEW AT LAST!
Boot Camp
Not even the difficulties of military training could deter Frank’s fighting spirit. In a letter from Camp Blanding, Florida, dated December 18, 1943, he described the awful experience of boot camp in a tone that might be recognizable to some of today’s recruits:
This Army life is tough, don’t let anyone tell you different. Small pay, all work and no pleasure. Everything is double-time. We run from morn until night. You get so that you could kill a Nazi barehanded, you’re so Goddamn irritated. Right face, left face, about face, run, walk, column left, column right, left flank, etc., etc., until you bust. I tell you, War is the cruelest most horrible act that man can perpetuate on man. The only justification it can have is that Victory must bring a People’s Peace so that humans must not be made to suffer this way. That is why Fascism must be defeated once and for all. We may get weak occasionally but must never allow our weaknesses to conquer us.
Life in the army had its moments of relief. Frank explained:
We have some nice officers down here. I and two or three other ‘Professional performers’ have been asked to put on a Christmas Show on Christmas Eve. One is baritone, one a dancer and comedian, a piano player, sax, trumpet, etc. I shall recite some of my own compositions. I expect to write something this week; something appropriate for a bunch of lonely, home-sick men. I hope it goes over; it should brighten up Christmas for us.
Some months later, in a letter postmarked May 7, 1944, Frank wrote to my Mom, only three days after the premiere of “a brand new picture called ‘Gaslight’ with Charles Boyer and Ingrid Bergman. It was wonderful — she is tops as an emotional actress and beautiful besides. He is a good actor and the part was perfect. You will feel like tearing him into little pieces — he’s that mean!” After trying to resist telling Mom the plot, he does precisely that, outlining the ways in which Boyer terrorizes Bergman through a series of manipulative actions that have her doubting her own sanity. (Yes, the word “gaslight” is derived from the 1938 play, which was adapted for the screen, first as a 1940 British film and then as the 1944 MGM film with Boyer and Bergman; Bergman would go on to win an Academy Award for Best Actress.)
Frank was so enthusiastic about the film that he quoted word for word from Bergman’s final scene with Boyer “tied up in a chair. … You’ll find out, Annie you will love it!” Three more pages detailing the events leading up to this climax, Frank admits: “I’d better quit now before they take me to the booby-hatch, although I wouldn’t mind going along with Bergman!” He signed it, “Your passion flower, Frank.”
In a letter to Mom dated May 25, 1944, Frank suggested that army life in the states was taking its toll. He wanted to go overseas to join the battle: “I can’t write too much. … I expect to see the Medical Survey Board tomorrow + I am all jittery and can’t wait to get out of here. So please don’t mind this letter, for I can’t think or concentrate on anything.” Perhaps to calm his anxiety, knowing that my mother owned a splendid 78 rpm record collection and that she was a huge fan of the big bands of the era, Frank made a request: “I have one wish to make + that is to have all your records + radio for I am dying for some music. … Are there any new songs out that are any good?”
Frank was deemed in good health. Around this time, Joan joined her husband at Fort Benning, where she worked in the camp until mid-August. Mom and Dad were having some difficulties with their landlord and had temporarily moved in with Mom’s parents. In a letter dated June 8, 1944, Joan implored Mom to take up residence in her apartment. “My home is your home + I don’t ever want you to forget it,” Joan wrote. For about ten days, the young Sciabarra family graciously accepted the offer, staying at Joan and Frank’s place before moving back into their own apartment.
On June 19, 1944, Joan shared more information about life on the army base:
We were going to send Papa a Father’s Day card Anna but we couldn’t for the life find one in this camp. I would have liked to send him a little present but I couldn’t afford it. As you know Anna, I’m working + I don’t get paid. All I get is my food + board. Which is the main + most important of all. The only money we have is the $18.00 [Frank] gets at pay day. So we keep that for … all other expenses we have. So it was impossible to buy Papa a gift. The army encourages the husbands down here to bring their wives + work on the post. They give them room + board free. And really Anna that is the only thing the wives have to worry about … So they get that + at the same time their husbands are with them. Altho I have a feeling the major will give me a few dollars when I leave. Most of the officers do that. They treat me very nice + they make me feel at home here. … I was a little homesick yesterday being Father’s Day. I was thinking of the family being at mom’s house … I wanted to call up, but it would have cost a few dollars so we thought it over and decided not to call.
Knowing that Mom was a huge fan of big bandleader Harry James — indeed, there was that concert at the Brooklyn Paramount where Mom nearly fell out of the balcony from her elation during one of his fiery trumpet solos — Joan added that she and Frank “saw two pictures with Harry James in them. The pictures were ‘Two Girls + A Sailor’ + ‘Bathing Beauty’. Well James was terrific. But the reason I mention that is because this fellow Vinnie Barlomenti from our neighborhood who plays trumpet is with James’ orchestra. So look out for him.”
In a letter to Mom dated July 19, 1944, Joan detailed Frank’s training for the Officer Candidate School (O.C.S.):
Frankie signed up for O.C.S. + he goes in front of the board for an interview today or tomorrow. And I’m a nervous wreck. I hope he passes this board. Once you pass the first board, you get a crack at the next board + then you’re in. If he makes good he will go to Officers Candidate School to beecome a Second Lt. which won’t be bad. So Anna say a prayer. … Don’t count too much on it but hope for the best. He stands a good chance of making it because his I.Q. was over 110 + his marks in school are very good. But you know how the army does things so we are waiting to see how things turn out … I would like to see Frankie make it because he has worked hard studying. I will let you know as soon as I find out. … Well Anna three more weeks + then home. I don’t know about Frankie coming home with me. … I don’t know whether he will get a furlough or not. … Frankie sends his love. Say a prayer for him Anna. I hope he makes it.
Despite his studious efforts, Private First Class (PFC) Frank Rubino didn’t make it into O.C.S. And he didn’t get a furlough. Mom received a letter from him, dated August 29, 1944, perhaps his last before going over to Europe. “I don’t know what to say,” he wrote. “I have moved around so damn much. I’m tired, besides I was looking forward to going over, really! You know I would have been a big hit with those Italian dolls! … Bye, bye for a while.”
Over There
By the fall of 1944, Frank had finally made it to England. He was overwhelmed by the history that surrounded him. He wrote to his wife:
You should see the sights that I have — I can hardly wait to see and tell you. The 12th Century towns — imagine! You haven’t seen the cobbled streets — narrow-winding up and down; the dark alleys — lanterns hung up in the streets; ‘Fish and chips’ places all through the town. The ‘Pubs’ which are the town night life — with the pretty bar-maids — and all my shillings and pence, etc. confusing for a few days now I am as British as the rest. … The scars of the war are here for everyone to see — this must be typical of most small English towns. I have found some very nice hard-working people, pleasant, clean, and a pretty museum in town. … Cyclists everywhere you look, mostly women — driving on the left. I almost got killed the other night. The darkness is overwhelming — and the mixture of these “women of the night,” with all the fever of wartime — is an exciting thing. … the tiny tots, swarms of them — hanging on my coat, every night the same plaintive cry: “Any gum chum?” or “Ave you a cigarette for my pop?” or “Give me a doughnut mitey” (meaning ‘matey’) … I wouldn’t have missed some of this for the world.
Not to worry my Aunt Joan about those pretty bar-maids and those “women of the night,” he penned two poignant poems, expressing his love:
As the Flowers need the sun and as little brooklets run,
And with the memories of the fun
that we once knew;
As a child looks to its
mother and as a brother loves his brother,
So shall I ne’re seek another.
But my dearest Joansie — you!
And in this poem, entitled “Slacken Not the Pace,” his love for Joan extended to his dreams of raising a family:
The years just come and go — so swiftly past
And each so sweet — more precious
than the last.
As from life’s golden urn
they slyly slip —
Completing man’s too brief and earthly
trip —
But have staunch faith and slacken not the
pace
And walk erect with loving wife and son
Undaunted, fearless, with your shining
face
Alight with all the battles to be won.
On this day accept my deepest love
I swear again the faith I did before
And slowly surely shall we
went our way
And be as one — for now — and
evermore!
On Thanksgiving Day, November 23, 1944, Frank sent Joan “a gripe from abroad!” He wrote:
Of course I could gripe — everyone does. I think they can’t help it — but what’s the use? Things could be more on the basis of equality — but the Army is just like the old civilian “politics” game … if you are independent and don’t “brown-nose” too bad! I do okay! I’M STILL THE CAPTAIN OF MY OWN SOUL! That’s important, isn’t it?
On that same Thanksgiving Day, Mom wrote to Frank. She couldn’t help but share her sadness:
Heard from Joan you are now in England. … I should have realized that from your APO [Army Post Office] number. You see, my brother-in-law Charlie had that number when he first went overseas — he landed in England. Well, Frankie, you finally made that trip, do you feel better now? You spoke about it long enough. What is it that makes you fellows all feel the same — somehow you don’t feel right unless you make that trip across. Oh well. What’s the use of talking anyway. How do you like it out there? Did you get sea-sick on your way up? … You know me, quite the sentimental and melancholy type, that’s right. I’m blue as could be when any holiday comes around. Time sure makes a lot of changes — what a mess. This year finds you all away from home. … That doesn’t leave us much to be thankful for — but to have you all well and safe is plenty to be thankful for today. Tell me, did you at least have the dinner special of the day — turkey with all the trimmings? Out here, anyone who had turkey in their homes were sure considered lucky as they were pretty scarce this year. My people were one of the lucky ones. Wish you could have been here for your slice of turkey.
The letter was returned.
On Thursday, December 7, 1944, Mom wrote to Frank again:
I have yet to hear from you. … it’s three years since the Pearl Harbor attack, back in 1941, ’44 seemed so far away that we thought surely it would be over by this time, but here we are, still going strong, but very much in our favor and with all that, still no sign of victory. How does it look? Do you think it will be much longer? However long it may go, remember Frankie, patience, hope and faith — without that, we’re goners. Take care. Don’t let it get you down. So long for a while, wipe the Axis out and hurry home. It will be time you got to settle down to being a family man.
