thedrifter
06-06-08, 07:27 AM
The Fighting Cappellettis
A letter recalls five brothers who fought in World War II
Friday, June 06, 2008
SEAN KIRST
POST-STANDARD COLUMNIST
John Cappelletti had almost forgotten the story. It was contained in a letter written by his brother Larry, a letter Larry addressed to no one and tucked into a family Bible. It stayed there until five months ago, when Larry died at 90 in Texas, and his wife and daughters found it among his things.
Larry titled the letter, "Five went." It tells the story of the "Fighting Cappellettis," five Syracuse brothers who survived combat in World War II. Nick, the oldest, served with the Marines. Larry made it through savage fighting in North Africa and Europe. Brother Cosmo was in the Pacific, while brother Jack was infantry.
Then there was John, drafted in 1943. "I didn't like it very much," recalled Larry in the letter, describing his reaction when John went to war. By that time, Larry understood what combat meant. John ended up in the 82nd Airborne. He rode a glider that landed behind German lines as part of the Normandy invasion on D-Day.
That was 64 years ago today.
"We saw a little bit of everything," John said, which is as specific as he gets. He got "shot up pretty good" in St. Marie-Du-Mont, his body lacerated with shrapnel from a mortar shell.
Once he healed, they sent him back to fight.
Even then, amid the madness of a continent at war, he knew he was not all that far away from his brother.
In Syracuse, Frank and Mary Francis Cappelletti - both Italian immigrants - had raised 12 children in a house on Grumbach Avenue. Larry and John grew up playing baseball at Schiller Park. In 1935, they were part of a championship American Legion team that made it all the way to a tourney in New Jersey.
One by one, the older brothers began leaving for the service. The two youngest boys, Tom and Frank, were only kids during the war. They vividly remember how they'd learn whenever their brothers had been wounded. The Army always let their parents know by telegram - the same way families learned a loved one had been killed - so every telegram became a terrifying thing.
Once, Frank recalls, his sister Stella grabbed the envelope from the Western Union man and ran to Schiller Park, not wanting their mother to see it until their father made it home from work.
The brothers survived. On D-Day, Larry endured withering machine gun fire on Omaha Beach. Six months later, during the Battle of the Bulge, he was badly wounded and evacuated to London. "My ordeal was now over, to God be the glory," he wrote in his letter.
John, still in combat, believed his brother remained on the front lines. When he was sent to fight in the Hurtgen Forest, a place where 33,000 Americans died in close combat over sixth months, John began seeing jeeps and trucks connected to Larry's First Division. To John, that meant one thing:
"You got a brother nearby, you're going to find him."
Some officers owed John a favor. They loaned him a jeep and he found a guy to drive it, and the two men took off into forest. The Allies had just seized the area. Bodies were everywhere. John kept stopping to ask American soldiers about his brother, but "nobody knew what I was talking about."
After a day of searching, he gave up. He didn't see Larry until John made it back in Syracuse, where he asked a cab driver to drop him off a block from the house. He walked up Grumbach Avenue. His mother was outside, sweeping the porch. Asked to describe her reaction when she saw him, John lifted his hands toward the sunlight through the window:
He had no words.
Larry was already home. Once he learned about John's search, he needled his brother relentlessly. "He thought it was kind of comical," John said. Larry kept questioning his brother's state of the mind: Why would any sane person go on a wild goose chase in a forest crawling with the enemy?
They were tough guys. They didn't say much else about the war. "I got rid of all the stuff, all the memorabilia," John said. He started a family. He made his living as a letter carrier.
As for Larry, he was an Army career guy who finally settled in Texas. When he died in January, John became the last of the fighting Cappellettis.
At 88, he didn't travel to the funeral. "Once you get off a glider," he said, "there's not much motivation to go back up in the air." He learned afterward about Larry's letter in the Bible. It was basically a proud narrative of what the Cappellettis did in the war, but it offered particular empathy for John.
Larry, a guy who'd been wounded four times, described John's service on a glider as being dangerous "beyond comprehension." He also made a point of recalling how John tried to find him in the forest. Clearly, Larry never really saw it as a joke. He still recalled the exact words John used when his brother asked why he took such a risk:
"I just wanted to see you."
