Category Archives: World War II veterans

News from the front: How do we know what’s going on?



Afghanistan & American soldiers in Tora Bora

It galls my friend Bob Faro, a veterans advocate in the Lehigh Valley, that local newspapers publish little on the Iraq and Afghanistan wars “unless it is reactive, as in a local service member’s death.”

His son Joey, a 19-year-old Marine, was seriously wounded by a roadside bomb in Afghanistan a few weeks ago and is being treated at the National Naval Medical Center in Bethesda, Md. “I ask just as I have with every known service member being injured,” he said in an e-mail to me and others, “why no reporting?”

I don’t think it’s deliberate.

Mainly, there is no central, authoritative clearinghouse for information on wounded soldiers, sailors and Marines. In the case of deaths, the Department of Defense makes it easy: It posts name, rank, hometown, branch of service, unit and cause of death on its website for all to see. Newspapers and other media take it from there.


Things were different not so very long ago, during World War II.

The paper I work for, The Morning Call in Allentown, Pennsylvania, has clip files in its newsroom library that prove it.

In the old days, a paper’s employees cut out stories about people and put them in small brown envelopes. The cutouts are called clips. The envelopes were filed in alphabetical order in a metal cabinet in a room that used to be called a “morgue.” One file might have clips covering a person’s life from birth to death.

The veteran I interviewed for my story marking the 66th anniversary of D-Day, E. Duncan Cameron, was a 1940 graduate of Allentown High School. He hit Omaha Beach on D-Day, June 6, 1944. Sure enough, The Call has a clip file on him. It’s similar to Morning Call files I’ve seen on other World War II vets. Not only is there a story about his getting wounded, but an update on his recovery.

45th Division roadblock, Battle of the Bulge, 1944

45th Division roadblock, Battle of the Bulge, 1944

There is a clip on what happened to him three months after D-Day: “E. Duncan Cameron Wounded in Germany.” The paper got the news from his parents, who had gotten a letter from Duncan and showed it to the newspaper. “Was hit in the left arm by shrapnel from a mortar shell, the shrapnel penetrating the arm just above the wrist,” Duncan wrote.

The story ran with a photo his parents had previously given the paper. The picture was used first with a June 23, 1944, story headlined: “Pfc. E.D. Cameron Jr. Sends Letter Home From Invasion Front.”

Another clip, dated March 6, 1945, reported that Duncan was home on furlough from the hospital in Tennessee where doctors had grafted a bone to his wrist. Again, the story ran with a photo.

It was a different time. The community that a newspaper served was closer-knit than it is today.


That intimacy was gone just a generation later, when the sons of World War II vets were fighting in Vietnam.

Nicky Vendetta home in Malvern, Pennsylvania, 1969

Nicky Venditti home in Malvern, 1969

My cousin Nicky Venditti came from little Malvern, Pennsylvania. The local paper was in the neighboring town, West Chester. Nicky joined the Army, became a helicopter pilot, arrived in Vietnam on the Fourth of July 1969 and was gravely wounded in a grenade explosion six days later. There was nothing in the paper about it.

Nicky, the subject of my book, Quiet Man Rising: A Soldier’s Life and Death in Vietnam, hung on to life for almost a week at an evacuation hospital in Vietnam.

The Daily Local News of West Chester did not have a story until July 21, seven days after his death. “The Defense Department reported only that Warrant Officer Nicholas L. Venditti died in a military hospital [in Vietnam] on July 15,” the paper said. There was nothing from his family in the story, and no indication the paper tried to contact them.

It wasn’t necessary.

Within hours after his parents got the telegram saying Nicky had been hit and there was “cause for concern,” everyone who cared about him knew it.

They knew it by the oldest means of passing on information – a method that still hasn’t lost its potency.

Word of mouth.

A D-Day Veteran Remembered

The anniversary of D-Day is always the occasion for an interview in my series War Stories: In Their Own Words for Allentown’s The Morning Call. This year, I’ve been interviewing an 89-year-old World War II veteran. His story will run in the newspaper on the D-Day anniversary, June 6, 2010.