The letter was returned.
Still not having heard from Frank, Mom followed up with a letter on Tuesday, December 12, 1944. Her references to “Georgie” and “Charlie” are to my father’s brothers who were also fighting in Europe. (Their letters are the subject of my next installment.) Mom wrote:
Time out for a minute to let you know I am listening to a recording of ‘White Christmas’ by Frankie Sinatra. Truly beautiful. But leaving a sad touch. It’s just too awful this damn mess has sure done plenty of damage. Better change my tune but fast, before I get you to feel blue. … We’ve had no mail from Georgie or Charlie for weeks now. Georgie is still in Italy at least we think he is. As to Charlie — well, he’s right in the middle, Germany. Patience, they tell me. Gosh, you have to be made of iron and even then, the cards go against you. … Take care of yourself. Keep that chin up. Don’t worry. At least try not to. … As ever, your sis-in-law, Annie. P.S. — Write soon.
The letter was returned.
The Battle of the Bulge
Frank never received Mom’s letters from Thanksgiving or thereafter. He was already in the thick of war on the continent. By December 16, 1944, he was deployed as part of the 346th Infantry Regiment of the 87th Infantry Division during the last major German offensive on the Western front in the Ardennes region of Belgium and Luxemburg. It would become known as the Battle of the Bulge, running its course through January 25, 1945.
On the eve of that battle, Frank wrote home:
I will say that I have been bearing up pretty well. My natural curiosity about people — things etc. keeps me going, — although I can’t quite escape the morbid thoughts of the future — specially with the Nazi last stand decision. We may get the worst of the whole thing — my good fortune — as usual, who knows? I often think of the many times I have stated my long expressed opinion about destiny and combat, etc. … I am anxious to get back and I will try awful hard — in case anything happens to alter my plans — well, I hope it’s sudden! The hell with this drawn out suffering for me. … I feel that … all the other common folk on the earth will get a real chance at living, especially the younger generation, and maybe I can contribute my little share.
Frank J. Rubino was killed in action under the weight of a German tank on January 3, 1945.
When uniformed servicemen arrived in Brooklyn to see my Aunt Joan, she knew from the sight of them that she was about to receive the unbearable, devastating news. She ran from the doorway of the house, hysterically crying. Months later, the army honored her request to provide additional information on her husband’s death. That letter dated June 8, 1945, and signed by Captain Walter A. Divers, reiterates:
It is my sad duty to give you more complete information which you desire concerning the status of your husband, Pfc. Frank J. Rubino, 42 053 958, who was killed in action on January 3, 1945. I know there are no words we can express to bring peace and comfort to your heart in these hours of loss and emptiness, but there is one pride in which we all will remember and that is, he performed his duty splendidly and was loved and admired by all who knew him.
Pfc. Rubino was a member of Company A when they went into attack near Bizory, Belgium. Their mission was to take and hold the town of Bizory with the weather conditions very bad. It was cold and raining with ice and slush covering the ground. The unit attacked and suffered some casualties as the result of enemy artillery, tanks, and automatic weapons. Pfc. Rubino sustained wounds causing his death. The Graves Registration Office was notified and they took care of the burial. … These words cannot unburden our sorrow, but they bring pride and inspiration to us all. We are proud that he was a member of our organization and we will remember him and all the others that fell on the field of battle when we reach the gates of victory.
Frank was posthumously awarded the Purple Heart Medal for having given “his life in battle in the service of his country.” His body was temporarily laid to rest in the U.S. Cemetery at Grand Failly, in northeastern France. In the period from 1947 to 1950, as this French region was returned to agricultural use, Frank’s body was moved along with all those who had fallen during the Battle of the Bulge to the Luxembourg American Cemetery and Memorial.
A collection of Frank’s poems, “I Knew at Last”, was published in August 1945. The preface opens with poetic foreboding. It reads:
Frank’s legacy to those who love him, his family and his friends, is contained in this little booklet, and in his words: “So if you loved me, long to keep me in your aching hearts, then live for what I’ve lived and died, and we will never have to part — forevermore.”
In next Tuesday’s installment, I turn my attention to two Sciabarra brothers — my Uncles George and Charlie — whose experiences in the European theater of the war had a brutal impact on their lives and the lives of their loved ones on the home front.
LETTERS FROM WORLD WAR II: GEORGE & CHARLIE (August 26, 2025)
Grandma Concetta Sciabarra had one daughter, Theresa (Tessie), and three sons — Carmelo (Charlie), George (Georgie), and my dad Salvatore (Sal). Two of those sons, my Uncles George and Charlie, went off to fight the Axis powers in Europe. Their stories are the focus of today’s installment.
Uncle George
Uncle George, far left and far right; center, Mom with Uncle George in his army uniform
Right before Uncle George answered the army’s “call to active duty,” his mom got very sick. On November 10, 1942, Dr. Emanuel Salwen wrote a letter requesting that George “who has just been inducted into the Army, be given a few days leave to be near his mother in her illness.” Six days prior to the request, my grandmother’s appendix had been removed, and she was suffering from peritonitis and abscess formation. Her condition was considered critical. George later recalled how he appreciated the efforts of the doctor and the family in helping him to get a furlough to see his mother during that difficult period. A year later, on November 9, 1943, he was already stationed in North Africa, having sent Mom a handkerchief from Tunis, along with some Algerian money (below).
Two years after the attack on Pearl Harbor, the war had taken a deep emotional toll on the entire family, not just those on the battlefield but everyone at home as well. Mom was trying to keep a positive outlook, at least in her letter writing, in her hopes for an early Allied victory. In a letter dated December 5, 1943, George replied:
I see you are still trying to predict when the war will be over with. I gave that up, not that I am discouraged but I guess I may as well get used to taking things the way they come. Even if the war would end tomorrow, I still wouldn’t come right home. It would probably take a good six months. … Well Ann I guess that’s about all except you tell me to ask for something. Well OK, you can send me a flashlight? I can really use one.
On May 19, 1944, the flashlight finally arrived in a “small package,” and he thanked Mom for sending it. He admitted how he could get lost in his thoughts and imagination, while taking in the North African sun. “It’s wonderful how you can be carried away by your thoughts. Just lie in the hot sun + I feel like I was in Coney Island only nobody steps on you here.” Indeed, those were the days when the summer sand on Coney Island beach could hardly be seen because every square inch of space was taken up by sunbathers.
In a letter dated May 15, 1944, George wrote to my mother’s sister Georgia. “I haven’t changed a bit in appearance,” he said, “but I guess I may act a little different when I get back but what soldier doesn’t.” Like Mom, Georgia had insisted on sending something to George in North Africa. “I hope you don’t get mad,” George replied, “but I really have so much stuff now. … So be a pal + don’t tell me to ask for anything. I hope you understand.” Alas, he capitulated: “Oh hell! Go ahead + send me some magazine or something to read.”
My Aunt Georgia was married to my Uncle George’s (and my Dad’s) first cousin — my Uncle Sam (Salvatore Sclafani) — who enlisted in the Navy in the wake of the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor. Sam, among others, is the subject of my next and final installment.
Like everyone else in the service, George could never provide any details about his involvement in military campaigns or provide any information on his exact whereabouts, even if asked. Stationed in North Africa on June 7, 1944 — the day after the first wave of the Normandy invasion — he wrote to Mom: “I haven’t been doing much though I went to a dance + had a pretty good time. I also saw ‘Gentleman Jim’ with Errol Flynn. I hadn’t seen it + enjoyed it a lot.” Three days later, on June 10, 1944, he told Mom that he still hadn’t received any mail from her. “I can’t understand it, but I suppose you are writing.”
Some mail did get through. George requested some money from home, and on September 16, 1944, he thanked Mom for having sent him a money order. Two days later, he wrote a letter to Dad asking for a radio. He told Mom: “It sure will be swell if he can do us that favor. Then I can catch up on all the popular songs. Won’t that be something. … Oh yes one of the fellows here gets the Chicago Times (a paper) + in it I saw a picture of Frank Sinatra. … He sure did look swell + they gave him a good write up.”
Odds are that George never received that radio because by October, he was among the Allied forces advancing deep into Italy. On October 23, 1944, he wrote from the Italian mainland. Mom had apparently asked him if he received an absentee ballot to vote in the November 1944 Presidential election. “As to your ‘what’s new’,” George replied, “well quite a bit but I really can’t tell you. … Yes, I got a ballot to vote but I never mailed it + it is a little late now. … We had a dance the other night + it wasn’t bad. The music was real good considering just a few pieces. It was in a castle … it isn’t fixed up but it wasn’t bad.” It’s anyone’s guess what castle George was referencing. It may have been the Abbey of Monte Cassino, southeast of Rome, though it was practically in ruins from U.S.-led air raids in the months prior to George’s arrival. He lamented: “I wish this mess would end soon just as you do. But as we say in the army, we will just have to wait it out.”
Uncle Charlie
Uncle Charlie, far left and far right; center, Mom with Uncle Charlie in his army uniform
With George’s unit entering Europe from the south, his brother Carmelo (Uncle Charlie) was part of the military campaigns to the north. Charlie’s letters were much more extensive and far more harrowing, given the twists of fate that awaited him.
Among the first to be drafted into the army, Charlie entered military service on February 24, 1942 and made his way through basic training across a host of U.S. cities. On June 14, 1942, from Camp Cooke, California, he sent Mom and Dad a hilarious novelty letter, writing in the names ‘Sal + Ann’ in the salutation. The letter includes a copyright stamp, “Copyright 1940, Registry 1127634”, and an imprint for the Walter L. Earnshaw Co., Hollywood, California. It opens: “Promised myself I would write you a nice long letter.” The letter is indeed long (as in measurable length).
