Uncategorized – Chris Gibbons: Soldiers, Space, and Stories of Life

The Doughboys of St. Columba’s by Chris Gibbons

(Originally published in the April 6, 2017 Philadelphia Inquirer)

It was Thanksgiving Day, November 27, 1919, and the Solemn Military Memorial Mass for the doughboys of Philadelphia’s St. Columba parish had just concluded. The attendees, led by an armed guard and color bearers, two from the Army and two from the Navy, filed out of the beautiful church and gathered in the school yard at 24^th and Lehigh.

The December 6, 1919 Catholic Standard and Times noted that during the Mass, seats were reserved in the middle aisle for the members of the families of the twenty seven boys of the parish who gave their lives during the Great War, and now these same family members were accorded the area closest to the cloaked structure now positioned at the front of the school yard. The late-autumn chill and overcast, sullen grey sky not only reflected the somber mood of the crowd, but many of the faithful likely believed that on this day, even God was sad. A ten year old boy stood next to the structure. A respectful silence fell among the crowd, and some wiped away tears, as the sorrowful eyes of the parishioners fell upon the boy. They knew why he had been chosen to unveil the large memorial tablet in honor of the St. Columba’s doughboys who fought in World War I.

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St. Columba’s parish was founded in 1895, and the beautiful Gothic church at 24^th and Lehigh was constructed in 1904. The parish was primarily comprised of Irish immigrants from the surrounding neighborhood known as “Swampoodle.” I visited the church, now known as St. Martin de Porres, in March of 2014, and as I glanced up at its facade the Irish heritage of the masons and original parishioners was readily evident within the Gothic architecture of the building itself. High above the main entrance was a huge Celtic Cross, and just under it was a statue of St. Columba, the Irish missionary and Patron Saint of Derry. Statues of St. Brigid and St. Patrick also adorned the front exterior, and as I glanced up at them, I thought I heard my grandfather’s voice, with his thick Irish brogue, whispering in the wind: “Ya see…the saints are lookin’ down upon ya, lad.” Although I knew it was just the wind and my imagination, I smiled anyway and softly answered, “I hope so, Grandpop.”

My search for the Roman Catholic High School alumni who gave their lives in World War I had stalled, and it led me to St. Columba’s that day. My father, an alumnus of both St. Columba’s parochial school and Roman, suggested that I head down to the old church for some new leads. “There’s a big monument in the vestibule”, he told me. “It has the names of all of the guys from the parish who fought in World War I, and it also lists the ones who were killed. St. Columba’s was a big feeder parish to Roman back then. Some of them might have gone to Roman.”

I entered the church and was immediately struck by its beauty. Ornate stone, tiles, and brick trimmed in gold and green lined the walls and ceilings, with elaborate carvings, statues, and stained glass throughout the interior. I entered the vestibule and there, on the far wall, was the largest World War I Memorial tablet I had come across thus far. The December 6, 1919 Catholic Standard and Times described it as “a beautiful massive bronze tablet, 4 feet high and 6 feet wide, said to be the most elaborate of any erected in the city, and which is the gift of the parishioners.” Carved upon the tablet are the names of the 486 members of the parish who served in the armed forces during the Great War. A special section contains the names of the 27 boys who gave their lives. My father turned out to be right, as subsequent research revealed that one of the boys killed, Frank T. Schommer, was a Roman alum. However, there were two names among the 27 that immediately caught my attention: Charles J. Fischer and John J. Fischer. I couldn’t help but wonder if they were related.

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Ten year old Joseph Fischer stood at the front of St. Columba’s school yard that Thanksgiving Day in 1919, and unveiled the Memorial Tablet that held the names of the doughboys of St. Columba’s, including his brothers, Charles and John. A street parade of the parish soldiers who returned home under the command of Lieutenant Joseph Yates followed the unveiling ceremony, and the women of the parish held a banquet that evening for the doughboys. But for the parish families of the boys who never returned, the moment was bittersweet. The parents of St. Columba’s Daniel Lee wrote a poem about their son that was published in the Philadelphia Inquirer just one month before the unveiling of the Memorial tablet that conveys the deep sense of loss and anguish these families must have endured:

“A precious son from me was taken,

A voice we loved is still,

A wound within my heart is sealed,

Which never can be healed,

To France he went a volunteer,

His love, his life was given,

His body was not returned to me,

But his soul was sent to heaven.”

