Babe And Quentin

When they came to America from Italy in the early part of the 20th Century, Tomaso and Martina Ciarlo already had a hefty brood of kids. Five children, which for Italian families was somewhat a normal number. They had three boys and two girls. The middle child, Corrado, called ''Babe'' by everyone who knew him, was the beloved one in the family. Usually, middle children are sometimes lost in the shuffle in the family pecking order. But, not Babe. He was adored from the older siblings to the younger ones. He had a special bond with his mother, Martina. He was the apple of her eye, and, since she was the soul of the family, he became the anointed one. Tragedy would strike the family in 1937, as the father, Tomaso, would die. This left Martina to run the family business, which was a small grocery store in Waterbury, Connecticut. By 1941, when America entered World War Two, the family was still reeling from the father's passing. Babe became the center of all family love. And, he deserved it. At 17, he emerged as a handsome, boisterous, energetic young man. He was beloved in the neighborhood because he was sweet-hearted and considerate. Babe was born with the ability to have everyone like him. He didn't force it, it just came naturally. He didn't know what he wanted to do with his life, as many young man experience. He knew he wanted to serve his country, though, fighting those damn Nazis, and, especially, that tyrant Mussolini, who polluted Italy and brought great shame to proud men and women of his heritage. Babe pictured himself fighting the good fight, slaying the villians, and, then returning to Waterbury, the conquering hero, being swarmed by the lovely ladies!!! Finally, in the spring of 1943, he was drafted in the army. It must be said that Babe wanted to enlist a year earlier in the navy, but, Martina, fearing for his life aboard a ship sinking, talked him out of it. However, by 1943, most of the men in the neighborhood were being drafted, whether they wanted to fight or not. Babe's older brother was exempted because he was the oldest surviving male in the fatherless family. But, Babe did not care. His family loved America and wanted to fight for its freedom and survival. And, maybe, just maybe, he would be sent to Italy to go after Mussolini. At first, Babe was assigned as a corporal in North Africa, but, soon, he got his wish and saw the Italian peninsula on the assault landing on Sicily in July, 1943. The assault was successful, quickly capturing Palermo and Messina, basically stopping Mussolini in his tracks. Two months later, his division landed at Salerno, where they encountered fierce resistance. For the next year, Allied troops would encounter savage fighting as they struggled towards Rome. The losses of men can never be fully accounted for in war, but, the raw numbers show heavy casualities on both sides. The ugliness of war was forever stained on these men--- boys still, really---- that was both physical and emotional. Babe got a harsh lesson on the cruelness of life in his first year in combat. He saw his friends die, with their body parts exploding around him, and, his face being saturated with their blood. Babe saw how civilians, innocent victims in the power play of war, were left homeless and starving as the bombs and tanks destroyed all of life around them. He saw the brave soldiers die and the cowards slip away unscathed. Babe saw the innocence and joy that he experienced in that now far away place of Waterbury burn away into people killing other people. Babe still kept his innate goodness of the soul intact, but, there was a hardness to him now, a weariness of war around his eyes. But, being the dutiful son that he was [ and, not wanting to worry his family] he painted combat in somewhat of a rosy picture in his letters home. He wrote about the beautiful weather in Italy, the fattening foods he was eating--- pasta and lasagna--- and how he was sending money home for his family so they could enjoy a fine Easter. The family, blissfully unaware that he was padding the truth, wrote back cheery letters of their own. Martina said that when Babe reached Rome he should look up family members. Babe replied that he was thinking along the same lines. It would be wonderful to meet his long-lost relatives. His letters varied from topics like eating too much to swimming in the Tyrennian Sea because the salt water would do him good. He even found optimism in the continous rain that always plagues a soldier in combat. It ''cooled us off''. Babe's letters also focused on his family at home, and, especially, his late father. He very much wanted to be home because he wanted to plant a flower on his father's grave. Such thoughts of family--- and, loss--- are so common in soldiers fighting so far from the comforts of home. Babe was lucky. Even though death was all around him, he was spared injury. He lost his friends and saw the hell, but, he was ok. Maybe, it was because of the prayer book given to him before he left home. He prayed to God that he would survive the war and go home to his loved ones. In Waterbury, similar prayers were being said by his family and friends for his safe return home..... Babe's letters stopped coming in June 1944. Then, on June 26, 1944, the family learned why. Babe had been killed in action on May27, near Rome, near his mother's relatives. How has never been established. He was a victim of war like countless millions who fight combat. Babe was eight days shy of his 21st birthday. Olga Ciarlo, Babe's younger sister, recalls returning home from a date one night when she heard her mother wailing her grief. Martina Ciarlo refused to believe the news that he was dead. For months on end, she would look for Babe in newspapers and magazines, always certain a mistake had been made. She could not believe how her son--- that bright, lovable, sweet young man--- could be gone. It wasn't until many months later that his body was finally brought home to rest. And, then, Martina believed. Babe was buried next to his father at the family graveside. Martina would never get over the pain of losing her son. She would live on another twenty years, but, she was only doing so because her body had not given up the battle to live. She was heartbroken. The Ciarlo family went on with