It continues:
So here it is. I’ll have to talk about California, as everyone out here does. It must be the weather. The sun shines most all the time, but when it does rain, or there is a wind, or it is hot or cold — it is always ‘unusual’. Anything two drops better than a ‘high fog’ they call a storm, and if it snowed — mind you, I say ‘if’ — the Chamber of Commerce would probably hide its embarrassment and label it a ‘fluffy rain’. California is about the only place I know of where one can get sunstroke in the daytime and chilblains the same night. I might mention that earthquakes are practically unknown. Nearly everyone claims it is just Florida propaganda. Even the air out here is a little different — much of it being ‘hot air’. There is a delightful air of informality in the way people dress (or shall we say ‘undress’) for the street. You can see anything and almost everything until one gets tired of lifting an eyebrow. Slacks with tight-fitting southern exposure are not uncommon, and there are some shorts that couldn’t be much shorter without being a necklace. It’s about 400 miles between the two famous rivals, San Francisco and Los Angeles. Each of these two cities delights in trying to outtalk the other. … While I can’t send you a sample bathing beauty, at least there is a sample of the sand she was standing on —
There is indeed sand glued to the letter … followed by —
Had to move her to get that! I’ll use a drop or two of the ocean to moisten the stamp. …
One reason people live to such a ripe old age in California is that there is so much to see they really can’t spare the time to die.
Knowing Mom and Dad, they probably got a real kick out of that letter. But laughter could go only so far. In a note dated January 5, 1943, Charlie wrote: “Boy when this is over, it sure will be a happy day for many.”
By the early spring of 1944, Charlie was on his way to England. His letter dated April 6, 1944, begins: “Just think in 5 days I’ll be 32 years old + here I am in Europe. Thousands of miles from home. I don’t know what good I’m going to do because I’m only 32 + feel like 62.” A week later, April 13, 1944, he wrote:
Sorry I can’t talk about how things look out here or we’re not allowed to + another thing we can’t talk about the weather so please don’t ask me. … We don’t hear any rumor about the war ending only what we read in the paper. To me it seems like it’s never going to end. … Hope you’re right in saying it will end this year but I don’t think it will end in another 2 years. We’ll really make up for lost time when it did end. Really don’t know what else I can say. … Best regards to all. Love + kisses + may God bless you, Love, Charlie.
With Easter having fallen on April 9, Charlie wrote to Mom on April 18, 1944, with a mixture of sorrow and amusement:
Easter was just another day to all of us but let’s hope and pray that the next one will be a better one. … The only real holiday will be after the war + all the boys come home again. … I’ll be drunk for a month if I get back home again. … I play the mandolin pretty often but I get to play all hillbilly music because the guys that are here are … from Texas + don’t know any of that jazz stuff. The English play all our American songs … they try to swing but they stink at it and they try to jitterbug but they can’t beat the good old U.S.A. for that kind of stuff. … Don’t worry. All the boys will come back some day and we’ll really have a good party won’t we.
On April 28, 1944, Charlie tried to persuade Mom that he was “making the best of things.” In contrast to his days at boot camp, Charlie wrote:
Well, I’m going to tell you something you won’t believe. I seem to be a lot happier here than I was back in the states. As a matter of fact one of the fellows made a remark today that I’m always singing. Back in the states, I never even smiled. So you can figure it out for yourself. … Let’s hope that someday it will all change + we’ll all be happy again if that’s possible. … After all, this is war. If I got to come home mentally unbalanced, I wish I get killed or I don’t want to be a burden to anyone. Things will be tough enough after the war. … This war is going to drive us all nuts if we’re not that already.
If Charlie was trying to convince himself, and not only the people back home, that things were as good as could be expected, his understandable apprehensions could no longer be camouflaged. But he held onto his hopes, reiterating them in a letter dated May 6, 1944:
I do hope that the next time I come home it will be for keeps. I think it will if I’m lucky enough to come back, after all this is war + there’s no telling what will happen. Let’s just hope + pray everything will turn out for the best. You’re not kidding a bit that will be a day that will never be forgotten.
In a letter dated May 20, 1944, he reassured Mom: “Anna I really feel swell + haven’t let a thing get me down. … I’m not saying that just to make you feel good.” But three days later, in a letter dated May 23, 1944, it was very clear just how ‘down’ he was.
I hope this damn thing ends one way or the other. I’m really sick of this damn life. I hope they get it over with one way or the other. I hate to think of living like this another 2 years. I don’t think I could take it. I’ve already lost 2 more years of my life + I could never make them up. Please don’t think I’m in a blue mood. … Tell me everything that happens even if it’s going to hurt me although I can’t be hurt very much as I don’t have much feeling left. Anna, let’s hope + pray that all this will end soon + we’ll all be back together again. Have to close now. Anna, if Sal dare go, promise me you’ll be a good Soldier + take it on the chin. I know you’re a good Soldier and I want you to prove it to me. … Your brother, Charlie
Charlie was very worried that his younger brother Sal, my Dad, would be drafted into the service and that their mother would have to worry about the lives and well-being of all three of her sons. He was also very concerned about his wife Ann. On May 25, 1944, Charlie told Mom:
I can’t think of anything else but my wife wondering how she’s taking all this as I know she’s really taking it pretty hard but there’s nothing in the world either one of us can do about it so we’ll just have to have patience + wait + see what the future will bring + hope + pray it’s something good which I doubt very much. … I’ll always take care of myself in the best way I can. I’ll try to … not let anything bother me although I fly off the handle once in a while. In the army they call it sounding off + when you do that they hold it against you but I guess you don’t realize that even though you are a soldier you’re still a human being + still have feelings which to them it doesn’t seem so.
A day later, he received welcome news from my mother; my father had received a IV-F classification and was rejected for military service due to a host of medical issues. He replied:
Dear Ann, Received your letter today + it was the best letter I’ve gotten since I’ve been in the army. … I was so happy to read that Sal was rejected that I wanted to cry + I really mean that with all my heart. … He’s still my kid brother. Need I say anymore. … It did my heart a lot of good to hear that for the first time in her life Mom actually cried for joy. Oh Anna if you only knew how that made me feel. Believe it or not I got tears in my eyes now just talking about it. Just think she finally got one good break in her life. I think it’s about time something good happened in our family.
After this May 1944 correspondence, there are no letters from Charlie among those saved by my mother. The next chronologically dated letter came from Mom, who wrote to Charlie on September 5, 1944:
I hope this finds you in the best of health and far from the thick of everything. Whichever way it is thin or thick, wherever you are or may end up, just remember we are all with you, praying for your speedy return. … Take care, God Bless You. I’ll try to write soon. Regards, love + kisses from us all.
The letter was returned.
Charlie had made his way to the European mainland as part of the Allied incursions into Belgium and Luxemburg. Mom had received word that Charlie had been hospitalized. But every letter that Mom sent from this point on was returned with the word “Missing” printed on the front of each envelope. These letters from Mom to Charlie were still sealed in their original envelopes. Mom’s heart must have dropped every time she saw that word “Missing” on the returned mail. Clearly, she couldn’t bring herself to re-open the envelopes or to re-read what she’d written. Her expressed anxiety was overwhelming.
I opened each of these envelopes very carefully so as not to damage their contents. From Mom’s letter dated November 15, 1944:
Received your letter and was so very happy to hear from you, above all relieved that you were out of the hospital. … Relieved to hear your cold has left you. So it was pneumonia that you had, you must have had quite a tough time at that. However, that spot that you speak of being on your lung is natural after pneumonia. That will be there for a while. Don’t let it worry you. I’m sure if it was something serious they wouldn’t have discharged you from the hospital.
Charlie, when I said ‘keep out of drafts’ it was just a figure of speech. I’m well aware of the fact that you are at war and live out in the open at all times and are under the weather. I guess it did sound silly coming from me. … It’s a comfort to hear … that you still laugh at it all. That’s the only way Charlie. You must have to take things in stride or you’re bound to be a goner. It makes me so proud to hear you talk like this. I’m thankful above all for it makes me confident that you can take it no matter how rough it is for you. Keep up the grand work Charlie, you’ll never regret it. I’m inclined to agree with you when you say ‘it sure seems as tho it will last forever’ — guess that’s because it has gone into the years already. But it’s only natural for us to all have that outlook when something goes on for so long a time and continues strong, not knowing just when the ending will be — but it will end someday, that we know, it just can’t go on forever. One must have faith and confidence. … Pretty quiet around these parts, but I guess that isn’t news anymore. …
P.S. — That fancy paper was really something. I’ll settle for the good old U.S.A. stationery tho. German paper huh — it looks as crazy as they are. But am glad you sent it. Sort of a souvenir. Catch?
In that letter, Mom also remembered Charlie’s wedding anniversary, which had just passed. She was saddened that she couldn’t find any card that seemed
appropriate with you in Belgium + Ann out here. I’ll say the Next Best Thing and most appropriate under the circumstances. I only hope and pray that by your next anniversary you + Ann are together again in your own home with nothing but the best for you and even the best isn’t good enough. You’ll make up for lost time Charlie. Mark my words. Never forget that.
Mom’s Thanksgiving Day note to Charlie, dated November 23, 1944, was inside another unopened returned envelope, marked “Missing” on its front. Charlie was most likely embedded in those American forces that reached the Siegfried Line (or “Westwall”), a defensive fortification built by the Nazis in the 1930s along the western border of Germany. The Battle of Aachen resulted in the first Allied capture of a German city. It entailed one of the largest urban campaigns fought during World War II. Charlie had been writing to his wife Ann, who kept other family members abreast of the developments. Mom wrote:
Time sure makes a lot of changes. … Today finds you many miles from home. … that’s the penalty of war. Thanksgiving is a day for thanks. Having you + Georgie away isn’t my idea of anything to be thankful for but to have you so far away and to be under the danger you are and have been and to know you are well and safe is plenty to be thankful for. … None of us will really enjoy any holiday until we are all together again. … Mom, Tessie + [her then husband] Joe had their dinner out at an Italian Restaurant somewhere in Coney Island — soup to nuts. Well, I’m glad especially for Mom’s sake as I know she never would have had her heart in fussing at home. It saved her a lot work. … The news of you being in Germany sure was a great surprise. Take care, Charlie, extra care — don’t fail us now.
