My Grandfather's Diary: An Article for The Distinguished Flying Cross Society

Below is an article I was asked to write for The Distinguished Flying Cross Society Newsletter. I hope you enjoy and please pass it around!!!

I asked my grandfather as he lay in his white hospice bed, “Grandpa, what are you most proud of in your life.” He turned his head softly to look at me with his piercing blue eyes and said “I am most proud of the Distinguished Flying Cross medal I was awarded in WWII.” I was stunned, baffled and curious all at the same time. I leaned down with a complete blank look on my face and took my grandfather’s hand to let him know I was there with him. I wanted to learn more about this award. As I look again into the blue eyes of my grandfather, I see a different man laying in hospice waiting to die. I see a young solider fighting Rommel in the N. African War documenting his war battles in a black, Italian diary. I wanted to learn more and perhaps now since death is near my grandfather might talk about his WWII time. I squeezed his hand one more time, leaned down and said “Grandpa, tell me more about this medal, The Distinguished Flying Cross.” His breathing was shallow and you could see that every ounce of energy was taken from him through his two year battle with kidney disease. He looked at me and said “I have a diary with pictures, read them and learn about my time but only when I have passed, for those are the beginning days of my life that I will remember always and make me proud to be an American.”

My grandfather passed two weeks later. He was a simple, humble man who sold Fuller Brush door to door to provide for his family with no mentions of the battles he witness in the desert of N. Africa. I need to find my grandfather’s diary buried in storage boxes among his other belongings.

I grabbed the box nearest me and began to open it. I heard what sounded like metal meeting with glass. Reaching in with both hands, I carefully pulled out a glass shadow box framed with bronze around the edges. Inside were the medals my grandfather was awarded in World War II. Neatly arranged to stay in their places, there were seven in total, but the Purple Heart was the only one I recognized. I placed my fingers on the glass barrier trying to touch them and in some way touch my grandfather. How did he earn these heroic medals during his time in the war? Did he get shot down while on a mission? How bad was his injury to have received the Purple Heart? I felt tears running down my cheek. Why didn’t I ask him while he was living? My grandfather’s time in the war went unnoticed by his family throughout much of his life. He was a war hero to the world but to our family he was Grandpa. He never even spoke of his time in the US Army fighting in Northern Africa until the last months of his life. That’s when I learned that my grandfather was a top turret gunner on the B-25, Desert Warrior that flew bombing missions over Northern Africa while fighting against the enemy troops. He flew a total of 199 hours logging 73 missions over Tripoli, Tunis and Sicily.

The final box revealed the smell of musty old papers. A dusty grit covered most of the contents inside the box, but there was a white plastic bag that seemed to be completely undisturbed. I blew off the dust and unzipped the plastic bag that had preserved it all these years. There is was—the little black diary. The front cover was a simple impression of a camel looking up to what resembled a palm tree with words on either side of it. Onestinghel Tripoli. The title of the front of the diary was in English: Agenda 1943-XXI. The months were written in Italian. I found it!

I flipped through the pages randomly eager to read each and every page. I turned to July 10, 1943:

"This is one day I’ll never be able to forget. It beats ‘em all- we went out to bomb the air drome at Trapani- god what A/A & lights. We started our bomb run and ran right into 24 search light- they had us-but good he put the ship over on its nose and down we went. We hit over 400mph. The guns went off. Everything went flying. Talk about being scared- man alive- what an experience- took 10 years off my life. We got out at last full of holes but okay. Lucky guys. We lost Mack though. Lt. Fredd never came back. Guess they got him. Poor Mack. I gave him my cigarette ration just before we took off. Sure does get you."

I closed the diary and placed it back in the plastic bag. I hung my head low and cried. How could I not know what my grandfather did in WWII? How could his whole life go unnoticed without ever mentioning this time in his life?

My grandfather, James Garofalo, was award The Distinguished Flying Cross on August 28, 1943 for “distinguished and meritorious achievement while participating in serial flight against the enemy in the Middle East Theater. As gunner on medium bombardment aircraft, Sergeant Garofalo has repeatedly distinguished himself by his gunnery skill, courage under fire, and unflinching devotion to duty. His alertness as an observer has been invaluable, both in spotting aircraft during missions and in passing the information to the pilot, and in making reports to the Intelligence Officer after completion of operations. His record stands as a goal for the entire combat personnel of his organization.”

Grandpa, I am proud to be your granddaughter.

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