their lives, having children and enjoying the days they were given. But, somewhere in their souls, they always carried Babe around with them..... Luverne, Minnesota is not the most exciting place on earth. And, in the early1940's, it had to be incredibly tedious. So, when young Quentin Aanenson, who always dreamed of being a pilot and seeing new sights, saw his opportunity to join the Army Air Corps at the start of the war, he jumped at the chance. Quentin was soft-spoken, carefully phrasing his words. He enlisted in 1942, but, was not called up for service until 1943. After several months of flight training at various locations, Quentin was commissioned a second lieutenant in January of 1944. Along the way at his many stops, this dashing, romantic pilot met a beautiful, vivacious woman named Jackie. She would become the girl he left behind at home that he would marry upon returning from combat. Quentin was assigned his post in London. His job was to fly a load of bombs everyday to drop on German forces. With this most dangerous job, he was also a fighter pilot, for all pilots who are sent on bombing missions also fight off the enemy from below and above. Quentin showed fine sky and exceptional bravery under deadly conditions. And, as with all soldiers, he became aware of how fragile and fleeting life was all around him. He saw the bombers blown out of the air. He heard the howls of pain as men begged God to put them out of their misery. Quentin finally made it a practice to stop making friends at the homebase in London. He knew, as they all did, that the shelf life of any pilot is very short. Either they die inside of fifty missions, or, they lose their mind because of battle fatigue. Quentin escaped this. He survived in body, but, his mind was another matter. He was a changed man. No longer could he look at the world as he did as a bright-eyed youngster from Luverne. That boy was long gone. Now, what was left was a man who did his duty, but, kept his emotions and pain on what he saw and did to himself. He would eventually compose a letter to his new bride, Jackie. It was a form of therapy for him. He would never mail the letter to her, but, he kept it for himself. The letter describes better than any other what men and women see in battle..... '' Dear Jackie. For the past two hours I've been sitting here alone in my tent, trying to figure out what I should do and what I should say in response to your letters and some questions you have asked. I have purposely not told you how much about my world over here, because I thought it might upset you. Perhaps this has been a mistake, so let me correct that right now. I still doubt if you will be able to comprehend it. I don't think anyone can who has not been through it. I live in a world of death. I have watched my friends die in a variety of ways. Sometimes its just an engine failure of takeoff resulting in a violent explosion. There's not enough left to bury. Other times, it's the deadly flak that tears into a plane. If the pilot is lucky, the flak kills him. But usually he isn't and he burns to death as his plane spins in. Fire is the worst. In early September one of my good friends crashed on the edge of our field. As he was pulled away from the burning plane, the skin came off  his arms. His face was almost burned away. He was still conscious and trying to walk. You can't imagine the horror. So far, I have done my duty in this war. I have never aborted a mission or failed to dive on a target no matter how intense the flak. I have lived my dreams for the future. But, like everything else around me my dreams are dying, too. In spite of everything I may live through this war and return to Baton Rouge. But I am not the same person you said goodbye to on May 3. No one can go through this and not change. We are all casualties. In the meantime, we just go on. Some way, somehow, this will all have an ending. Whatever it is, I am ready for it. Quentin''..... Quentin Aanenson did survive the war and came home to marry Jackie. They would have children and grandchildren. However, as with many veterans, he did not want to talk about the war and what he had seen. It stayed hidden in him for many years. Later in life he felt comfortable enough to talk about his experiences in documentaries of the war. But, he had to go through many years of silent pain to reach this comfort. He would die from cancer on December 28, 2008..... Both the stories of Babe Ciarlo and Quentin Aanenson come from the 2006 documentary by Ken Burns called ''The War''. Their stories--- and, many others from those in uniform and those on the homefront-- are spellbinding. I try to find some time every year to watch this. It is in several parts, but, as in all good stories, the time flies by because you are willingly pulled into the power of the people sharing their experiences. It doesn't pull any punches about the horror of war. It is right in your face and knocks you down. That is how it should be. Some wars need to be fought, like the Second World War and the Civil War. Some are drummed up for political, religious, and, mostly, economical reasons. What should be remembered is that wars are not fought by glamorous movie stars like John Wayne [ who, by the way, managed to avoid serving in World War Two, unlike his acting pals who did serve ]. Those movies celebrate the killing of the villian and the hero coming home to win the girl's heart and live happily ever after. No, wars are fought by men like Babe Ciarlo and Quentin Aanenson. Average people who are forever changed by the madness of humans killing other humans. These stories are the face of war..... I hope to never see another war during my lifetime. If I do, I hope we ask the questions that need to be asked and probe why we send our men--- and, women--- off to die. Is it a noble reason or to satisfy some government with the need for more power, which always is at the expense of human blood. There is an old saying that failure to learn from past mistakes means you are doomed to repeat them again. Sometimes, our very survival is at risk and we must come out fighting. But, we also should never be careless when talking about human lives. Hopefully, we have learned this. If not, then we will have more stories like Babe Ciarlo and Quentin Aanenson......