Approaching Omaha Beach, June 1944

Approaching Omaha Beach, June 1944

When I interview a vet, I find it helpful to take along maps and photos to jog the memory. Over the years I’ve amassed a good-sized library* of material on the Normandy invasion. This year,my interview is with a man who had been with the 1st Infantry Division, called the “Big Red One.” He was in the 26th Infantry Regiment, which was held in reserve and didn’t hit Omaha Beach until late afternoon; the two other regiments of the “Big Red One” hit the beach earlier in the day. While leafing through my copy of Stephen E. Ambrose’s D-Day, June 6, 1944 I found a map of the position of my vet’s battalion on Omaha Beach on the evening of  June 6th. I showed him that page. Sure enough, it jogged his memory.

It wasn’t until I had Ambrose’s book back home that I remembered where I had gotten it. For my D-Day anniversary story five years ago in The Morning Call, I interviewed 1st Infantry Division vet Harold Saylor of North Catasauqua, Pennsylvania, who hit Omaha Beach in a hail of German gunfire at 7:30 a.m. carrying a pair of Bangalore torpedoes, long metal pipes packed with high explosive and used for blowing up barbed-wire entanglements.

Always eager to see me, Harold would have scraps of paper for me with notes of some detail he wanted to make sure I knew. One, giving an idea of how much he was weighed down when he went ashore, was typed out: “170 pounds of equipment, including the clothing.” Another typed-out note to me read: “I could not swim either, and to this day I still cannot swim.” One day when I arrived, he handed me seven pages that he’d scrawled brief notes on. “I talked to Ernie Pyle,” he’d written on the first page, referring to the famous war correspondent.

In his small home office crowded with books,  files and photo albums, Harold knew where everything was. Sometimes he would shake his head and say that he didn’t know what would become of this stuff when he was gone.

His story ran on June 6, 2005, under a headline that was a quote from him: “On the beach, there was no place to hide.” An e-mail I got from a reader said: “I’m at my desk at work and crying my eyes out.”

American Casualty, Omaha Beach, June 1944

American Casualty, Omaha Beach, June 1944

In the months after Harold’s story ran, his health declined. The last time I saw him, he was in a hospital bed in his living room and didn’t seem to know who I was. I rested my hand on his and our eyes met. He died a few weeks later, at age 81, before another D-Day anniversary came.

One day his widow, Anna, called and asked me to come over. Harold had left something for me, she said. It was Ambrose’s account of D-Day. She said Harold wanted me to have it, as well as any other of his books I’d like to have.

Perhaps he hadn’t recognized me in the end, but he did remember me.

On Sunday, June 6, my newest D-Day interview will be in the newspaper and I’ll be going to the annual picnic held in Nazareth, Pennsylvania, by the Lehigh Valley Chapter of the Veterans of the Battle of the Bulge to honor D-Day veterans. I’ll be bringing 90-year-old Dan Curatola, one of Harold’s fellow infantrymen in the 1st Infantry Division’s 16th Infantry Regiment who also hit Omaha Beach that day 66 years ago. And I will think of Harold again.

*Venditta’s Pick of D-Day Photograph Albums

Time-Life editors. THE SECOND FRONT, Time-Life Books World War II  39-book series

Life commemorative edition by Richard Holmes. D-DAY EXPERIENCE, a photo-filled magazine to mark D-Day’s 60th anniversary, 2006

Time special issue, D-DAY: WHY IT MATTERS 60 YEARS LATER, 2006

National Geographic’s issue, “Untold Stories of D-Day,” 2002 which has the most detailed map of the invasion beaches I’ve ever seen

American Heritage‘s  issue “D-Day: What It Took, What It Meant, What it Cost.”1994

Normandy Invasion, June 1944

Normandy Invasion, June 1944

Veterans Live On In Their War Stories

They buried Ernie Leh with his 1st Infantry Division pin.