Around this time, Mom received three letters from Charlie, which were not among the letters I found. At the time, Mom was dealing with a series of difficult health issues. She had a thyroidectomy and had struggled with recovery. Around Thanksgiving, she developed a severe case of bronchitis and was falling behind in her correspondence. Moreover, her nerves were frayed as the war raged on and as her loved ones were still fighting abroad. Things only got worse for her as the Christmas holidays approached.
On December 4, 1944, she replied briefly to Charlie:
Boy, I bet if the censors would allow it, you sure could write about many an exciting incident. Well that will have to wait till after this damn mess is over with. … We’re pulling for you Charlie.
Ten days later, Mom expressed her own anxieties every time she received either a letter — or a returned letter. She explained that having “nobody around is bad enough but to have such a great shock in the mail is more than we can take. It sure puts us into some awful disturbing moods.”
By December 20, 1944, in another unopened letter returned with the word “Missing” on its front envelope, Mom states:
It’s been quite some time since we heard from you. I know under the circumstances it’s pretty difficult for you to write as regularly as before however I do hope that we get to hear from you before the end of this week is up. … In your last letter you said we can keep up with the news on you thru the newspapers. Charlie — which army are you connected with? Is it the one you were always with or have you been changed. The news are really something and it sure sends me sick. It’s pretty hot where you are now.
With the Battle of the Bulge raging on the border of Belgium and Luxemburg, and the Siegfried Line sitting on the eastern border of Luxemburg, Charlie sure was in the middle of a “pretty hot” situation. Mom had received a letter from Charlie on December 29; his letter had been dated more than a month prior to that date: November 26, 1944. The delivery delays were, no doubt, distressing. Mom replied as soon as she received Charlie’s letter:
I messed up on writing you on Christmas day, this being the first time I ever messed up on any holiday. … Charlie, this was the worst holiday yet. It couldn’t have been more miserable. There was no spirit no how, nowhere, it just sort of left me so down in the dumps that I couldn’t write if I had wanted to for fear that I might bring you feeling too down. Must I say more Charlie? All I know is if we have to all be apart another Christmas, I will just close myself in my room + not go out at all. Next year must find us together again. This just can’t keep up like this much longer. …
Today I finally got a letter from you and tho it’s over a month old, I was nevertheless very happy to hear from you + to know that you were well. Your letter was dated Nov. 26 — and telling me that you received my package. … Don’t ever say that you really don’t deserve our treating you so swell. In the first place, it’s not being swell on our parts to write you as often as possible or send a little something now and then — that’s the best we could do for a guy whose out here sweating blood so we could live comfortably in years to come. As for you wishing you could send gifts, it’s a sweet thought on your part and we love you for it, but the only Xmas present we want from you is to have them send you home and until then a letter from you regularly to know you’re safe + well is all the presents we want. It did us good to hear that you were resting in Luxemburg and it sure sounded good to hear how peaceful + what a pleasure it is going to bed without having to hear their guns going off all night long. However that was a month ago. And from the news Luxemburg isn’t too peaceful anymore. Am I right? Does that mean you are back in action? …
Charlie Sitra [Dad’s cousin] came out with something that turned my stomach upside down. … They tell me that thru someone they heard that you spoke over the radio overseas broadcast from Luxemburg on Xmas day over WNEW — that you said you had a brother in Italy, your Mom lived on Kings Highway [in Brooklyn], etc. Charlie is it true? Damn it, leave it to us to not hear it. I could kick myself. What gets me, year in + year out I’ve listened to those broadcasts but this year affected me so that I was just a total wreck, not much use to myself. Why I didn’t even dress up for the supposed holiday. I can’t wait to hear from you that this was so and if you did speak on that day, tho I missed it as the cursed luck of ours always is to miss out on the good. All I can say is that I’m thankful to hear that you were well. … I’ll never get over it that we didn’t hear it. It just goes to show we must have patience. If I hadn’t lost patience this year + put on that broadcast like other years, I would have heard you. I’m still thankful to know you’re okay.
Though Mom typically wrote to Charlie, Dad also wrote a few letters to his brother. After the New Year, on January 3, 1945, Dad echoed Mom’s melancholy holiday mood:
I had a very miserable time Xmas + New Year because you guys are away but I am hoping for a much better time next year. I am hoping to have you and George with me and you two guys will have to carry me because I am going to get so drunk I am going to spend a week or so in bed. … All I have to say is I hope that the new year brings us victory and a grand reunion. Well let’s hope we will all be together next year.
Prisoners of War
Two days later, on January 5, 1945 — as I mentioned in my previous installment — my Aunt Joan’s husband, Frank J. Rubino, was killed in the Battle of the Bulge. After word reached the family of Frank’s death, all correspondence with Charlie went silent. The silence must have been beyond awful.
On April 11, 1945, Charlie’s thirty-third birthday, Mom received a letter from him. The letter is not among the group of letters I found. But according to Mom’s correspondence, Charlie’s letter was dated January 25, 1945, the day on which the German “Bulge” offensive ended. Charlie informed Mom that he had been captured by the Germans and was in a Prisoner of War camp. Charlie’s wife Ann and his mother Concetta received similar letters around the same time. Mom immediately replied to Charlie. Unfortunately, he never received any of her letters. They were all returned from the War Department. Mom wrote:
You’ll never know how happy and relieved we are to finally hear from you and right on your birthday too. These past months have been the most miserable, however I just knew you’d come thru for us right on your birthday. Thank God you’re well and safe, believe me that’s all that matters. … God there’s so much to say and somehow from the overwhelming joy to know you’re alive, I just can’t seem to find words to express myself. All I can say is that the first time in months, since you were reported missing, we are all feeling a little more like ourselves. Now more than ever, I believe and have all the faith in the world that you’ll come thru for us as long as you are away from home. … So much of your mail was sent back to us along with a couple of packages … Sure was an awful feeling while it lasted, thank God, that’s over with. Just take care of yourself. … Your card to Mom and Ann sure took long enough to get to them and only hope now that we get to hear from you a little more regularly. I don’t believe your time is your own so I doubt if you’ll be able to write as often as in the past. So if you can’t get to write to us don’t worry about it. You know as always the main thing is that Ann + Mom get mail from you regularly.
On April 15, 1945, Mom sent another letter to Charlie, this one addressed directly to the German POW camp. That letter was “Returned to Sender by Direction of the War Department. Undeliverable as Addressed.” Mom wrote:
Dear Charlie, Just a few lines to let you know we’re thinking of you and still so happy over having heard from you finally that it just seems unbelievable. … Hope by this time that the mail has begun to come thru to you. If we have had to wait 3 ½ months to hear from you, I can just imagine how much longer it has been for you, for we get mail back dated as early as the beginning of November, so it sure must be a heck of a long time since you heard. … Ann came over on Thursday [April 12, 1945], the day after she got your card and it sure was a relief … I still don’t know how our patience held out so long, it’s been quite a terrific tension we were under. … There’s so much I would like to know, but I know how hard it is for you to say much or any more than you do. However, I’ve learned to have a lot of patience so I guess I can wait for it all for another time.
Dad wrote to his brother on April 16, 1945: “Just to let you know how happy I am to know that you are well and safe, your birthday was the happiest day for us because that was the day we heard from you.” In a separate letter on that same date, Mom told Charlie how his mother was handling his capture and German imprisonment. She also revealed that George, who was still fighting in Europe, remained unaware of Charlie’s status:
Mom … proved to be quite a trooper, Charlie, bless her. She came thru for us with flying colors. Like any mother, well, she sure felt for her son, but never did she give up hope. … Still can’t believe I’m actually writing you and that soon you’ll be getting mail from us all. I can just imagine how terrible it must have been for you all this time not hearing from us all, but once the mail does start to come thru to you, you can rest assured there’ll … be no let-up, they’ll just keep rolling in. … I got a letter from Georgie today, still doesn’t know as yet that we have heard from you. Naturally his letter was … all on you. Wish I could be next to him when he gets the cablegram I sent him. He’ll no doubt be just like all of us a big baby — at least our tears were from joy this time.
Mom’s words resonated with me. Hearing of her brother-in-law Frank’s death during the Battle of the Bulge was devastating for her and the entire family. Now with another brother-in-law sitting in a German POW camp, Mom was experiencing “tears … from joy,” a relief from those unimaginable tears of grief. Mom always taught us, “where there’s life, there’s hope.” Just learning that Charlie was alive, gave Mom and the family the hope they needed to get through another day.
Mom continued to write daily letters to Charlie. Another went out on April 17, 1945: “Wish we could get more mail,” Mom wrote. “Your card was … practically three months old.” And on April 18, she wrote yet another letter:
Hope that our mail has begun to reach you. Meanwhile it can’t happen soon enough to get more recent news of you. … We are all okay, living under quite a tension but under the circumstances, it is expected. Only hope to God it won’t be too long before we’re all together, and this mess is good and over with. It’s going to be heavenly, so wonderful to go back to those good old days. You have plenty to look forward to so never give up hope, someday soon, that long awaited silver lining which we always spoke of will come out. What a happy day that will be for each and every one of us. … Try hard to not let anything get you down. You’ve been thru so much already, don’t fail us now, we’re counting on you more than ever.
Dad wrote to Charlie on April 19, 1945, letting him know that they had received a letter from George: “He is fine and always asks for you.” Three days later, on April 22, 1945, Mom told Charlie that she had spoken over the phone with his wife Ann, who had received an official government telegram
saying that you were a prisoner. That more or less made us feel that that must have been a more recent communication so it more or less helps to make up for your old card dated the 10 + 25 of Jan. Naturally, there’s nothing like hearing direct from you Charlie. … Don’t ever lose hope + patience, we’re too near the end to give up now. God keep you well and speed you home to us real soon.
By April 24, Mom continued sending daily communications to Charlie using shortened “Prisoner of War Post” cards, all of which were returned to sender — none of which had been re-opened until now. She told Charlie: “I called up Ann, your wife, tonight and spoke for quite a while with her. Much to my disappointment, she tells me she has had no further word from you but is hoping that soon she will hear. The same going for all of us.” She repeated that message on April 26: “No further word from you but are hoping that it won’t be too long before we’ll be hearing from you again.” And on April 30:
Our only hopes and thoughts are for you and naturally all of the boys who are away from home. We live from day to day with the hope that tomorrow will bring peace on earth and as the saying goes, good will to men. … Best wishes for a speedy return home. God bless you, watch over you, keep you well. Regards, love and kisses from us all.