John will remember that today, the 64th anniversary of when his glider fell to earth in Normandy. He will think of the way his mother cried when he came home, about the sister who tried to hide a telegram, about the sound of a ball smacking into a glove in Schiller Park.
More than anything, at this stage of his life, he'll think of Larry.
At some point, when John is ready, he'll go after him again.
Sean Kirst is a columnist with The Post-Standard. His columns appear Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. Call him at 470-6015. shrapnel from a mortar shell.
They gave him a chance to heal before they sent him back to fight.
Even then, amid the madness of a continent at war, John knew he was not all that far away from his brother.
In Syracuse, Frank and Mary Francis Cappelletti - both Italian immigrants - had raised 12 children in a house on Grumbach Avenue. Larry and John grew up playing baseball at Schiller Park. In 1935, they were part of a championship American Legion team that made it all the way to a tourney in New Jersey.
One by one, the older brothers began leaving for the service. The two youngest boys, Tom and Frank, were only kids during the war. They vividly remember how each wound suffered by their brothers turned into a trauma for their parents. The Army always let the family know by telegram - the same way families learned a loved one had been killed - and every telegram became a terrifying thing.
Once, Frank recalls, his sister Stella grabbed the envelope from the Western Union man and ran to Schiller Park, not wanting their mother to open it until their father made it home from work.
Overseas, the five brothers survived. On D-Day, Larry endured withering machine gun fire on Omaha Beach. Six months later, during the Battle of the Bulge, he was badly wounded and evacuated to England. "My ordeal was now over, to God be the glory," he wrote in his letter.
John, still in combat, mistakenly believed that Larry remained on the front lines. When John was sent to fight in the Hurtgen Forest, a place where 33,000 Americans died in close combat over six months, he began seeing jeeps and trucks connected to Larry's First Division. To John, that meant one thing:
"You got a brother nearby, you're going to find him."
Some officers owed John a favor. They loaned him a jeep and he found a guy to drive it, and the two men took off into the forest. The Allies had just seized the area. Bodies were everywhere. John kept stopping to ask American soldiers about his brother, but "nobody knew what I was talking about."
After a day of searching, he gave up. He didn't see Larry until John made it back in Syracuse, where he asked a cab driver to drop him off a block from the house. He walked up Grumbach Avenue. His mother was outside, sweeping the porch. Asked to describe her reaction when she saw him, John lifted his hands toward the sunlight through the window.
More than 60 years later, no words do justice to the memory.
Larry was already home. Once he learned about John's search, he needled his brother relentlessly. "He thought it was kind of comical," John said. Larry kept questioning his brother's state of mind: What sane person would go on a wild goose chase through a forest crawling with the enemy?
They were tough guys. They didn't say much else about the war. "I got rid of all the stuff, all the memorabilia," John said. He started a family. He made his living as a letter carrier.
The things he saw in Europe, he tried to leave behind.
As for Larry, he was an Army career guy who finally settled in Texas. He lived a long life, but his death in January turned John into the last of the fighting Cappellettis.
At 88, John didn't travel to the funeral. "Once you get off a glider," he said, "there's not much motivation to go back up in the air." He learned afterward about Larry's letter in the Bible. It was basically a proud narrative of what the Cappellettis did in the war, and it included some particularly touching reflections about John.
Larry, a decorated veteran who'd been wounded many times, described John's service on a glider as being dangerous "beyond comprehension." He also made a point of recalling the way John tried to find him in the forest. Clearly, Larry never really saw it as a joke. He knew the exact words John used when his brother asked why he took such a risk:
"I just wanted to see you."
John will remember that today, the 64th anniversary of when his glider fell to earth in Normandy. He will think of the way his mother cried when he came home, about the sister who tried to hide a telegram, about the sound of a ball smacking into a glove in Schiller Park.
More than anything, at this stage of his life, he'll think of Larry.
At some point, when John is ready, he'll go after him again.
Sean Kirst is a columnist with The Post-Standard. His columns appear Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. Call him at 470-6015.
