Against All Odds: The Ray Firmani Story

By Mitchell Mark Topal

This book recounts the history of Raymond A. Firmani – from his humble beginnings as the son of poor Italian immigrants, to earning his wings as a B-17 pilot, completing twenty-five bombing missions and earning the Distinguished Flying Cross, then on to participating fully in family life and a successful career in the aftermath of the war.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Out of the Box Communications, ltd
• Release date: Mar 7, 2018
• ISBN: 9781945604089

Book preview

AGAINST

ALL ODDS

THE RAY FIRMANI STORY

MITCHELL M. TOPAL

2017

AGAINST ALL ODDS

THE RAY FIRMANI STORY

Copyright © 2017 by Mitchell M. Topal

Cover image, Aluminum Overcast, © Pat Speirs.

Used with permission. Available from FineArtAmerica.

All rights reserved. No parts of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without express written permission from the publisher, except for brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

First edition printing 2018

Printed in the United States of America

ISBN: 978-1-945604-08-9

Whether the mission was flown in squadron strength

or in numbers as high as a thousand planes,

the price of survival was cooperation.

—William A. Goss, The Army Air Forces in World War II

Contents

Mapiv

Forewardvii

Prefaceix

Prologuexiii

1 Doughboy’s Son1

2 Growing Pains4

3 Looking Up7

4 Emerging Man15

5 Storm Front Approaching21

6 First Job at Dupont23

7 Reality Check30

8 It’s War!33

9 Who Will Go?37

10 Enlistment39

11 Fear Not What Lies Ahead42

12 Baptism by Barrackers45

13 College Training Detachment57

14 First Flight61

15 Stairway to the Sky64

16 First Solo Flight72

17 The Vibrator76

18 Pedras Negras84

19 Risk Management96

20 Lovebirds102

21 Wings and Disappointment112

22 Last Visit Home115

23 Nuptials in Nebraska120

24 The New Crew128

25 The Tennessee Bomber Boys130

26 Across the Pond137

27 Welcome to the War, Boys!146

28 Crossing the Rubicon157

29 Elaine’s Winter Fall175

30 Lather, Rinse and Repeat177

31 Santa at War184

32 Pissing into the Wind187

33 The Roanoke Magician192

34 New Year 1945200

35 Milk Run203

36 Downtime207

37 Air Medal211

38 Lead Crew213

39 Operation Clarion217

40 Command Deception223

41 London Calling230

42 Devastation at Swinemünde236

43 Away from the War241

44 The Going Gets Tough247

45 Meeting the Jet Age251

46 Above and Beyond258

47 Catastrophe at Parchim268

48 Polecat’s Farewell274

49 The Nation Mourns287

50 Happy Birthday, Hitler297

51 The 26th Mission302

52 The Distinguished Flying Cross308

53 The Flak Home and V-E Day312

54 The Victory Tour316

55 The Human Cost of War319

56 .45 Caliber Bacon323

57 The Flight Home328

58 Family Reunion333

59 91 Degrees of Separation340

Epilogue344

Acknowledgments347

Glossary349

Bibliography353

Index357

FOREWORD

Without the B-17 we may have lost the war.

—General Carl A. Spaatz

Our plane was at 25,000 feet on a bombing run to Hamburg to destroy Germany’s oil refining industry and deal a death blow to the Nazi war machine. As we neared the target, flak from 88mm antiaircraft guns enveloped our formation, perforating the hull of our B-17. Shock waves from shells exploding in close proximity rattled our ship. The rudder stopped responding. We’d been hit in the tail.

Ahead, the sky was black from exploding shells.

A large piece of shrapnel tore through the fuselage only centimeters behind the pilot’s head, careened through the top of the plane, and left a hole big enough for a man to squeeze through. Seconds later we reached the target, dropped twenty 300-pound bombs, then banked and headed for the base, all the while harassed by antiaircraft guns.

The hole in the top of the fuselage caused wind to whip through that section of the ship, blowing papers, maps, and logbooks around as if we were in a tornado. Checking for damage to the wings, I saw a hole in the cowling of number three engine, which was spewing black smoke, and the oil pressure was dropping.

We managed to hold our heading over the North Sea and Helgoland Island. But over the English Channel, number three, running hotter by the minute, began to shudder and shoot flames, and the temperature needle was nearly buried in the redline area.

Nearing base, we dropped a red flare to indicate our ship was in trouble and to get priority to land. Pilot Dick Hinze cut the engine while I pulled the fire suppression lever and feathered the propeller, turning the blades into the wind to reduce drag. A few long minutes later, we touched down without incident.

That was a hell of a mission, Dick said.