Letters to Charlie (Carmelo A. Sciabarra) — returned as “Missing” or “Undeliverable”
A little more than a week later, on May 8, 1945, the Nazis surrendered unconditionally to the Western Allied forces (their surrender to the Soviets was delayed by one day). Charlie was liberated from that POW camp and he returned to the United States.
With “this mess … good and over with,” as they all had hoped, there’s no doubt that Charlie’s reunion with family provided long overdue moments of joy, which had escaped him for all those years he served honorably in the war. The family never quite returned to those “good old days.” They had wonderful times for sure. They celebrated birthdays, raised families, worked hard, and built lives for themselves and their loved ones. But in many respects, all those who survived were ‘prisoners of war’. Their collective experiences forever changed their outlooks on life.
In the years that I knew my Uncle Charlie, he was never a very talkative guy. His quiet demeanor was in sharp contrast to the lengthier letters of his that I read in preparation for this series. I was told by others that he never discussed his war experiences and that the trauma of those years had deleteriously affected him. His silence spoke volumes. There seemed to be a certain sadness about him that not even his sweet smile could conceal. It is not without some irony that he was officially released from the army on October 7, 1945 and that he died on that same date in 1973 at the age of 61.
By contrast, Charlie’s brother, my Uncle George, retained an effervescent sense of life that could not be dulled. He married my Aunt Margaret in 1953; they had a son in 1957, my cousin Carl, who sadly passed away at the age of 46 in 2003. George himself died of brain cancer at the age of 66 on December 30, 1988.
A Tribute to My Uncle Tony
Other relatives served in the European theater of World War II, including my Aunt Joan’s second husband, Albert Milella, who was involved in the North African campaign in 1942, and my mother’s sister Mary’s future husband, Anthony (“Tony”) Jannace, whose army war years extended from February 14, 1942 to October 28, 1945. It was on October 28, 1945 that Mary met Tony at the Brooklyn Army Base. They went on their first official date on November 2, 1945, and were married five years later, almost to the day, on November 5, 1950. They had three children: my dear cousins Paul, William, and Susan. My Aunt Mary passed away on October 12, 2024, at the age of 102.
Left, Tony and Mary on their first date (November 2, 1945); Right, Tony and Mary on their wedding day (November 5, 1950)
In his eulogy for my Aunt Mary, my cousin William highlighted the issue of post-traumatic stress disorder, which affected not only his father but so many veterans who had returned from the war. He observed:
Marriages are often tested with health issues, but in my parents’ case it was tested before they were married. In 1945 [Mary] met a soldier who returned from WWII with a noticeable limp and shell shocked (what we refer to today as PTSD) in need of alcohol as a crutch.
Through her love and support, as well as with support from loving parents (my grandparents) and siblings (my aunts and uncles) particularly one sibling, his brother Joe, who was his guardian angel on earth, he overcame this problem and no longer needed that crutch. Her greatest legacy was to raise a daughter who embodied her altruism and selflessness. Our Sister, Susan, in many ways captures the essence of my mother’s heart and soul.
William also wrote a moving tribute to his father for the Eisenhower Foundation:
My father, Anthony E. Jannace, enlisted in the U.S. Army after Pearl Harbor was bombed and served in the Second Engineer Combat Battalion of the Second Infantry Division, in the European Theater of Operations [ETO] during WWII. He participated in five campaigns: The Battle of Normandy, Northern France (Brest), Ardennes-Alsace, the Rhineland, and Central Europe. The battalion he served in received a Presidential Unit Citation (one of 16 the division received) for its heroism during the Battle of the Bulge. During one week in the battle, approximately 25% of the battalion suffered casualties while being caught behind the German pincer movements in the Ardennes. He was wounded twice: frost bite and mortar shrapnel and he received The Purple Heart in April 1945 (one of approximately 5,193 awarded to his comrades). He participated as well in the Liberation of Pilsen in May 1945.
The Second Infantry Division participated in five campaigns in the ETO, including the Elsenborn Ridge Defense from December 20, 1944 until January 29, 1945 during the Battle of the Bulge … The Germans were defeated at Elsenborn and the Battle was won in Bastogne. It served approximately 337 days in combat, with 320 in contact with the enemy, including 209 straight days in contact with the enemy. It traveled approximately 1,750 miles in combat from Omaha Beach to Pilsen, capturing approximately 70,300 prisoners of war. The division sustained over 15,000 casualties during this period, including nearly 3,000 killed in action. The Second Infantry Division is also a recognized Liberating Unit, having been involved in the liberation of Leipzig Schönefeld (Buchenwald subcamp) and Spergau (labor education camp) in April 1945.
Like so many veterans, he spoke little about his experiences during the war. After active duty he served in the U.S. Army Reserves where he retired as an SFC [Sergeant First Class]. He was also a member of the DAV [Disabled American Veterans]. He died in October 1983 after having served nearly 30 years in defense of our country and our freedom. Although wounded twice, he considered his fallen comrades that never returned home the real heroes of the war.
During the Second World War, the battles in Europe weren’t the only ones being fought. Other battles were raging across other continents and vast bodies of water. The war against the Empire of Japan had its own unique challenges.
In next week’s final installment, I turn to “The Navy Boys”, those relatives and friends of the family who sent letters from the Pacific. It is a fitting finale to the series, since next Tuesday marks the eightieth anniversary of the date on which Japan formally surrendered to the Allied forces aboard the USS Missouri in Tokyo Bay, thus ending the deadliest war in human history.
LETTERS FROM WORLD WAR II: THE NAVY BOYS (September 2, 2025)
Among the letters in my mother’s collection from World War II, there were those from three men whose lives were intertwined in so many ways: My Uncle Sam (Salvatore Sclafani), his cousin Charles (Charlie) Sitra, and a man whose dear friendship Sam cultivated while he was in the Navy: Carmine J. Santaniello, of Jamaica, Queens.
Salvatore Sclafani (Uncle Sam)
My Uncle Sam was like a second father to me. He and my Dad were first cousins and best friends. They grew up together and married into the same family. Uncle Sam married my mother’s sister Georgia, so he was both an uncle and a cousin to me. In fact, he married Georgia on March 6, 1942, the day before he shipped out to the Great Lakes Military Installation in Waukegan, Illinois, outside Chicago. After the war, he spent a lot of time in our home and was a vital part of the lives of my brother, sister, and me. Our family remained close-knit through triumphs and tragedies, and after my father died in 1972, Uncle Sam continued being a central father figure in my life — until his death on January 24, 1994 at the age of 78. He always spoke of his experiences during World War II, and I was privileged to interview him about those years back in 1976. I published that interview in 2004 and in a revised expanded version in 2021. I have drawn from some of those pieces to provide greater context for the events that shaped the lives of these three men.
Uncle Sam in his Navy uniform; and as part of the Eighth Battalion in the Aleutian Islands
Sam had been classified I-A for the military draft, but after years of working in the Brooklyn Navy Yard, he decided to enlist in the Navy instead. He eventually became a part of the Seabees (the United States Naval Construction Battalions), a relatively new branch of the Navy that was similar to the Army Corps of Engineers. Sam made his way from Brooklyn to Norfolk, Virginia; Pleasantville, California; and then on to the Bremerton Navy Yard in Puget Sound, Washington state, where he participated in the salvage work on the USS Nevada, damaged in the Pearl Harbor attack. As the men awaited orders on their next assignment, Sam’s group was split into two: Group 1 was headed south — to Guadalcanal. By the sheer accident of being selected for Group 2, Sam ended up in the North Pacific. “We then realized,” he recalled: “This is it. This isn’t playing anymore. We’re not training. From here on, everything is real.”
And so began the ten-day trip to that North Pacific destination. Morale was good, though everyone on board had a worried expression. Most suffered from terrible seasickness. “My comrades wished they had died,” he told me. “Men were throwing up against bulkheads and walls and fainting on decks.” And then, upon their arrival, a heavy fog descended. When the land mass came into focus, it was like a cold, barren surface of a distant planet: no trees, no vegetation, immense mountains of stone and volcanic rock. An earlier attack that day had destroyed the boats that lay docked around a makeshift pier. As they filed off the ship, sirens went off to signal an imminent attack. Running for cover, the men passed an enormous hill of greenish-white pine boxes — coffins waiting for new inhabitants.
They had arrived at the notorious Dutch Harbor in the Alaskan Aleutian Islands, the closest U.S. military base to Japan, only 600 miles away. Throughout the year, temperatures ranged from 12 below to 60 above. Certain seasons brought 18-hour days, while others brought 18-hour nights. But no matter what season, a damp, musty fog blotted out the sun virtually every day that they were stationed there.
Within the first week of their arrival, the new troops faced air attacks, volcanic eruptions, storms, earthquakes, and “horizontal rain,” due to “winds that could blow a building across the Hudson River.” Those winds, dubbed “Williwaws,” were sudden and severe, up to 200 mph. Ironically, it was the difficult climactic conditions that saved Aleutian Island residents from both constant Japanese aerial bombardment and the typical diseases that infected troops stationed in the South Pacific. “American pilots remarked that there were better odds in flying 50 missions over Berlin,” Sam would say, “than even one mission over the Aleutian Islands.”
During the war, Sam became a Second Class Petty Officer as he worked long days constructing airfields, built to withstand the wind, the rain, and the war. At night, he found comfort with his buddies, smoking cigarettes, reminiscing of home, and listening to their “Pacific sweetheart” on the radio: Tokyo Rose. He had vivid memories of all the things she told them: “She’d tell us how our girls were cheating on us back home. She would say that we were very stupid to be fighting … we were going to lose anyway. So, we might as well rebel, destroy our superiors, and go home.” It gave them a lot of laughs, he said, but it was hard to avoid sobbing, silently, as the men listened to the Swing music she played. From the crackling of the radio speaker came the Big Band sounds of Benny Goodman, Glenn Miller, and Tommy Dorsey — a form of psychological warfare that infected everyone with homesickness. “It would place us in a very depressing state. Some men cried openly.”