Private Daniel E. Lee, of Philadelphia’s 315^th Infantry Regiment, is buried at the St. Mihiel American Cemetery in France.

AFTERWORD

After I obtained the names from the plaque of the 27 parishioners from St. Columba who gave their lives in World War I, I was actually quite surprised to find that only one, Frank T. Schommer, was a Roman alumnus. I expected that there would be several. The parish has been sending students to Roman since its founding in 1895, and, now known as St. Martin de Porres, that tradition continues to this day. In 2018, after I had concluded my annual presentation to the students that details my search for Roman’s WW I alumni, one of the students introduced himself to me and told me that he was from St. Martin de Porres, and he never really took notice of the plaque until my presentation. Indeed, it came as no surprise to the Alumni Association that the parish that had the most members on Roman’s 2015 list of “125 Persons of Distinction” was St. Columba.

Back the Crick by Chris Gibbons

(Originally published in the Philadelphia Daily News, March 28, 2008)

“And perhaps across his mind there’ll flit a little errant wish, that a man might not have to become old, never outgrow the parks and the merry-go-rounds of his youth. And he’ll smile then too because he’ll know it is just an errant wish”. Rod Serling narration from the Twilight Zone episode “Walking Distance”

As I walked through a Sporting Goods store recently, I noticed a small sign stating that “Opening Day” for trout season in Philadelphia is Saturday, March 29. I smiled as I read it, because it conjured up pleasant memories from my youth of trout fishing, and opening days spent “back the crick” with my buddies.

The Wissahickon Creek (pronounced “crick” in Philly-speak) snakes through the northwest neighborhoods of Philadelphia, and it was an annual rite of spring for the young boys of Roxborough, Manayunk, and East Falls to prepare for opening day of trout season. I’m told that it was very much the same thing in the NE Philly neighborhoods surrounding Pennypack Creek.

My fellow fishermen in those days were the boys that I had grown up with, most of whom I’d known since I was 6 years old. We hung out under a Henry Avenue bridge, and called ourselves “The Bridge.” Other guys in the neighborhood mockingly called us “The Trolls.” It seemed as if our major goal in life back then was to make each other laugh, and we were pretty good at it, too. We made up amusing nicknames for each other, most of which were references to some unique anatomical feature we possessed. There was Curly, Freckle, Hair, Fly, Gut, and Chalk (because of his pale complexion). A lot of these nicknames centered on head sizes or shapes, so we also had Brick Head, Pineapple Head, Bucket Head, Globin, and Boulder.

We used to make up bawdy songs, with indecent lyrics that we would sing as we walked along the trails of the Wissahickon. We thought of ourselves as being great outdoorsmen simply because we knew how to light a fire with a magnifying glass and cook minute steaks in old pans we confiscated from our kitchens. Our plan was to cook the fish that we caught and pretend that we could “live off the land” if we had to, but most of us weren’t very good at fishing. Bucket Head and I once grabbed a dead trout that was floating downstream and fried it. Of course, we had no idea what we were doing, and didn’t gut and bone the fish. I can still remember my poor mother struggling to scrape the mysterious foul-smelling gristle from that old black pan. But, that was nothing compared to what I had to scrape the day after I ate it.

One of my buddies was really quite good at fishing, and we used to call him “Fisherman.” He could easily catch 25 trout in a single day. He was also smart enough to get as far away from the rest of us as possible. While we were busy un-snagging our lines, pushing each other into the creek, or throwing rocks in the water, Fisherman was 50 yards downstream catching trout and laughing at all of us. We didn’t care though, and in the naïveté and exuberance of our youth we thought those days would last forever. But, our fishing days together, and our adolescence, slowly began to fade with the passage of time.

