Collanaro, Quigley, DiRenzo Reporting for Duty

My dad wasn’t one for being on the phone. I remember well. Busy as he was dad wasn’t one to hang out and talk on the phone. If he could see today how crazy things have gotten with telecommunication and phones virtually on all of us he’d be completely at a loss. What in the world could be that pressing that we need to talk all the time? There were few exceptions, very few. Whenever the phone rang and his war time compatriots called the house. On a few occasions I picked up. On the other end I heard, " Is this little Sam?" (everyone of dad’s closest friend’s called me this). “No little Sam is my brother, this is David”. Then, the reply from the other end. “OK, well is your dad there, tell him it’s Quigley, he’ll know who I am, OK pal?”. I retorted, “OK”. I just about got the words “Some guy named Quigley is on the phone for you,” when my dad jumped to the phone and beamed as though Publisher’s Clearing House was alerting him that he just won the sweepstakes and millions of dollars were being delivered within the hour.

Dad, Quigley and Collanaro. Rare was the time when dad referred to his service that the names of both of these men didn’t come up. Fate’s a funny thing. Quigley from California, Colanarro a Pittsburgher and dad, a Philly boy all who met serving their country in World War Two. The three unlikely characters wound up in the US Army’s 9th Infantry Division.

I knew they meant a lot to dad, but it’s hard for any of us who have never seen time in the armed forces to understand the bond that’s formed between those who defend our honor, liberty and freedom. Dad would spend hours talking with Quigley and Collanaro when the calls came in, or on the occasions when he called them, again hours would pass before dad would hang up quietly with an assured smile and yet a sense of somber in his face. My brothers and I would just watch, usually without a word passing among any of us at the close of each call.

Dad, like many of those who served in any of the wars that have gone before, doesn’t say much about his service. Much as we would ask dad to explain his time overseas it was usually within quick snippets that I am able to tell you what he, and his colleagues, went through. I know he saw service and hand to hand combat in Sicily, Africa and throughout several parts of Europe. Dad’s friends mentioned earlier came to the house one evening. Quigley and Collanaro here for a reunion of the 9th infantry division being held in center city. Both men and dad laughed, cried and shared for hours getting caught up on what’s gone on in their lives since leaving active duty. Quigley and Collanaro were in stitches referring to a time that dad thought he was shot, when thank goodness, he passed out from a nearby explosive that was detonated. Quigley and Collanaro roared in relaying the story to each other (again) that as medics arrived to check dad out the only thing they found wrong was his helmet was knocked off. Dad laughed sarcastically as the two jibed him. Then it was dad’s turn. He and Collanaro asked if Quigley married someone who could cook. As the non-Italian in the crew of three, Collanaro and dad would abuse Quigley’s idea of a great meal being one in where he needed to pre-heat the oven to cook a T.V. dinner. “The only guy who thought our Army rations weren’t that bad”, Collanarro and dad roared. After a few beers and a few laughs almost on cue, mom and their wives left the living room, ‘the parlor’ dad always called it. At this point I took the hint, so did my brothers, we followed suit. I glanced back from time to time trying not to pry, but it was tough.

Dad’s face said a lot, the face of three men who saw the worst humanity has to offer. They were the lucky ones, the guys in the 9th who made it through, in one piece. More stories, this time the stories weren’t funny, hardly. They asked each other if there was a benevolent fund being offered to the survivors of guys they served with who paid the ultimate price. In looking over their conference literature for that weekend they all made notes to bring the issue to the forum. They left the parlor took a walk, we all got distracted and kids being kids we just went about our stuff. But I noticed as dad strode down our simple street in Mayfair that afternoon as I watched him with his friends, his compatriots, he seemed at peace, I just felt that someday they’d be together again always. They and countless others fought for something and made a difference. Every year about now I think of those times as a young boy who watched his father with his friends, his family really who had a beloved devotion to their country. They had so much in common despite the different places each grew up. They got along as though God had always wanted them to know each other and a war had to occur for the meeting to take place.

Memorial Day is upon us again, the traditional ritual time summer begins in our minds and lifestyles. Barbecue grills flip open, pools open and an exodus to the shore begins. Stop, think and be aware of the gifts that freedom to do all these things came with a great cost, a bill still being paid by those serving us in the Middle East. Fly our flag, visit a loved one who served and drape something special at the grave of those who proudly won us our freedom.

This will be my first Memorial Day visiting the grave of my father who we lost late last year. I think of him with his friends, in a gentle strode down a street laughing, carrying on and happy. Thanks to the men of the 9th Infantry Division and scores like them we all have a chance at our own happiness. Let’s not take that for granted.

See ‘ya around town.