During his two-year tour of duty, he experienced about six Japanese aerial bombardments; though the attacks were only seven to eight minutes in duration, they felt like seven to eight hours. A two-hour alert would usually precede an attack, as men would frantically prepare their anti-aircraft positions. “We were told to run off the ships and scatter into the hills, where there were foxholes.” Men clung to their hopes for survival, some praying and giving substance to the adage “there are no atheists in foxholes.” You didn’t know if “that next bullet would have your name on it. Then you’d hear the incoming planes.” Within seconds, bombs would be dropping, destroying installations, oil tanks, gasoline storage facilities, and piers. Raging infernos and thick, black smoke would engulf the camp. “Things flashed quickly through my head,” he painfully recollected. He had fears of invading parachutists, naval bombardment, “the end of the world.” In an attack on June 4, 1942, “our ship, the Northwestern, was blown into a million pieces as a bomb was dropped down the smokestack. Shrapnel and other fragments went flying, as the explosion echoed through the hills and canyons.”
Left, Uncle Sam’s Eighth U.S. Naval Construction Battalion “Pictorial Review”; Center, illustrations from within; Right, a piece of bark, picked up and engraved by Sam, “Taken from the Only Tree in the Aleutian Islands. Sub Base, Dutch Harbor, 1942–1943”
Carmine J. Santaniello, Best Navy Buddy
Since troops were forbidden to convey any information about their wartime experiences, Sam’s letters to the folks at home were often optimistic and upbeat. This gave some people the mistaken impression that he wasn’t in harm’s way. It’s something that clearly upset him. He shared his feelings with his best buddy in the service: Carmine J. Santaniello of Jamaica, Queens. As two New York City boys, they had forged a very special bond while stationed in the Aleutian Islands.
One of the earliest letters Mom received regarding Sam’s feelings was written by Carmine. It’s somewhat funny — because, as Mom might have put it, she didn’t know Carmine “from a hole in the wall.” But on November 29, 1942, he introduced himself to Mom:
Hello Ann, Probably you don’t know who I am, so I better introduce myself. I happen to be Sam’s best buddy. Sam and I usually discuss our letters to each other, that’s if they’re not personal. Well, from what Sam tells me, most everyone who writes him, have the impression that he is up here for a vacation. It’s far from being a vacation. We’re all up here to do a job and it’s no fun under certain conditions. I only wish I were able to discuss this place to you, but I can’t. What I’m really trying to say is, please give them an idea that it’s no picnic Sam is having. … He’s always talking about the swell letters you write him, to me it seems you’re the only one that realizes this is war.
Sam doesn’t know I am writing this letter, the reason for me in writing to you is every time someone writes to Sam, I could see he’s very disappointed in the letter he gets for most of them are almost the same. … So please Ann, try to get them to write Sam letters that will encourage him. … Please don’t think me nosie. It’s just that Sam is the swellest feller I ever met, and I’d like to see him encouraged by letters that he receives from home. Best regards to you, his family & others, Sam’s buddy, then, now, & always, Carmine
On January 21, 1943, Carmine wrote back to Mom, worried that Sam was going through a tough time. That he was — given the shifting dynamics of the war.
Hello Ann, I have received your letter concerning Sammy. I really can’t make him out lately. For a while back even after I wrote my last letter, he acted so strange. I mean he very seldom had anything to say. … I really can’t make him out, but Ann, he is really the old Sammy now. … He’s really the swellest feller I ever ran across. I didn’t think there were any left like him.
A month later, on February 21, 1943, Sam expressed his anxieties and his unhappiness to Georgia:
Keep your chin up and just wait for me. I’ll be back someday. Georgia believe me I’m so happy to know that you are my wife. It makes things so much easier and I am definitely for the boys who got married before going away. … I don’t want to sound too discouraging but I’m pretty sure that this war is going to be a real long one and you will just have to hold on to your patience and when you’re feeling bad just think of how much worse off I am thinking and longing for you. You are all I have for a future and you always said that you would wait a lifetime for me. I have always said the same. … Remember there’s a guy in this world that adores you and prays for you every minute of the day. So long honey, see you in my dreams.
On February 28, 1943, Sam told Georgia:
After being in this place, Brooklyn will be like heaven and I’m not kidding when I say that. … It may be years before I see you again. … One day out of the clear blue sky we will find that the war is over. It can’t last forever. All things must come to an end sooner or later.
Around February 20, 1943, my mother’s twenty-fourth birthday, she received a birthday card (below) from Sam: “To Annie, One of the Sweetest Girls in the World. Spitfire — next year it will be a great big kiss (promise, cross my heart). Sammy.”
On his wedding anniversary, March 6, 1943, Sam wrote to Georgia:
Well honey here is the day. One year married to the one girl I have dreamed of for the past eight years. … It’s a lot different from last year but the love is still there and after all that’s what really counts. … Boy if I was home I would have made the day the most memorable of all. …. Maybe the Lord will listen to all our prayers and find us together next year. I had you in mind every second of the day which sort of put me in a fog, but a beautiful fog which was more like a great heavenly crystal held up by my love for you. … Still love you so very much that it’s got me going in circles. … God bless you always. … I love you, Sammy.
Frustrated by the uneven delivery of daily mail, Sam would sometimes receive whole groups of letters at once, delayed by overseas shipment. In a letter dated March 14, 1943, he acknowledged:
I know that of late you have been writing me almost daily of which I am very grateful. … That was so sweet of you to say that there is a god watching over me just for the day to send me back to you. It puts a lump in my throat. … I love you more than life itself.
On April 2, 1943, Sam mentioned that he received “a flock of mail from you which made me exceptionally happy. I also received two Easter cards which were very pretty. I’m so darn happy to see that you have been writing me so very often. Honey I guess you are just going to have to go without an Easter card from me. It’s impossible to get any. So please forgive me as it isn’t any fault of mine.”
Georgia yearned for Sam to get a leave. But he was under no illusions. “You mention the possibility of a leave for me. I hate to be discouraging honey, but that is definitely out.” Knowing the realities of war, that he might never return home, he cautioned: “I’ll be lucky to even see the States before it’s all over.” Still, he understood how difficult and upsetting this was for his wife. “You say you wouldn’t forgive me if you found out I didn’t grab the chance if I had it. Honey, if I ever got that chance, I would fly home to you even if I had to grow wings.”
In his correspondence to Georgia dated April 2, 1943, Sam alludes to his friend Carmine Santaniello: “I have many friends. Most of them come from New England and California. I have a real buddy who comes from Jamaica. There are a few New York boys and am friendly with everyone. I always get along with everybody. I am well, still alive and kicking. … You know me, I never get sick. Then again, do you think I’m crazy to get sick without you around to take care of me. In other words, don’t worry about me.” With his life on the line, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, Sam admits he is unable to predict the future: “There is only one fortune teller and he is in heaven. God is the only one who is going to tell us our future.”
While in the Aleutians, Sam learned a few things about war. He thought it was a joke when some said that the Americans would sell you the noose with which to hang them — until he found out that scrap metal from dissembled Manhattan elevated trains had been sold to the Japanese, becoming parts of the machinery of war they had created. He even remembered going over to a downed Japanese Zero. “And on the engine was labeled ‘Pratt-Whitney Motors, USA.’”
While he wouldn’t have thought twice about shooting another human being to survive — “quite frankly,” he’d say, “it was either them or us” — he never accepted the notion that he should hate his enemy. “We had been taught to hate the enemy for their bombardment of Pearl Harbor, for their cruel and inhumane treatment of our men.” But when prisoners were caught, “you’d look at these men, ‘our enemy,’ and see a reflection of yourself. I felt sorry for them.”
On October 21, 1943, he wrote to Mom:
My outfit is scheduled to go over before long as I understand and I’m in it, so, that’s the story in a nutshell. … Please excuse these so-called letters which are so short. I guess I’m in somewhat of a strange atmosphere which accounts for it all. I do hope to hear from you soon and will let you know exactly what happens around here.
Sam’s “outfit” (Company C) of the Eighth Battalion was slated “to go over” to the South Pacific. However, right after the New Year, early in 1944, that Company was reorganized and temporarily sent back to San Francisco. As his ship neared the Golden Gate Bridge, Sam remembered crying “like a baby. It was the most fabulous sight I had ever seen. To be on American soil again, a feeling you can’t imagine unless you had been in that situation. And there, on the dock was the American Red Cross — with gallons and gallons of ice-cold milk.”
Not too long after his arrival in sunny California, however, Sam developed a mysterious illness, likely due to climactic change. His legs swelled and he experienced paralyzing pain. He wrote Mom from his hospital bed on February 19, 1944, deeply disturbed over news that his friends from Company C had been sent back out to the South Pacific in mid-January:
I hear that my buddy Carmine is in New Guinea of which I feel pretty bad about. It’s a pretty rough deal for the kid but I guess had I been in … all this time I would probably be in the South Pacific also. Guess the only thing to do is wish for the best. … I’m coming along pretty well so far and as usual I’m still expecting orders soon. … Tomorrow is your birthday (25 isn’t it). I’ll say you’re really coming up in the world …
By March, when it was apparent that Sam would be in a military hospital for months, he was slated to be given an honorable discharge. He wrote Mom on March 10, 1944:
Now Annie tell me, how do you feel about my discharge from the service. What I mean is, did it have any particular effect on you. To me it feels kind of funny for there is some sort of hidden love for the Navy still left inside of me. Of course it had to be because I could never take active duty anymore and with me it was either full duty or discharge with limited duty. I just imagine myself a liability to Uncle Sam rather than a help. [Here, “Uncle Sam” refers to the United States.]
He warned my mother that he wouldn’t be able to send any money to Georgia, since his military allotment was cancelled due to his discharge: “You will know that all has been approved in Washington. I don’t imagine anything will go wrong but there is always the chance that it will and I’m considering every angle.”
