Chapter I - The Prologue

The late 1920s to early 1930s were a struggle for all, and it was no different for Hugh as a kid. The narrow apartments on Belmont, South Bronx, were tiny and cramped, walls thin enough that you could hear your neighbour chewing on their morning cereal, arguments and fights, and the noise that would make a Buddhist monk mad when a bunch of unattended babies cried their hearts out. 

His father, Patrick, was a dockworker. He spent long and gruelling hours hauling cargo off the ships, only to load them back for the next ship. It was mind-numbing, and worse yet, the pay was meagre. 

The life of Margaret, his mother, wasn’t any better either. She took in the laundry from wealthier families, scrubbing and ironing clothes until her hands were raw, and she scrubbed and ironed until she couldn’t no more.

Even then, and despite both of their heavenly efforts; Patrick, Margaret, and their five children often went back to bed with empty stomachs.

Hugh understood the harsh realities of his situation, of his family's situation, from a very early age. There were no toys or birthday parties, for they were not essential to their family's survival. And as the eldest of his four siblings, there was some serious responsibility which fell onto his shoulders to help his family. By the time he was ten, Hugh was delivering paper before dawn with the chill of morning breeze biting at his face, and to run errands for the local grocer later throughout the day, made him accustomed to the weight of a heavy sack slung over his tiny shoulders.

The school was a luxury. He knew that, his family knew that, and his younger siblings knew that. While he attended the school sporadically, his education had to take a backseat to his work. He was quick with his wit, and had a sharp mind, his teachers noted, but his potential was left largely untapped as he neither had the time nor the energy to support that growth. Instead of focusing on his booksmarts, however, Hugh started to learn the ways of the world on the streets. Picking up wisdom, and sometimes bruises, from older boys and men who have seen too much, and who had to grow up as fast as Hugh did, became his normal.

One of those men was Joe Salvatore, or Mister Salvatore to Hugh. A kind-hearted Italian grocer that often gave Hugh the odd jobs that Hugh needed for his family to get by. And he recognized this young boy's determination, his resilience in the face of adversity. He would whenever he could, give him a little extra something, sometimes money, other times food. “Sei un bravo ragazzo, Hugh”, he would say. You are a good kid. You are. Patting him on the head, “You work hard, never slack, and care for nothing else but to take care of your family. Just never forget where you come from, Hugh”. 

And Hugh found solace in the knowledge that the pain, and the hard work, was to help his family. His little brothers and sisters. He would come home from a day's work, tired, handing the money he made to his mother. Margaret would smile, herself tired from a long day's work too, yet eyes lighting for a moment. Hughing (( get it?  Hugh, and Hugging. hehe. )) him tightly, she would whisper; “Thank you Hughie! We couldn’t do this without you.”

His father was proud of his son’s contribution, his dedication to his family, to his siblings. Yet he was worried about his future nonetheless. “He should be in school, Maggie”, he would whisper to the love of his life. “He deserves better than this. Much better. He deserves a better life.”

But the late 1930s weren’t a time for better lives. The Great Depression has left a mark on everyone, especially on the poor folk. Shadows of poverty loomed large over every household. That however also allowed Hugh to grow up with an unbreakable bond with his family and instilled a strong sense of duty. He learnt to navigate the complexities of life, the neighborhoods, understanding the importance of alliances, allegiances, and friendships. And he learnt the dangers that lurked around every corner.

Life became more varied and demanding as Hugh approached his early teens. He was not a little kid any more after all. He took jobs alongside his father at the docks, experiencing firsthand the backbreaking work his father had to endure, but also the camaraderie the workers had among themselves. Long hours were tough, and so was the backbreaking physical labor. But Hugh knew it was necessary. And he grew stronger, more resilient. Traits that would serve him well in the future, even if he didn’t know it yet.

His mother continued with the laundry, enlisting Hugh whenever he wasn’t at the docks, or running errands for Mister Salvatore. Hugh’s arms were aching, not from his work at the docks, but from scrubbing and rinsing. His love and respect for her mother, Margaret, grew ever stronger. She would repeat as often as she could, “We are in this together, my little pumpkin. And together, we will make it through”. 

Much like Hugh admired the work his parents put to keep them afloat, his siblings admired Hugh. Looking up to their eldest brother with a mix of admiration and awe, the youngest would often follow him around. Eager to copy his big brother, he would ask; “Can I come to work with you, Hughie?”. 

