He Marched Up Italy to Defeat Hitler: Now He Just Needed a ‘Lift’

“I’ve had a wonderful life,” Andy told me over the phone as I stood hours after our encounter in front of a CVS several days ago. The circumstances that led to this meeting and its afterglow is the magic movies produce about two unlikely travelers: George Bailey and an angel named Clarence.

A strip mall featuring a drug store with cars whizzing by is not the picturesque setting of a Frank Capra film, but on this December day, it will have to do. I was taking my long walk for exercise in my little town of Encinitas—just north of San Diego. I mention this because my truck was left at home, a good 30 minutes away by foot, as I briskly passed the front door of the local drugstore.

I spotted an elderly man leaning against a brick column. He was holding a small bag in his hand and keeping an eagle eye on the maze that was the parking lot. What made him stand out to me was his cap. It was a dark blue U.S. Army hat with gold letters that spelled out WWII, and beneath those poignant letters was a series of colors that seemed to indicate to me that this man was highly decorated. I walked right past him—keeping my pace and then suddenly I stopped. Could I walk past a man like this when it was apparent that he was looking for someone?

I did an about-face and asked him if I could be of help.

“Well, I’m waiting for my Lyft,” he said with a confused look shadowing his face.

“Oh. I see. Well, um, what kinda car are you looking for, Sir?”

He turned towards me and said, “Well, I’m not sure.” He wore an oversized winter coat—the puffy type that seemed to blanket him. Underneath the unzipped coat was his white tee-shirt tucked into his blue jeans. The ensemble was connected with suspenders that gripped the pants and seemed to hold this gentleman together. He remarked, “They should be here by now. So, I am getting concerned,” he said as he gazed back at the sea of cars.

“Ah, well, do you have your phone?” I asked.

He smiled and replied, “What does a 95 year old man need a phone for?” he said with a twinkle in his eye—really, I am not making this up.

“Well…how did you call….”

He interrupted me, as he fished for a yellow card. “Well, see, I call this number here on this card, and a Lyft driver is supposed to come and pick me up—that’s the plan, anyway.”

“Oh, okay, well, I can call the number again if you think they are not coming,” as I take the card from his hand.

“Oh, that would be great. Just tell the lady who answers that ‘Andy is still waiting to be picked up’ okay?”

I dial the number and the receptionist says something about a retirement home, but it is hard to hear since a giant delivery truck roars by at that instant. I hit the ‘speaker icon’ so my newfound pal Andy can hear her, too. He speaks into the phone: “Hello. Hello. Is this Bea? It’s Andy. They haven’t come yet … my Lyft person … No … I am at the CVS.”

Confusion ensues and the woman apologizes and explains that the driver is waiting for us.

“Where?” Andy asks patiently and politely.

“At the CVS…he is looking for you. He is in a silver Montero,” she explains. We gaze over the horizon of jammed cars, but no silver 

Montero do we spy. Andy counters, “Well, we’ll keep lookin.”

I thank the woman and decide I need to wait with Andy until he is picked up. So, we start a conversation that would stick with me—a dialogue that would take me back in time.

“Well, Andy, I see you were in the Army—your hat says 1941-1945.”

“Yes, yes. I am sure glad I wore this cap today, that might be why you stopped to help me, I bet.”

“Well, I guess that’s probably true. I’m a retired teacher and I spent a good amount of time dealing with WWII.”

“Oh, you heard about the 34^th Infantry Division? We were the group that walked up the boot of Italy from the south of the Anzio beachhead up to the Alps of Switzerland.”

“No, I didn’t ….”

Andy points to my cell phone. “Look it up on your computer, you’ll see what I mean.”

I input the information in a Google search while Andy explains, 

“See, I enlisted at 18 and they sent me to Northern Africa and then we crossed the sea to Italy….” He looked down at my phone. “Yep, that is it. That was our insignia—the Red Bull…I was a part of “The March of the Red Bulls.”

“Andy, that is amazing. My Uncle Pete Buscemi was in the Anzio campaign, too. Did you know him?”

“Hmm. Nope. Doesn’t ring a bell, but—hey, do you think that this Lyft fella is at the wrong CVS?”