On April 5, 1944, Sam was officially released from the US Navy. In May 1944, he arrived back home in Brooklyn, New York. For months, he had difficulty adjusting. He was immensely uptight and shuddery, developing a fear of passing overhead planes. The war had split homes and families, had taken away friends and relatives, and had damaged relationships.
Though Sam was back in New York, his cousin Charlie Sitra and his dear friend Carmine Santaniello remained on active duty.
Charlie Sitra
Prior to Sam’s arrival in New York, 25-year old Charlie Sitra was already in basic training. Like Sam, Charlie had married before beginning his service in the Navy. He was officially inducted into the Navy on March 22, 1944. Eight days later, on March 30, 1944, at “5:33 am”—Charlie’s own time stamp — he wrote to Mom:
I am so very tired of working and drilling for we have to do 3 months training in four or five weeks, we are on the go 18 hours a day seven days a week. If I were to explain what I do in a day you could never believe, in fact I don’t believe it myself. We have no radio, newspapers or anything to know what’s going on. Even if they did have, I would have no time to waste on them. … We are having snow + rain here every day and it’s freezing weather. I am not complaining for I am used to work + cold. It’s just that we have no recreation. … I am going to be a gunner. It may be a good life + may be a short life. But when you’re in the navy nothing matters. We are taught here that there is a right way + a ‘navy’ way. … I dread not the needles or the physical torture we got or even to go to war. I am honestly + truly afraid of the dentist. He pulls up to twelve teeth at one time and has no mercy on anyone. He has a job to do + boy he certainly does it. I expect my haircut today or tomorrow. I already got rid of my moustache. … I wrote you this letter which made one less to my wife. … I must work the ass off of myself, excuse the expression.
Mom wrote a lengthy letter in response to Charlie. On April 6, 1944, Charlie complimented Mom for being a “clever gal” and “a saboteur … for you waste so much paper. Why don’t you write on both sides of the sheets; don’t you know there is a war on,” he joked. But he was aware that Sam was coming home and that he’d be reunited not only with his wife Georgia but with my father Sal, his best friend: “I’ll bet he is very happy.” He was worried that my Dad might be drafted and told Mom: “I hope they reject him for your sake + Sammy’s too for they get along nice together.” He added: “It’s true there is a war on but we must all do our part. I can now walk with my head high. I am very proud to be a sailor and wouldn’t exchange it to [be a] civilian.”
A week later, on April 14, 1944, Charlie wrote back to Mom: “I sure apologize for calling you a saboteur. I was kidding and glad you thought my letter was good. … God bless your beautiful, long + enjoyable letters. You ought to start a business of writing letters for people. You could make a fortune.” He expressed the hope that he’d be back in Brooklyn on furlough by April 25. “I miss the Cyclone” roller coaster in Coney Island, he admitted, and signed the letter: “Your loving cousin, Charlie.”
On May 8, 1944, the Navy doctors told Charlie that he needed hernia surgery. Months earlier, he had been diagnosed with a hernia when he had first reported for duty. Not fond of doctors or dentists or medical procedures, he refused the surgery. But this time, the surgeon convinced him that it was necessary. Alas, when he was asked to sign papers for his operation, he told Mom that he began “shaking like a leaf.” The surgeon “asked if I was afraid, so I said no, I am always like this.” He was placed in a hospital to await a decision on surgery, given that it might not be “worth the money + time they will have to spend on me.” He was also evaluated by a psychiatrist for his anxiety. Charlie emphasized: “Let me tell you this hospital is no picnic. Some guys here are half nuts + I don’t like being with these wrecks. But I have no choice in the matter + after all the Navy is always right.”
On May 12, 1944, he wrote to Mom as he awaited a Medical Board decision to either discharge him or send him back into service. He was getting increasingly agitated and angry:
At times I even curse the flag, Navy, Army and every damn thing around me. But then I am sorry … I can’t describe this place so well in writing. … If + when I get out of here I won’t ever speak of how we are treated. I never dreamed that [the] Navy allowed such a concentration camp but someday I will find out the reason for this kind of a nerve hospital. … The food is fit for a dog, worse than in boot camp and I lost 12 pounds already. … There are plenty of guards here, for many guys get beaten for losing their mind … God forbid they should ever try to put one hand on me. I would kill the bastards. Please excuse my language but I am just blowing steam that doesn’t do any good. … Wait till I come home then I will talk to Sammy, he is a flag waver and when I see him, I will fill his ears with truth + hate. I would rather be in the South Pacific under the great big battles for they would not even bother me. For here, death is the best thing for me. … I can’t keep this under my hat. … Please don’t mind my writing like this for I have to let someone know my troubles.
It is ironic that Charlie called Uncle Sam a “flag waver.” A bolder and more patriotic American you’d be hard pressed to find. But in the aftermath of World War II, he had had enough with politicians. He recalled voting for Franklin Delano Roosevelt because he was convinced that the President would preserve the peace. “The President had said that American boys would not fight on foreign soil. He forgot to add: ‘They’d be buried in it.’” For thirty years thereafter, Sam refused to vote in any election. Over time, he learned to question everything. He even recalled sitting in a bar after the war and striking up a conversation with a priest. A baptized Catholic who hadn’t gone to mass in years, he asked the priest if this was mortal sin. The priest answered: “Yes, my son.” He was told that unrepentant mortal sins would be punished by eternal damnation in Hell. “So, you’re telling me,” Sam replied, “that because I missed church, I’m going to the same place Adolf Hitler went?” The priest fell silent. Sam just shook his head and walked away. Though Sam blessed the memories of his comrades who fought and died nobly against the Axis powers, he often cited the adage that “the greatest enemies of peace are those who extol war as noble and heroic.”
Uncle Sam (Salvator Sclafani) plaque from the National WWII Museum in New Orleans
But all these revelations came years after Sam’s experiences in war. When Mom received Charlie’s letter, she knew he needed her spiritual support. Her heartfelt response lifted his spirits. He replied on May 18, 1944: “My Dear Ann, Thank you ever so much for that pep talk. It helps a fellow when he is down. I am feeling 100% better now.” And on May 31, 1944, he reported: “Well I must say I was given an ‘Honorable Discharge’ and was complimented by the doctors for trying.”
Officially released from the Navy as a Seaman 2nd Class on June 20, 1944, Charlie returned home to Brooklyn. He had been praying that my father would be rejected for military service, emphasizing that Dad was “a patriot of a man,” who should stay home. Indeed, classified IV-F, Dad remained in New York. Four years later, Charlie and his wife Margaret welcomed their daughter into the world. Sadly, Charlie died at the young age of 47 on November 24, 1966.
Carmine Santaniello in the South Pacific
With so much going on at home and abroad, Mom never forgot Carmine Santaniello. In the summer of 1944, she renewed her correspondence with him, knowing from Sam that Carmine was fighting in the South Pacific. On July 27, 1944, Carmine replied to Mom:
Hello Ann, Of course I remember you. … Please don’t expect me to write a letter as you do, but I’ll do my best. You sure could write a letter. … I needn’t say how much I miss Sam. Honest of all the fellers I’ve met since I’m in service there has been none that can compare with Sam. He’s what is known as a sincere + true friend. … I felt as though I knew him all my life. … I like to think of Sam as my brother. It’s impossible to give you an impression of what I want to say, but after this mess is over, Sam + I will (regardless of marriage) be together like two kids. … I myself am twenty-four years of age, but to be honest, I feel like eighty-four. … Sam has always admired you. … I believe the last time I wrote you was in ‘42’ while up in the Aleutians. I believe you’re the missing link in my life, referring to letters, you make me write more than I usually write or say in a letter. Since I left this second time, I’ve been in New Guinea, now I’m in Australia, but from the looks of things we’re shoving out here mighty soon. Why, this southwest Pacific is a picnic ground, opposed to the North. I’m not just saying this to give you the impression that the Aleutians is the worst place on earth, but I will say give me any south or southwest Island. If I knew I’d have to go up North, I’d go A.W.O.L. + I’m not yellow. I know the condition it put all those boys in, that a second time would be fatal. I have quite a few boys down here that were up in the Aleutians + everyone has aches & pains in their body. I’ve got rheumatism … No matter how long this war goes on, it can’t do any more damage, as the damage has been done. There’s millions of innocent women & babies getting the worst of it. When we enlisted, we knew what was waiting, but those people never gave such a thing a thought. Out of the heavens came hell & destruction, misery, my God, what a shameful time. How could those kids grow up with love & affection in their hearts. They know of no other way of life but hate & misery. … My one ambition, like millions of other is to get home again. … I turned out to be a mamma’s boy, but I sure miss her terribly, & of course the rest of my family. That’s what hurts.
Mom continued writing to Carmine. In a letter dated October 20, 1944, Carmine replied:
Hello Ann, I was very anxious & pleased to receive your two letters, or should I say library. For me to answer them sentence for sentence is impossible, as I’m only human. ‘ha ha’ … We’re so close to a Jap-held island, that we could almost see their vehicles moving, but as of late, I doubt anything could move, from the beating they’re taking. … I guess you’re keeping up with the latest developments in the Pacific, well I’m pretty close to the latest affair in fact. … All in all there’s never a dull moment, tho I believe things will be quieting down before long, referring to this island I’m on.
Given the date of Carmine’s letter, “the latest affair” was most likely the brutal Battle of Leyte, during which the Japanese lost 65,000 men, while the Allies lost over 3,500, with nearly 12,000 wounded.
With battles raging across the Philippines, Carmine expressed his exhaustion with the war in a letter dated December 3, 1944:
Dear Ann … This place is sure something, no rest, no nothing. There’s never a nite a person can go to sleep, without being afraid something is going to happen. I must admit it’s a tiresome and jumpy affair. It’s past the stage of being sure of yourself. For things happen suddenly out here. I only wish I was all alone in this world, for then I wouldn’t give a darn for anything. I’m really fed up for a person can take so much. … I’m just mad as heck for what I seen … I believe in very short time big things are going to happen. For things look pretty uncertain. … I have no idea of when I’ll get back for every man out here is really needed & when they’re good & ready to send us back, then & only then alone, will we return. Should they want to, they could keep us here for the duration. I hope not. Ha ha. Wish I were really laughing, guess in due time things will look good again. … Tell Sammy … as much as I’d like to see him, I’d never wish it to be here. I really miss him. He always gave me courage & confidence.