“Maybe when you are older –” was his response, always, hoping that he wouldn’t have to, though. Ruffling his little brother's hair, he would add, “– for now, focus on your school, okay?”

And by 1941, the world as Hugh knew it changed with the Attack on Pearl Harbor, and the occupation and annexation of the Philippines. The United States entered the war, and the call to arms swept through the nation. He was a dockworker, so he could have deferred the draft if his number was called. But that wasn’t Hugh, nor was it the way he was brought up. Now nineteen, he enlisted. And despite his misgivings, his father supported Hugh’s decision. “It's a chance for you to make something of yourself, bud –”, he said. Adding, with a bit of pride and concern mixed together, “ – just come back to us in one piece, alright?”

Chapter II - The Bootcamp

The decision to enlist in the United States Army was a leap of faith, but it was also a pragmatic choice for Hugh. Many young men, shocked by the unexpected attacks on Pearl Harbor, wanted to enlist. And for Hugh, not only was it an opportunity to make a steady income, but also a chance to escape the relentless grind of poverty and nothingness. Maybe a chance to secure a better future for his family. 

Before boarding the train bound for Ft. Benning, Georgia, where the new chapter of his life would eventually start; his father offered his blessing, and her mother offered a tearful farewell, both not knowing if this would be the last time they would ever see him, yet proud of him and of his choices nonetheless.

The boot camp at Fort Benning was both somewhat of a rude awakening, and not, at the same time. The days started before dawn and were filled with relentless drilling, physical training, and the barkings of drill sergeants trying to instil not only the discipline but some sort of fearlessness required for what was to come. Yet Hugh was lucky. He realized the discipline, endurance, and toughness he developed from years of hard labour working for Mister Salvatore, working for his mom scrubbing and rinsing, and working at the docks along with his father, would serve him well. He was no stranger to hard work, and that earned respect from his peers and superiors alike.

One of his first friends in the boot camp was Micky, a wiry kid from Boston. He had a sharp tongue and a massive head. Nicknamed by Hugh as the ‘Sniper's Dream’, they bonded over stories of their tough upbringings, the love they had for their families, and hope for a better future. “We are going to make it through this, Hugh –” Micky would often say when the going got tough, “– just keep your head down, and your feet moving”. 

The gruelling basic training culminated in a series of tests that would push Hugh to his limits. He persevered through the thoughts of his family, the promise he made to his mother that he would make it back, and the encouraging words uttered by Micky the Sniper’s Dream.

And Hugh took the opportunity when it arose to volunteer as a paratrooper. The idea of being part of an elite unit, one that required courage and skill, and one that allowed you to trust blindly to your comrade in arms in the foxhole next to you, appealed to his sense of adventure and to his desire to prove himself. 

Hugh thought boot camp was tough. Airborne School, however, had a whole new level of intensity. The training was much fiercer, it was designed to weed out anyone who couldn’t handle the demands of being a paratrooper after all. He found himself jumping from mock airplanes, learning to navigate during and after a jump, and mastering the art of controlled landings under heavy enemy fire. The fear of jumping for a kid who lived his whole life in a second-story apartment was a formidable barrier, yet he faced it head-on.

His first live jump was a mixture of terror and utter exhilaration. He stood by the door as the wind whipped past him. Their Commanding Officer was clear throughout the training, and reiterated it once before they boarded the plane; “Refuse to jump once we are up in the air, and you are out”. And his heart pounded in his chest the moment he saw the green light. They were above the drop zone, and it was time. He leapt forward without hesitation. The free fall, followed by the jolt from the parachute, opening, it was a sensation like no other. 

As he floated down to the ground, he felt a surge of pride and relief. He had done it. And with four more jumps, going without a hitch, he has earned his Wings. He was a Paratrooper. 

Chapter III - European Detour

The training was training. It could only prepare you so far. Fort Benning, Georgia, where he had his basic training, and Toccoa, Georgia, where he had his Airborne School, were some eight thousand kilometres away from the heart of the battle. So the reality hit Hugh when he and his unit were deployed to England in late 1943. There was some more training to be had in Berkshire and Wiltshire before their somewhat imminent deployment to mainland Europe. It was the real deal now. They were only 350 kilometres away from where they were supposed to land. And it was getting real. 

The days leading up to D-Day were filled with anxiety and anticipation. They knew that they were going to be at the front of the battles that were yet to come. Yes, there were going to be landings at the Beach. But those men were going to have the support they needed if all went well of course. But Hugh and 101st were Paratroopers, tasked to secure key positions behind enemy lines, and they were going to have no one to come to their rescue if shit hit the fan.