It’s been 10 minutes since the last call so I redial, get transferred and then get disconnected. By now, poor Andy has been standing for 20 minutes leaning, stooped over, against the same column. There are no chairs. “Andy, I’m gonna call again, but let me find you something to sit on.” I can tell he is fatiguing. I look all around and enter the store, but not a chair is to be found. When I step back outside, a woman, dressed as an elf comes down the walkway with an iron chair that she grabbed from the bakery up the way.

“I saw you two and thought that this would help,” she says as merrily as any elf would. We thank her profusely, and I finally reconnect with the receptionist and explain our predicament.

“The driver is at the CVS on 456 Encinitas…” I cut her off when I look behind me and realize this store’s address is 129.

Andy looks at me with that I told you so attitude. And we respectfully ask for another driver to come pick Andy up. Now it will be a person in a black car—that’s all we could make out with all the noise around us.

As we wait…and wait, another woman named Jenn asks about us because it is apparent something is wrong and we explain the situation. She hopes our ride comes soon. While we wait, I introduce myself to Andy and explain that I am Italian. “Do you speak it?” he asks me. I don’t but Andy does. He also speaks Romanian—and other romance languages, too. “It was important because I could speak to the people as we travelled past cities that the Nazis had abandoned. Oh, I could tell you stories….”

By now Jenn is done shopping, and we are still out there. She asks where Andy lives, but he is far from her destination. Apologetically, she explains that she has to get home or she would drive him. Andy asks if she has a pen, and after fishing through a purse that held two pens that didn’t work, she finally finds a Sharpie. Andy asks me to write down my phone number on his yellow card. Jenn exits and I again call Andy’s service.

“Okay, Sir, I am so sorry. The other driver cancelled so I am calling now for another one. Hold the line, okay.” It’s been at least 30 minutes, and in all this, time Andy has never once lost his charm or patience. “The new driver is 7 minutes away, his name is Pedro and he has a Silverado truck.”

Finally, Pedro pulls up. I help Andy into the truck which sits high. Andy and I embrace and I look at Pedro, a strapping young man, and say to him, “Andy is a veteran of WWII. We sure appreciate the lift.” Pedro nods and shakes Andy’s hand and looks at me and says, “I’m in the service, too. You’re in good hands, Sir.” And as they drive off, I feel both relieved and euphoric. I realize those forty minutes I spent with Andy is what the spirit of the holidays is all about. But it wasn’t over.

When my phone rang as I was walking with my wife into Barnes and Noble, I noticed the caller was unknown. I had a feeling…yes, it was Andy.

“Hello, is this Bob?”

And thus began another long chat with Andy. In the time it took for my wife to investigate the new books she wished to tackle for the holiday season, Andy told me many stories that were as fresh to him today as they were 70 years ago. His division was liberating Rome. He explored the city and came upon the Museum of Romanian History – the Accademia di Romania. When he got there, in the basement of the building hiding in a cluster of forty or so refugees, he discovered men and women of Romanian descent. When they saw a fully armed soldier, they were frightened. He quelled their fear by speaking their language. Immediate relief crossed their faces, and one of the elders turned to him and asked, “Do all Americans speak Romanian?”

Andy chuckled as he told the story to me. Of course, he told them no; however, he assured them that the Americans had chased what was left of the pro-Nazi army out of Rome; they were free to come out from hiding. Joy spread across their faces, and I could not contain the smile on mine as I stood next to the section labeled historical fiction. Here I was listening to a man who made history. I knew at that moment that Andy’s story would be circling my mind, just waiting for a time when I could land it on my laptop and send it out to the world.

Andy had other tales to tell, but he sensed I need to go. I assured him that I would reach out to him before too long. That’s when he told me that he was grateful for my help and that he felt he lived a charmed life.

I chimed in that I felt the same way. I’ve been married to the love of my life for 34 years and taught high school for 32 years. My adult children make me burst with pride—however, on a day like today, when I met a living American hero, I felt so proud to be an American myself.

Andy said one more thing before we ended our talk: “You know, Bob, I never told you my birthday, did I?  …it’s Christmas Day.” 

Of course it was. It will be his 95^th.

And somewhere in the bookstore, I thought I heard the bells that ring each time angels earn their wings.

Robert Pacilio

Encinitas, California

Mr. Pacilio was the San Diego County “Teacher of the Year for 1998 and the author of several novels. 

The House Divided: By Whom? Lincoln knew what endangered America: civil uprising. Enter Russia.