Carmine praised Mom’s spirit and generosity in a letter dated January 7, 1945. For the Christmas holidays, Mom had sent Carmine some stationery for him to write on:
Dear Ann, Received both your letters (Dec 5 + Dec 20) … You’re so considerate + understanding + go thru so much to encourage me. I doubt I’ve yet received a letter that could match any of yours. You possess in mind what most people lack. Many thanks Ann, I assure you. I will never forget your kindness. … No doubt you recognize this paper I’m writing on. Yep. It came from you, in your X-mas pkg. You have no idea how I appreciate it. But please, never do that again. Your card was enough. … So far, we’re still here, on island X, how long, or how soon, or where from here, I don’t know for sure. Tho something is in the air. Whenever something happens, regardless of which location in the Pacific, we know first before the people back home. … I’m one year overseas the 13th of this month. … I’m still bothered with rheumatism in fact. I went to the Doc for the first time in one year. … I had two blood tests taken, a few other things. Now I find out on top of rheumatism, I have some sort of an infection in my body. … Ann, I’m telling you, you’ve got to have an iron constitution to exist in this world. I’m sorta curious to find out what else I’ve got. If they keep taking blood out of me, I’ll be a walking zombie. … One thing I’m almost sure of + that’s arriving home sometime this year. It doesn’t seem possible for them to keep this outfit out that long, tho I can always be transferred … I’ve learned to ride the tide & take whichever comes along. No use in trying to do otherwise. “It just don’t work.”
Nothing horrified Carmine more than his discovery of the state of American POWs held by the Japanese in several camps throughout the Philippines. In a letter dated March 29, 1945, he explained:
Dear Ann, I guess I’ll start off by telling you, since I last wrote, I’ve been on the move, & finally arrived on an island somewhere in the Philippines. On this island, there were many American prisoners, who I have seen with my own eyes. I’m sorry I can’t discuss their fate, if I could, I’m sure your sister [Joan] would feel much better about her husband [Frank J. Rubino]. I hope you make sense of what I’m trying to say. In her case, she knows the facts, & there is nothing that can be done. I’m very sorry for her & only wish, if it were possible to speak to her. I’m sure after talking to her, she would be thankful to God, knowing her husband will no more suffer.
There’s a chance the papers back home may carry the story concerning the American prisoners, if you have run across it, I’m sure you will realize what I mean concerning your sister’s husband. I doubt very much that all the facts are printed. I pray they are, for it’s about time the people realize what Jap really is. Since I seen for myself, I haven’t had a good night’s sleep. I see those boys all nite, there isn’t a feller out here who hasn’t been affected. It’s beyond explaining (if I were allowed to discuss it). This is something one must see with their own eyes.
Honest Ann, I’m very upset, this has been the hardest knock since I’m in service. Without a doubt I’m willing to stay overseas & see this thru to the end. We’re not up against a nation, we’re up against the most inhuman beasts on this earth, ‘so help me God’. … This war isn’t over yet, there are many who are going to be affected. … Some of those that go are probably better off. For there is such a thing ‘as living death’. … I haven’t been thru anything compared to what some, ‘I should say many’ of these boys go thru. Not until this war is completely over will the people realize what it’s been all about. I know there will be no stories explaining the conditions, all they’ll have to do is look at the man, that will tell more than words. I’m sorry I carry on like this …
Aware that my Uncle Charlie was missing in Europe, he assured Mom:
As for your husband’s brother, I don’t know what to say. Have faith & remember, no news is good news. That’s a true fact. I pray for the best. … I’m on the dynamite crew. … As for that infection I had, everything is OK again. … I sure miss [Sam] … I often hear from my buddies from the famous 8th Batt … I have my tent decorated with all their photos. Sam on top of course.
On May 5, 1945, Carmine replied to another of my mother’s letters:
Hi Ann, Received your letter of April 15th four days ago. … Ann, I have an awful way of expressing things. After I sent that last letter I wrote, I was sorry. My intentions were to give your sister a picture of how much worse off her husband’s fate could have been. I did an awful job of it, but thanks for your intelligence, you understood, & I am sorry if it didn’t make much sense. … I realize that no matter what I say can never ease the pain & grief your sister is suffering. I’m very sorry for her. One of the sailors in my tent was informed of his brother being wounded, knee blown off. That was two weeks ago. Just a few days ago, he received news of his other brother being killed. My God, I never seen a man fall to pieces so quick, what a shame, it’s so heart breaking. … Ann, there’s nothing we can say or do to help, it’s up to them. (A broken heart is hard to mend.)
Well, I’m very happy to hear of the good news of your brother-in-law [Uncle Charlie, now in a German POW camp]. Take it from me Ann, it is good news. If he were a prisoner out here, I’d pity him. As bad as the Germans have been, they have also shown a little humanity, as far as their prisoners are concerned. … I know he will be alright. In fact, it wouldn’t surprise me if you’ve already received news of his release. I’m sure it’s not far off. … For him to be a prisoner is a cinch. A man with a strong mind & body could endure anything. God bless him. …
Well Ann, to answer your letter sentence for sentence is impossible. How you do it, I can’t understand. You don’t write. You’re actually holding a conversation with me. Boy, I wish I had that gift. I also like that Brooklyn accent. Ha ha. Next door to me is a Jewish feller that comes from Brooklyn. Boy do I get his goat. I Jamaica him to death & surprising, he won’t argue with me. As a rule, if you insult a guy from Brooklyn, especially his town, you’re usually found lying somewhere. I guess us guys (jerks) from Jamaica can hold our own (always bragging). … I’m enclosing … Jap post cards for you. Souvenir.
Japanese postcards sent as a souvenir from Carmine Santaniello to Mom
Carmine’s comments about American POWs under Japanese captivity were substantiated after the war. Around 33% of Americans died while being held as prisoners of war by the Japanese, in comparison to the 1.2% of Americans who died while being imprisoned by the Germans. Japanese treatment of American POWs doesn’t begin to capture the barbarity of the covert Imperial Japanese Army Unit 731, which conducted lethal human experimentation on mostly Chinese prisoners of war. Overall, more than 60% of Chinese POWs died in Japanese captivity. That said, it is somewhat surprising that the Nazis respected the terms of the Geneva convention, which Germany signed in 1929. Their treatment of Western Allied POWs was generally good, except late in the war due to food shortages. By contrast, Nazi Germany’s treatment of Soviet POWs was horrific; nearly 58% died in captivity. Nevertheless, Carmine’s reassurances to Mom that Charlie would be “alright” were well founded.
Carmine’s health began to deteriorate in the summer of 1945. In a letter dated July 1, 1945, he wrote:
Dear Ann, You must excuse me for not writing you sooner. Somehow, things haven’t been going so well with me lately. I feel like a complete physical wreck. I guess time catches up with everyone. I often wonder why so many of these fellers were so full of skin diseases, ailment & aches. And me not being bothered in the least. Now I understand everything. They’ve been overseas in this climate for twenty-six months, since I’m getting close to the twenty’s overseas, it stands to reason I’m no different from them & it’s natural that I should also enjoy some of these tropical comforts. What makes matters worse is my foot. I guess Sam told you I split a bone & been walking on crutches. Tomorrow, I’m to find out if I get off them or use them for another week. Confidentially, they get on my nerves. I’ll sure be glad when I am on my feet again so that I can give my other ailments better attention. … Honestly, it’s remarkable how I’ve managed not to blow my cork, tho I’m afraid one of these days I’m going to be a pretty rough guy to get along with. …
Carmine also lamented the fact that the Navy’s promised “Rotation Plans”—in which troops were redeployed to different locations, some returning to the states — were always being postponed. He continued:
Well Ann, it looks as tho this Rotation Plan is another flop like all the rest of their baloney. Why they build a man’s hopes up & break them down like nothing, I just can’t understand. Maybe they get a kick out of it. I just don’t know. No one seems to know anything, but they don’t hesitate to put a notice on board stating that beginning July, the 84th personnel will leave for the states, in rotation. Twenty-five percent each month. … Since I wasn’t depending on it, it hasn’t upset me in the least but I still think it’s a dirty deal. Honest, the little goodness a man has in him, they take out. So to date, I have no idea of when I’ll be back and it’s getting that I don’t even care anymore. Between you & I, all this backbreaking is over with since they have no concern of us, it’s only natural we look after ourselves, which I intend to do. As soon as I get on my feet again, I’m sure if a feller knows how to do it, he can make a vacation out of this life, which I intend to do. … Boy o boy, we have the nerve to condemn others. (What a joke.) … I’ll say adios for now, hoping my letter has found you … in very best of health. My very best to all, as ever, Carmine.
In the wake of the atomic bombs dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, and the unconditional Japanese surrender on September 2, 1945, Carmine returned to his home in Jamaica, Queens. No doubt, he savored his reunions with family and friends — including his buddy Sam. In time, he married and raised a family. On December 17, 1991, Carmine Santaniello died at the age of 71.
Left: Arrows identify Carmine Santaniello from Jamaica, Queens and Salvatore Sclafani from Brooklyn, both in the Eighth Battalion; Right: Photo of Carmine Santaniello (posted on Instagram)
Concluding Thoughts
This series concludes, appropriately, on the eightieth anniversary of the unconditional Japanese surrender that marked the unofficial end of the Second World War. I am thankful beyond words that I discovered these letters and the thousands of words therein, which brought to life so much about that era that could never have been gleaned from any textbook. My deepest appreciation is reserved for my mother, who was thoughtful enough to have saved this correspondence. She could never have known that one day I would find these papers and tell these stories. That many of these letters were written by people I knew and loved sparked in me greater understanding and respect for all they endured during the war.
What struck me more than anything in these exchanges was their honesty and authenticity. I could feel every person’s expression of anxiety, fear, grief, and hatred — even as I was ultimately uplifted by their declarations of hope, joy, and love.
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