At the service last week in Schnecksville, Pennsylvania, the Rev. Robert D. Machamer Jr. read aloud from the story I wrote about Ernie six years ago as part of my series in The Morning Call newspaper, War Stories: In Their Own Words. He read not just a few lines, but the top third of the article. It was about Ernie’s landing at Omaha Beach on D-Day, June 6, 1944.

The minister, a friend of Ernie’s, was taken by an occurrence on the beach that would have been humorous if the situation hadn’t been so grave:

“On my way up the slope, I had to relieve myself. I stopped and went behind a rock about 5 or 6 feet high. Others passed me and went on ahead. I remember seeing a major and some enlisted men pass by. Just as they got over the next rise, a shell exploded right in their midst, getting all of them. That, I thought, might have been me if I had not stopped to urinate. The brief delay had saved my life.”

Soldiers on their way to France, June 6, 1944

Soldiers on their way to France, June 6, 1944

Machamer paused and said with a smile that you had to figure Ernie was meant to survive.

As he went on with the story, which I’d put together from Ernie’s own writings and my interviews with him, I thought about the enduring value of recording veterans’ stories, how important they are to family and friends and not least of all, posterity.

By special arrangement, my stories in The Morning Call have permanent homes in the National World War II Museum in New Orleans and the Library of Congress’ Veterans History Project.

Some of my subjects were recommended to me by sons and daughters of World War II veterans whose dads were in poor health. Their children felt they had limited time left and asked me to get their stories down. It’s an appeal I find hard to resist.

Two such interviewees were Earl Metz and Earl Schantzenbach. I worked on them without delay. Their stories ran in March 2003 in the days after the Iraq war began. Metz, who had been a combat engineer in Europe, lived for two more years. Schantzenbach, an infantryman who was awarded the Silver Star for gallantry, died just five weeks after his story appeared. But their stories will live on.

USS Arizona sunk at Pearl Harbor, December 7, 1941

USS Arizona sunk at Pearl Harbor, December 7, 1941

A Pearl Harbor survivor who agreed to talk with me did not live to see his tale in print. John Minnich’s heart gave out several days after my second interview with him. His family gave me permission to run the story as a tribute to him, and it appeared on the Pearl Harbor anniversary on Dec. 7, 2001. I sometimes wonder if he didn’t sense the end was near.

Veterans themselves embrace the idea that their stories will live after them. Most memorable to me was Joe Poster, who endured the Bataan Death March and more than three years as a prisoner of the Japanese. As his health failed in the months after his story appeared, I heard him tell people on more than one occasion, “That story is in the Library of Congress.” His two-part account is at,0,2658608.story and,0,2724145.story.

State Representative Jennifer Mann of  Allentown contributes to the perception of permanence. When my war story subjects are constituents of hers, Rep. Mann sends them laminated copies of the articles with a note thanking them for their service to the country. This helps veterans see that people beyond family and friends are grateful for what they’ve done.

Korean War Fallen Soldier, August 28, 1950

Korean War Fallen Soldier, August 28, 1950

Even in obituaries, families have noted their loved ones were featured in the series. When nurse Cecilia Sulkowski died in 2008, the reference to my work read in part: “On July 5, 2002, Cecilia was featured in a lengthy article with photos in The Morning Call titled ‘Mending broken spirits, shattered bodies in Korea.’ In the article, she describes her Army experience which included setting up the first-ever Mobile Army Surgical Hospital during the first six months of the Korean War… Her vivid descriptions and sharp memory made this story mesmerizing.”

At veterans’ funerals, my stories have appeared among photos and other memorabilia for mourners to see. This is more than gratifying. That’s because beyond the thanks of veterans themselves and their families and friends, writing veterans’ stories is meaningful and lasting. It not only preserves legacies for generations to come, it contributes to our understanding of history.

That’s partly what I aim for in my book about my cousin Nicky Venditti, an Army helicopter pilot who answered his country’s call. In QUIET MAN RISING: A Soldier’s Life and Death in Vietnam. In this book which took me many years to write, I also give voice to a young man whose story – like the stories of countless other veterans – would otherwise lie with him in the grave, untold and unappreciated.

I can’t let that happen.