The Republican Party made its name by claiming to so hate communism that Ronald Reagan became the icon of his generation when he declared, “Tear this wall down” in Berlin. Well, the wall fell, as did the Soviet Union’s control over satellite states. With that Russia became a second rate power.

Enter Putin. Max Boot, whose family escaped the grips of communism, recently penned an excellent article spelling out, in great detail, the Putin led attack on United States, and his slow steady march into Ukraine. If you’ve missed this, I recommend reading his Washington Post essay dated December 4^th titled, “The Republicans have become the party of Russia. This makes me sick.”

The point I wish to make is that Putin has now compromised American government at its highest levels, from the President, to the Senate, and to the minority members of the House of Representatives. As of this writing, it is unclear whether the Supreme Court has also faced this incursion (the decision on appearing when subpoenas are ordered and the withholding of tax returns and presidential communications [i.e. the actual transcript of Trump’s phone call asking for ‘a favor’] will tell the American people where the Court stands on the version of an attempt at an imperial presidency.

Let’s be honest. Every United States investigative agency has confirmed it was the Russians that hacked into and interfered with the 2016 election. Those same agencies confirm that it is still going on right now. They confirm that the Ukraine not only had nothing to do with the elections, but, in fact, that is part of the Russian strategy—to convince some naïve politicians that “It wasn’t us…it was this weak democratically elected Ukrainian government is to blame!” It is a farce when you think about it.

And that is exactly my point. Far too many are not thinking about it—or even paying attention. Let’s test my theory: are people aware that even the loyal Republican Lindsey Graham admitted as much on December 3rd?  Graham said he is "’1,000% confident’ that Russia, not Ukraine, meddled in the 2016 US presidential election, breaking from President Donald Trump and others in his party who have pushed the discredited conspiracy theory.” CNN reported the widely spread headline from his mouth—not ‘fake news.’

My guess is that people don’t know, don’t care, and are too busy shopping for the holidays to realize what is being stolen from them as they click away on Amazon Prime. What is under attack? The vote of the people, by the people, for the people. That’s what.

Let’s connect the dots…again for those not paying attention. Mr. Trump in Helsinki in July 2016: "President Putin says it's not Russia. I don't see any reason why it would be." However, the BBC reported that same day: “US intelligence agencies concluded in 2016 that Russia was behind an effort to tip the scale of the US election against Hillary Clinton, with a state-authorized campaign of cyber attacks and fake news stories planted on social media.”

The impeachment of this president is not about his character flaws, his bankrupt businesses, his lawsuits, the woman whom he has assaulted—no; it is about one simple thing. He and his administration have allowed foreign interference in United States elections, and the fact that the minority of House Republicans are ignoring this and calling the investigation a “witchhunt’ and a “scam” is exactly what Mr. Putin would dream of—the great ‘Beacon of Freedom’ has been flickering.

I cannot imagine what Ronald Reagan would say now.

And what of the US Senate? Senator McConnell will have a trial and the results are pre-ordained. There is little chance that 67 senators will vote to impeach a Mr. Trump, who on live television, exclaims that China should investigate the Bidens. Fortunately, USA Today reported on 10/8/19, “China has reportedly rejected President Donald Trump's request to investigate Democratic presidential candidate Joe Biden, with officials saying the country doesn't want to get involved in U.S. domestic politics.” Isn’t that quaint. They will steal our patients, but they draw the line on our elections.

As for Russia, Mr. Trump before he became president, rallied his fans challenging “Russia, if you’re listening….” He hoped Putin would find Hilary’s emails [note: they didn’t.]

Oh, but the Professor Jonathan Turley, who testified before the House Committee as the lone opinion that there is just not enough evidence yet to impeach Mr. Trump. Turley felt that until witnesses, who Trump has banned from testifying [Pompeo, Bolton, Mulvaney] come before the House, then there is just not enough “first hand” evidence of guilt.*

Enter the Supreme Court. It could take over a year for this to be decided—if the Court ever compels them to testify due to “executive privilege” [which did not happen in Watergate]. Naturally, by then, another election would assaulted by foreign intervention.

And that is exactly the strategy of a “House Divided.” I pray that it never comes to that.

Post-script: This is the very same Professor Turley who thought there was enough evidence to impeach President Clinton for the Monica Lewinsky perjury. [Clinton was censured, not removed from office. A fitting result for a President who had improperly, immorally conducted himself, but did not break his oath of office.]