He boarded the C-47 Transport Plane along with his unit on the late night of June 5th. Their faces were smeared with camouflage paint, their equipment heavy on their back, their chest, and some dangling under their feet. The journey was dense, the incredibly loud sound of the engines made conversing near impossible. And the Paratroopers in the transport plane weren’t in the mood of idle chit-chat anyway. 

The serenity of the pitch-black English Channel was gone in an instant, now a fleeting memory, when the fragmentation shells from the Anti Aircraft Artilleries started bursting near the transport planes, lightning up the pitch-black French skies. The Anti-Aircraft Searchlights came alive roughly around the same time, hoping to assist the AAA Batteries in shooting down the C-47s, and neutralizing the Paratroopers those transport planes were carrying.

Getting fairly close to the drop zone, the C-47 gave the two-minute warning. Paratroopers raised from their seats, buckling their parachutes to the zipline. Each man checked the one in front of him. They were ready. They prepared the best they could. They also knew that not everyone in this transport plane was going to survive the week, let alone the war. But that wasn’t in their control anyway, so that wasn’t a point to worry about at this point. 

Then the lights flicked to green, and the order to jump was given. The descent was both chaotic and orderly at the same time. Tracer rounds were whistling past him, searchlights were trying to pick up parachuting soldiers flying down to France. The ground was coming up fast, Hugh braced a few seconds before, rolling to his side to minimize injury as he landed. He has arrived, and the fighting has begun. 

The days following the landing were a blur for Hugh. His unit fought fiercely to secure the objectives necessary for the success of Normandy landings. Facing heavy resistance from the Germans, the hedgerows and the fields of Normandy became a deadly battlefield for the 101st. But they held their ground, securing key objectives. Hugh, however, saw his friends fall. But there was no time to mourn. That had to wait. They had a job to do, and failure was not an option. 

A defining moment in Hugh’s time in the 101st was the Battle for Carentan. It was a key town that was at the crossroads linking all the beaches together. They had to liberate Carentan, and the Germans were keen to hold it. 

Hugh was tasked to lead a squad to secure a key bridge near Carentan. It was going to be daring, and it required tactical precision. So he led his Squad, under an enemy barrage of fire, they moved as fast as they dared. He barked orders with adrenaline rushing through his veins, he wasn’t necessarily thinking anymore, but improvising thanks to his life back home and thanks to his training both in Georgia and in the English countryside. And despite the chaos, they were successful. They managed to push the Germans far enough to secure the bridge. It was a hard-fought victory, and one that earned him a commendation for his leadership and bravery. 

Months went by, the lines moved one way or another. The 101st participated in numerous operations across Europe through that time, the bloodiest of which was in the dense forests of Ardennes, during the Siege of Bastogne, part of the Battle of Bulge. Enduring relentless enemy attacks in the thick of the winter with unrelenting bitter cold, the camaraderie of the men of 101st Airborne grew ever stronger with each engagement. 

Surrounded in all directions by the German forces, cut off from supplies, and in the thick of the winter, the 101st Airborne had to hold their ground against overwhelming odds. With daily bombing runs by the Luftwaffe, and constant and unending shelling by surrounding enemy artillery units, Hugh and his unit had no other option but to bunker down and wait for reinforcements. Constant probing attacks by the enemy and lack of supplies took their toll on the men. Medical supplies were low, and so was the food. But given the option to surrender, the Paratroopers laughed, and they laughed once more when they heard Brigadier General Anthony McAuliffe’s response; 

“To the German Commander.

NUTS!

The American Commander.”

Through it all, however, it was the thoughts of his family back in New York, that kept him going. Letters from home were sparse, yet it was a precious connection between him and the life he had left behind in the midst of all this chaos. His mother’s letters were full of encouragement, sharing news of the family and his little siblings. His father was a bit more stoic, yet it felt as heartfelt as her mother’s regardless. And the thought of returning back home to his family, to his siblings – that kept Hugh going even in his darkest moments. 

He had seen and experienced more than he could have ever imagined by the time the war ended in Europe. Liberation of concentration camps, devastation of cities, sheer scale of human suffering. It all left a mark on him. 

He returned back to stateside with a mix of relief, knowing that he had survived the war, relatively unscathed, only a couple of shrapnels into his body and his buttocks, and some heavy heart, as he had lost many friends that he made along the way, who were gone just too soon.