Better now than later

His name is Rocco Risucci. Rocco R. Risucci, Jr.

On a crisp October morning in 1953 he got into his car and drove away from my Cleveland, Ohio home heading for his in Rome, N.Y. As I waved goodbye I had no idea that we would not be in contact with one another again for nearly 56 years.

Rocco, a rather short Italian, was a barber. He was the son of a barber as was his older brother. It was in their blood. Also he was my buddy.

I met Rocco back in early '52 when the two of us along with thousands of others were sent to Korea to fight in the "campaign." Rocco and I ended up in the same barracks in Pusan as "grunts" at the very lowest rung of the 5th Air Force's hierarchy ladder. We arrived at the airbase late one evening, were told to drop our duffle bags in this barracks full of unruly looking GIs, loaded on the back of a 6x6 truck, hauled out to a flight line lined with bombers, introduced to a sergeant who told us to start loading bombs, whatever they were; on airplanes designated A26, whatever that meant.

It was a nippy moonless evening. Puffs of chilled breaths were highlighted by the eerie lighting cast by the headlights of idling trucks and weapons carriers. As Rocco and I tried to make sense out of the whole surreal scene one of the "older" guys crushed his lit cigarette on this mass of metal we learned later was a live 500-pound bomb. Welcome to wartime Korea.

For the next 10 or 11 months or so Rocco and I became experts in the handling of bombs and machine guns and ammunition, but on that first dark night as we tried to be as unobtrusive as possible we quickly formed a friendship that for no other reason was necessary for mutual preservation.

A whole different life

The bunks we were given after work were next to one another, nearest to the door. Actually they were furthest from the pot-bellied stove. But that was the best new guys could expect. In a later move we were relocated to another airbase for a few months where we lived in tents. By this time we were old hands so we got to decide where we wanted to bunk.

When our tour of duty in the combat zone was over and a bunch of us were rotated back stateside, Rocco and I were both sent to an air field in Lake Charles, La.

We had come back from Korea on a troop ship that landed in California. From there we took a train back east. It was my last real train ride and it was terrific. As Rocco said in a recent e-mail, "I regret I didn't keep a log of each day spent in the service." Amen. Somewhere en route we parted company. I got off at Cleveland and he went on to New York. Near the end of that leave I took another train to Rome to meet his family. From Rome we drove in his convertible down to Lake Charles where for the rest of our truncated enlistment we used all of the prowess we picked up in Korea to avoid being assigned to anything meaningful.

The Korean War ended in July 1953. Since bomb loaders are not in high demand when there is no military conflict the Air Force declared us expendable and we were given the option of leaving the service on what was referred to as a "Convenience of the Government" discharge. In effect we were laid off and we headed to our respective homes.

Making up time

Off and on I've tried to find Rocco through the Internet, but with no success, until last week; I found him on Facebook. He is alive and well and married (for the past 53 years) has five children and is retired and living outside Sacramento, Calif.

Since we've connected, we've been sharing stories, photos and reminiscing. Although Ruth laughs over the fact that what Rocco remembers and how he remembers things happening do not always agree with mine. Rocco says our real memories must really be buried deep within our brains.

Still these past few days have been fun. Any veteran will tell you that the bonds made while in the service are often as strong as those existing between relatives.