Ellie
A letter recalls five brothers who fought in World War II
Friday, June 06, 2008
SEAN KIRST
POST-STANDARD COLUMNIST
John Cappelletti had almost forgotten the story. It was contained in a letter written by his brother Larry, a letter Larry addressed to no one and tucked into a family Bible. It stayed there until five months ago, when Larry died at 90 in Texas, and his wife and daughters found it among his things.
Larry titled the letter, "Five went." It tells the story of the "Fighting Cappellettis," five Syracuse brothers who survived combat in World War II. Nick, the oldest, served with the Marines. Larry made it through savage fighting in North Africa and Europe. Brother Cosmo was in the Pacific, while brother Jack was infantry.
Then there was John, drafted in 1943. "I didn't like it very much," recalled Larry in the letter, describing his reaction when John went to war. By that time, Larry understood what combat meant. John ended up in the 82nd Airborne. He rode a glider that landed behind German lines as part of the Normandy invasion on D-Day.
That was 64 years ago today.
"We saw a little bit of everything," John said, which is as specific as he gets. He got "shot up pretty good" in St. Marie-Du-Mont, his body lacerated with shrapnel from a mortar shell.
Once he healed, they sent him back to fight.
Even then, amid the madness of a continent at war, he knew he was not all that far away from his brother.
In Syracuse, Frank and Mary Francis Cappelletti - both Italian immigrants - had raised 12 children in a house on Grumbach Avenue. Larry and John grew up playing baseball at Schiller Park. In 1935, they were part of a championship American Legion team that made it all the way to a tourney in New Jersey.
One by one, the older brothers began leaving for the service. The two youngest boys, Tom and Frank, were only kids during the war. They vividly remember how they'd learn whenever their brothers had been wounded. The Army always let their parents know by telegram - the same way families learned a loved one had been killed - so every telegram became a terrifying thing.
Once, Frank recalls, his sister Stella grabbed the envelope from the Western Union man and ran to Schiller Park, not wanting their mother to see it until their father made it home from work.
The brothers survived. On D-Day, Larry endured withering machine gun fire on Omaha Beach. Six months later, during the Battle of the Bulge, he was badly wounded and evacuated to London. "My ordeal was now over, to God be the glory," he wrote in his letter.
John, still in combat, believed his brother remained on the front lines. When he was sent to fight in the Hurtgen Forest, a place where 33,000 Americans died in close combat over sixth months, John began seeing jeeps and trucks connected to Larry's First Division. To John, that meant one thing:
"You got a brother nearby, you're going to find him."
Some officers owed John a favor. They loaned him a jeep and he found a guy to drive it, and the two men took off into forest. The Allies had just seized the area. Bodies were everywhere. John kept stopping to ask American soldiers about his brother, but "nobody knew what I was talking about."
After a day of searching, he gave up. He didn't see Larry until John made it back in Syracuse, where he asked a cab driver to drop him off a block from the house. He walked up Grumbach Avenue. His mother was outside, sweeping the porch. Asked to describe her reaction when she saw him, John lifted his hands toward the sunlight through the window:
He had no words.
Larry was already home. Once he learned about John's search, he needled his brother relentlessly. "He thought it was kind of comical," John said. Larry kept questioning his brother's state of the mind: Why would any sane person go on a wild goose chase in a forest crawling with the enemy?
They were tough guys. They didn't say much else about the war. "I got rid of all the stuff, all the memorabilia," John said. He started a family. He made his living as a letter carrier.
As for Larry, he was an Army career guy who finally settled in Texas. When he died in January, John became the last of the fighting Cappellettis.
At 88, he didn't travel to the funeral. "Once you get off a glider," he said, "there's not much motivation to go back up in the air." He learned afterward about Larry's letter in the Bible. It was basically a proud narrative of what the Cappellettis did in the war, but it offered particular empathy for John.
Larry, a guy who'd been wounded four times, described John's service on a glider as being dangerous "beyond comprehension." He also made a point of recalling how John tried to find him in the forest. Clearly, Larry never really saw it as a joke. He still recalled the exact words John used when his brother asked why he took such a risk:
"I just wanted to see you."