I still enjoy hiking along the old trails of the Wissahickon Creek. Whenever I’m there, I am always amazed by its beauty, and thankfully, it has changed very little over the years. Walking along the banks of the Wissahickon is like stepping back in time. I’ll often stop and listen to the wind as it whispers through the towering trees. If I listen carefully, sometimes it carries with it the sounds of my past, and I can hear the laughter and singing of familiar young voices as an errant wish momentarily crosses my mind. Perhaps the past can sometimes be within walking distance.

I’ve decided I’m going to get my fishing gear together, and call Bucket Head, Fly, Hair, TK, Fisherman and some of the others from the old crew. So, if you happen to see some middle aged guys with fishing rods walking across Henry Avenue in the early morning hours of some Saturday this spring, and they happen to be laughing while singing a crazy song in unison, don’t be alarmed. It’s just the boys from The Bridge, and we’ll be heading “back the crick”.

AFTERWORD: Whenever I tell people who are from outside of the Philadelphia area my old neighborhood trout-fishing tales, I’m invariably met with a puzzled look, followed by, “I thought you grew up in Philly?” What they don’t realize is that the Wissahickon Valley, which I regard as one of our country’s best kept secrets, is a unique pastoral oasis in our large Northeastern metropolis. As a result of Roxborough’s close proximity to the Wissahickon Creek, it resulted in “Opening Day” of trout fishing season being one of the big annual events in our neighborhood. I received quite a few e-mails from Daily News readers in which they fondly recalled their trout fishing days along the Wissahickon. I also have many other fond memories of the Wissahickon, which include hiking with my father and siblings, and feeding the ducks with my young children, but one memory in particular is not so pleasant. When I was about 8 or 9 years old, I was fishing “back the crick” with my older brothers and my cousins. While we were leaving and climbing a steep hill, I slipped and badly sprained my ankle. I couldn’t walk or put any weight on it, and was in so much pain that I thought it was broken. My cousin Micky, several years older than me, put me on his back and carried me all the way home – a 2 mile journey that was frequently uphill over rugged terrain. I remember thinking at the time that he was the strongest guy in the world. At his father’s funeral in 2019, we tearfully recalled that day, and he told me that he has this article framed and displayed in his home.

Surviving War and the Bitter Cold by Chris Gibbons

70 years ago this month, Philadelphia’s Ed Aversa was among the 1st Marine Division soldiers who were hopelessly outnumbered and surrounded at Korea’s Chosin Reservoir. Their legendary fight for survival during a blizzard is now regarded as the Marine Corps’ ‘Finest Hour’. (Originally published in the November 26, 2017 Philadelphia Inquirer)

It was late November 1950, and the biting wind and snow relentlessly swirled around the 1^st Division Marines at the Chosin Reservoir in North Korea as they desperately fought their way south towards the American held town of Hagaru. Marine Corporal Ed Aversa from the Roxborough section of Philadelphia, began to wonder if he’d make it out of Chosin alive. In the midst of an unprecedented Siberian cold front that gripped the Korean peninsula, as temperatures plummeted to minus 30 degrees, the Chinese had launched a massive, surprise assault against the U.N. forces in North Korea. One of their main objectives was to encircle, and then annihilate, the Marines at Chosin. Although Ed, still spry and feisty at 87 years old, thought that he might die at Chosin, he wasn’t going down without a fight. He smiled at me as he echoed the famous words of his heroic Division Commander, Oliver Smith: “We weren’t retreating, we were just fighting in a different direction.”

But when I pressed him for more details of the battle, his smile quickly faded, and his eyes glazed over as a haunting memory of what he witnessed during the worst of the fighting seeped back into mind. “When we first arrived at Chosin”, Ed recalled, “a truck backed up to the cargo plane we just got off of. It was loaded with dead Marines…naked….not a stitch of clothing on them. Frozen bodies in all different positions. They were so unprepared for the winter, for what happened, that they stripped them of their clothes so they could re-use them. One of our officers said ‘Gentlemen, we are here for one reason now – to survive’.”

