Big Russ and Me

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Contents

INTRODUCTION....................................ix1. My Father's War..............................12. South Buffalo................................213. Respect......................................424. Work.........................................605. Faith........................................756. Food.........................................857. Baseball.....................................988. Fatherhood...................................1199. Sister Kennedy...............................12610. Canisius High School........................15511. Discipline..................................17312. 1968........................................19313. Cars........................................20414. JCU and Law School, Too.....................21915. Daniel Patrick Moynihan.....................23616. Washington..................................25217. Politics....................................27118. Totus Tuus..................................28819. Meet the Press..............................30320. Loss........................................31521. The Bills...................................321EPILOGUE........................................332ACKNOWLEDGMENTS.................................335

Chapter One

"It was a lot tougher for the guys who died."

NOT LONG AGO, I took part in an online conversation hosted by the Washington Post. As I sat at a computer, people around the country sent in questions about Meet the Press and other topics, and I did my best to answer them. Near the end of the hour, somebody asked if there was one individual whom I would especially like to interview. The person who submitted that question was probably expecting me to name an elusive political figure, or perhaps a fascinating character from history, such as Thomas Jefferson, Christopher Columbus, or my first choice, Jesus Christ. But I took the question personally, and answered it immediately and from my heart: more than anyone else, I would like to interview my dad.

Big Russ has never been much of a talker, especially about himself. Part of it is his modesty: talking about himself probably feels like bragging, which he dislikes in other people and goes out of his way to avoid. It's not that he's silent, because Dad is a sociable and friendly guy, and in the right setting, and with people he knows well, you can get him going on any number of topics-politics, baseball, the Buffalo Bills, television, the best kind of hot dogs, and how Canadian beer tastes better when you buy it in Canada. But, like so many men of his generation, he won't tell you much about his life, his thoughts, or his feelings.

When I was a boy, I knew that Dad had been overseas in World War II, and had served in what was then called the Army Air Force. But whenever I asked him about the war, he avoided my questions and tried to change the subject. When I persisted, he would say, "I'm not a hero like those guys in the planes. I stayed on the ground and just did my job."

Every summer, our family used to rent a cottage for a week at Wasaga Beach in Ontario, where Dad, a strong man who loved the water, used to let my sisters and me lie on his back while he swam. One morning, when I was five or six, we were on the beach in our bathing suits when I noticed that Dad had several scars on his back. I had probably seen them before, but this was the first time I really noticed them. When I asked Mom why they were there, she told me that Dad had been injured in a plane crash during the war.

So of course I went over and asked him, "Dad, were you really in a plane crash?"

"Yeah," he said, but the word was barely out of his mouth before he jumped back in the water. Even at that age, I could see that he was running away-or in this case, actually swimming away-from my question.

As the years went on, especially on Memorial Day, when we went to the local cemetery to plant little American flags on the graves of war veterans, I sometimes asked him about the war. Although I desperately wanted to know what had happened, I was careful not to push too hard. It was clear that he didn't want to talk about it, and I imagined that I might feel the same way if something that terrible had happened to me. Every time I asked about the war, he would parcel out another detail or two. One year he said, "Everybody did their job, and I did mine. I was a parachute rigger." Another time, referring to the crash, he said, "It was a foggy day, really bad weather."

When I was in high school, the two of us were in the basement one day when Dad walked over to his desk, opened a drawer, and took out a manila folder. He handed me a yellowed clipping from the October 27, 1944, edition of the Southport Weekly, an English newspaper. The headline read, U.S. BOMBER CRASHES IN FLAMES AT AINSDALE, and the article described the crash of a B-24 Liberator at an air base in England. I read it quickly and zeroed in on the key lines: "The plane, which had been circling round as though preparatory to landing ... somersaulted into a field, immediately bursting into flames. When the plane crashed it broke up, and some of the airmen were thrown clear."

Dad, I realized, had been one of them.

"This is amazing," I said.

He looked at me and said, "It was a tot tougher for the guys who died." Then he took back the clipping and put it away without another word. The conversation was over.

A year or two later, he told me about the Polish kid from Chicago who had saved his life when their plane went down. Dad has no memory of this, but he learned later that when the plane hit the ground, he and several other men had been thrown clear. Dad, who was badly hurt and evidently in shock, had climbed to his feet. With his clothing engulfed in flames, he had started stumbling back toward the burning wreckage. Bullets from the plane's machine guns were bursting in all directions, but Dad was dazed and oblivious to the danger. Billy Suchocki, a friend of Dad's and a fellow passenger on the flight, whose clothes were also on fire, was being helped by two British railway men who had run to the scene of the crash. As they rolled Billy on the ground to suffocate the flames, he pointed to Dad and yelled, "Help him! Help him!" The railway men ran to Dad and pulled him out of further danger.

One Christmas, when I was home from college, I looked up Billy Suchocki's phone number in Chicago. I wanted Dad to be in touch with the man who had rescued him, and I knew he would never make that call on his own. With Dad's permission, I dialed the number and put the two old army buddies on the phone. I heard only Dad's end of the conversation, which was brief and unemotional. They wished each other a Merry Christmas and talked briefly about Red, the dog who went overseas with them, and who returned home with Dad after the war.

After the call, which seemed so casual in view of what had happened, I said, "Dad, this guy saved your life, and you're joking about a dog? Why didn't you thank him for rescuing you?"

Dad looked at me thoughtfully and said, "He knows, and I know." Then he lowered his head. Enough had been said.

Later on, Dad told me a few more details about his experiences during the war, but I still hesitated to ask him about the crash. Years later, when my friend Tom Brokaw published The Greatest Generation...