John will remember that today, the 64th anniversary of when his glider fell to earth in Normandy. He will think of the way his mother cried when he came home, about the sister who tried to hide a telegram, about the sound of a ball smacking into a glove in Schiller Park.
More than anything, at this stage of his life, he'll think of Larry.
At some point, when John is ready, he'll go after him again.
Sean Kirst is a columnist with The Post-Standard. His columns appear Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. Call him at 470-6015. shrapnel from a mortar shell.
They gave him a chance to heal before they sent him back to fight.
Even then, amid the madness of a continent at war, John knew he was not all that far away from his brother.
In Syracuse, Frank and Mary Francis Cappelletti - both Italian immigrants - had raised 12 children in a house on Grumbach Avenue. Larry and John grew up playing baseball at Schiller Park. In 1935, they were part of a championship American Legion team that made it all the way to a tourney in New Jersey.
One by one, the older brothers began leaving for the service. The two youngest boys, Tom and Frank, were only kids during the war. They vividly remember how each wound suffered by their brothers turned into a trauma for their parents. The Army always let the family know by telegram - the same way families learned a loved one had been killed - and every telegram became a terrifying thing.
Once, Frank recalls, his sister Stella grabbed the envelope from the Western Union man and ran to Schiller Park, not wanting their mother to open it until their father made it home from work.
Overseas, the five brothers survived. On D-Day, Larry endured withering machine gun fire on Omaha Beach. Six months later, during the Battle of the Bulge, he was badly wounded and evacuated to England. "My ordeal was now over, to God be the glory," he wrote in his letter.
John, still in combat, mistakenly believed that Larry remained on the front lines. When John was sent to fight in the Hurtgen Forest, a place where 33,000 Americans died in close combat over six months, he began seeing jeeps and trucks connected to Larry's First Division. To John, that meant one thing:
"You got a brother nearby, you're going to find him."
Some officers owed John a favor. They loaned him a jeep and he found a guy to drive it, and the two men took off into the forest. The Allies had just seized the area. Bodies were everywhere. John kept stopping to ask American soldiers about his brother, but "nobody knew what I was talking about."
After a day of searching, he gave up. He didn't see Larry until John made it back in Syracuse, where he asked a cab driver to drop him off a block from the house. He walked up Grumbach Avenue. His mother was outside, sweeping the porch. Asked to describe her reaction when she saw him, John lifted his hands toward the sunlight through the window.
More than 60 years later, no words do justice to the memory.
Larry was already home. Once he learned about John's search, he needled his brother relentlessly. "He thought it was kind of comical," John said. Larry kept questioning his brother's state of mind: What sane person would go on a wild goose chase through a forest crawling with the enemy?
They were tough guys. They didn't say much else about the war. "I got rid of all the stuff, all the memorabilia," John said. He started a family. He made his living as a letter carrier.
The things he saw in Europe, he tried to leave behind.
As for Larry, he was an Army career guy who finally settled in Texas. He lived a long life, but his death in January turned John into the last of the fighting Cappellettis.
At 88, John didn't travel to the funeral. "Once you get off a glider," he said, "there's not much motivation to go back up in the air." He learned afterward about Larry's letter in the Bible. It was basically a proud narrative of what the Cappellettis did in the war, and it included some particularly touching reflections about John.
Larry, a decorated veteran who'd been wounded many times, described John's service on a glider as being dangerous "beyond comprehension." He also made a point of recalling the way John tried to find him in the forest. Clearly, Larry never really saw it as a joke. He knew the exact words John used when his brother asked why he took such a risk:
"I just wanted to see you."
John will remember that today, the 64th anniversary of when his glider fell to earth in Normandy. He will think of the way his mother cried when he came home, about the sister who tried to hide a telegram, about the sound of a ball smacking into a glove in Schiller Park.
More than anything, at this stage of his life, he'll think of Larry.
At some point, when John is ready, he'll go after him again.
Sean Kirst is a columnist with The Post-Standard. His columns appear Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. Call him at 470-6015.
Ellie