In the chaotic days following the Chinese attack, with the army of U.N. forces commander Douglas MacArthur in full-scale retreat, the senior military leaders in Washington ineptly struggled to deal with the crisis. David Halberstam’s brilliant book on the Korean War, “The Coldest Winter” revealed that as MacArthur began to unravel, incoherently mumbling to his aides while refusing to heed the advice from Washington, the Joint Chiefs meekly sat “around waiting for someone else to do something”. But with American soldiers dying by the hundreds each day, there was one senior officer who was outraged by Washington’s impotence and “vacuum of leadership”: General Matthew B. Ridgway. Halberstam detailed a meeting that took place with the Joint Chiefs on December 3^rd that very likely led to the eventual decision to replace MacArthur with Ridgway. It was “another long meeting where, in Ridgway’s mind, they were unable to issue an order…Finally, Ridgway asked for permission to speak and then – he wondered later whether he had been too blunt – said that they had all spent too much damn time on debate and it was time to take some action. They owed it to the men in the field, he said, ‘and to the God to whom we must answer for those men’s lives to stop talking and to act’. When he finished, no one spoke.” When the meeting concluded, Ridgway asked Air Force Chief of Staff, Hoyt Vandenberg, “Why don’t the Chiefs send orders to MacArthur and tell him what to do?” Vandenberg shook his head. “What good would that do? He wouldn’t obey the orders. What can we do?” Ridgway then exploded. “You can relieve any commander who won’t obey orders, can’t you?!”

The drama unfolding in Washington paled in comparison to the fierce fight being waged by the Marines at Chosin. Fortunately for them, a brilliant tactical decision made in the weeks prior to the Chinese surprise attack by 1^st Marine Division commander, Oliver P. Smith, not only enabled the Marines to escape encirclement, but to also inflict heavy casualties on the marauding enemy soldiers. “Oliver Smith was a smart man, and a good general”, Ed said. In early November, Smith expressed concern with his orders to continue heading north towards the Chinese border because he believed that his Marines were walking into a carefully planned and deadly trap. His request to slow their advance was denied by MacArthur, but, unbeknownst to his superiors, Smith cleverly left supplies and established airfields along their route so that they could fight their way out if his instincts were right.

Ed recalled one particular night of intense combat during their withdrawal from Chosin. “An officer said, “anything moving – hit it. They (the Chinese troops) were 20 yards in front of us, and we didn’t know they were there. Then, all of a sudden, they started with the noise – bugles, whistles – anything to try and rattle us. They didn’t know that every Marine was wide awake waiting for them. When daylight came, their dead were everywhere…only 15 yards away…frozen.” As the fighting withdrawal continued, what initially appeared to be a disaster for the Marines, is now regarded as one of their greatest military moments. “When we got to Hagaru, (Marine 1^st Regiment commander) Chesty Puller was standing there with his pipe in his mouth”, Ed recalled, “He said ‘A lot of boys went up that hill, but a lot of men coming down now’.” When the battle finally concluded in mid-December, the Chinese had succeeded in driving the Marines out of Chosin, but at a terrible cost. Although the Marines were outnumbered 8-1, and sustained over 11,000 casualties, U.N. estimates show that Chinese casualties were a staggering 40,000 to 80,000. Chinese General Song Shi-Lun offered his resignation. Unfortunately for Shi-Lun, Ed and his fellow Marines didn’t go down without a fight.

Today, Ed is extremely proud to count himself among the “Chosin Few”, those Marines who stunningly turned certain annihilation into one the most remarkable feats of courage and survival in the annals of military history. He told me that when he looks at how far South Korea has come since the war, he almost can’t believe it’s the same country he left in 1951. “When I first arrived, I thought, what is this place, and what the hell are we doing here? But I look at the country now, and I’m proud of what we did. And the Korean people and the Korean government have not forgotten us.”

In my short time with Ed, I learned that he does not seek recognition, and prefers to keep his emotions in check. Perhaps his most endearing quality is his sense of humor. Following my interview, I put on my coat and said, “It’s supposed to get cold tonight.” Ed shot me a sarcastic look and replied, “When someone says it’s getting cold, I just give ‘em a look and say, ‘Really?’”

More stories of Korean War veterans, as well as veterans of World War I and World War II, can be found in the new book by Philadelphia writer, Chris Gibbons: “Soldiers, Space, and Stories of Life”. Amazon.com link is below: