I never wanted to do anything
growing up to upset him, thinking
he had already been through so much.
Yet knowing how strong he was to survive
those years gave me strength as well.

Being a part of the "New England"
group always provided a large
extended family for us.
Having many "Uncles" who
were all ex-POWs somehow didn't
seem strange. The summer picnics,
the smaller get togethers at our houses,
and of course, the conventions provide
wonderful memories of people and places
never to be forgotten.

For us, there was always that "rule"
never buy anything made in Japan.
That seemed fair to us for all
they had been through.

The experiences of my father are
often shared on quiet nights with the
family gathered around.  Some memories
too private to share with anyone but us I assumed.

The story of how "Garland" died on one of those
transport ships brings tears to my father's eyes every
time he tells it as it does to mine every time I hear it.
The last time he told that story he was telling it
to my children and they cried as well.

But, some stories were fun to hear.
The stories that showed American ingenuity.
Keeping a button under the tongue when you have
no water, putting sand in a gas tank on a plane,
putting holes in those big oil drums so the oil
would leak out when the barrels were moved.

Yet, somehow always appreciating that he
could have been killed had he been
discovered. I loved the story
of sending out a postcard to
his family and including the phrase
"received my annual red cross package today"
hoping they would understand the
significance of the word 'annual'.

Receiving a pair of silk pajamas from home,
then trading the shirt for salt to one of the
guards.   Convincing the guard it was the latest
fashion from America, something all the movie stars
were wearing. Smiling later as he saw that guard
strutting around camp in pajamas, thinking he was
wonderful, and hoping he never discovered the truth.

I always was amazed at the sabotage they were
able to get away with and somehow blame
some unsuspecting Jap for the mistake.
Like digging holes in the runways
they were supposed to be repairing
and putting soft sand over a couple rocks
so the wheel of the plane would drop in and
make the plane flip over or go off the runway.

Finding dried apples on a window ledge of a house
while cleaning up in a village. Bringing the fruit
back to the bunk, putting it into the stove,
and having the smell of apple pie cooking.
This brought memories of home back to
him, as well as some food.

The trip home, of course, and all the ice cream
he could eat was the best story of all.
Although he only rarely shares the
really terrible stories they
were always there as well.

These stories are a part of my life and
I feel I have an obligation to pass
them on to the next generation.
That is the only way to
make sure men, like my father,
are not forgotten and to make sure
something this horrible never happens again."

Dominick Giantonio was for many years
the Necrologist for ADBC, Inc.