Hell? I replied. Today I saw Hell. Hell is five miles over Germany!

Second Lieutenant Ray Firmani, Copilot

Battle of the Bulge, 31 December 1944

Fourth Mission of the Hinze Crew

PREFACE

The idea for this book originated at a Delaware Press Association Holiday Luncheon in December 2014. I was sitting at a table with people I hardly knew. A woman introduced herself as Lynn Maniscalco. After some small talk, we happened on the subject of World War II. Lynn heard the excitement in my voice when I mentioned one of my hobbies was studying and absorbing anything I could about that war.

While growing up, I had been surrounded by men and women who, either through military service or civilian efforts on the home front, had contributed to that great national triumph. Both my father and stepfather had served, as had many uncles and friends of the family. A seaman in the United States Navy, my father had been assigned to a Landing Ship Tank – LST 916 – stationed in the Philippines, preparing for Operation Downfall, the planned invasion of Japan, relinquished when Japan surrendered. My stepfather was an Air Corps communications officer stationed on Tinian in the Northern Mariana Islands. He worked in the air base control tower and witnessed the B-29 Superfortress Enola Gay take off for Japan to drop the first atomic bomb on Hiroshima.

After asking whether I would consider writing a book about the war, Lynn dangled the bait that finally hooked me. I know a gentleman, a close friend, who has an amazing story. She said he was a decorated lead bomber pilot who had flown twenty-five missions over Nazi Germany in a B-17 Flying Fortress, a four-engine heavy bomber that was the workhorse of the Allied heavy bombardment campaign in the European Theater of Operations. Lynn promised to make the introduction. I think after you meet him, she said, you will consider the book idea. She was spot on.

Later that day, Lynn sent an email with contact information for Ray Firmani. Because Ray and most surviving World War II veterans are in their 90s, I felt I had limited time to build a relationship and complete the project. I called Ray right away, introduced myself, and mentioned the possibility of writing the story of his experience in World War II. When he demonstrated great enthusiasm for the book project, I set off to research the war and begin the interview process

Our first meeting took place at Ray’s home in Elsmere, Delaware, on a sunny Saturday in late April 2015. By then we had been communicating by email for some weeks. Ray had sent me a CD with the transcript of his Veteran’s History Project interview as well as dozens of photos and documents beginning with his training days in the United States Army Air Corps¹ and then on through his deployment, including mission logs and strike photos.

Because I wanted him to feel comfortable with me, we sat and talked for a while. Suddenly, Ray unfolded a metal chair, carried it to a tall bookshelf, and said, I want to show you something. Before I could utter a word of warning or offer assistance, he stepped up on the chair with the agility of an acrobat. Barely five foot six, he stretched his right arm up as far as he could and pulled a massive scrapbook from the top shelf. He jumped down from the chair and handed me the album. You’re really gonna like this! he boasted. I had trouble believing he was ninety-three years old.

Ray sat next to me on the sofa and opened the scrapbook. Like H.G. Wells’ time machine, the album transported me seventy years into the past – back to 1945 – at the speed of thought. The treasure trove inside was a revelation. Ray had kept all of his mission logs, strike photos, and dozens of pictures of his days in flight training. He also had saved 1940s-era Air Corps newsletters, training manuals, recruitment and discharge papers, Nazi stamps and currency, some American propaganda pamphlets, and the paperwork for his Distinguished Flying Cross. Ray spent the next two hours flipping through the scrapbook’s contents, explaining everything in detail, and painting a vivid image of his days in the Air Corps. I was riveted.

As we paged through the scrapbook, I was both excited and intimidated. While eager to delve into Ray’s story and begin typing, I felt a huge burden of responsibility to do justice to this approachable, engaging, upbeat, and intelligent man and his remarkable life. It wasn’t long, though, before I made a commitment to Ray to begin what was to become a three-year journey. Over the next weeks and months, Ray and I became close friends.

It became easy to imagine Ray as an intrepid twenty-three-year-old flyer, piloting a B-17 bomber with a crew of ten and a three-ton load of high explosives five miles above enemy territory. He always has been fearless in the face of adversity, never backing down from a challenge. Even when he lost his wife of fifty-six years in 2000, Ray kept going.

Elaine was the love of my life, my soul mate. If it wasn’t for her, he said, I wouldn’t be the man I am today. And what’s funny – or ironic – if it weren’t for Hitler and the war, I’d never have met her.

I recently asked Ray how he stays in such great shape at 96. With a twinkle in his eyes, he replied, I stay healthy because I always keep moving. You can’t hit a moving target.

Few people have experienced a world in utter chaos as were the years leading up to and including World War II. Fewer have the sense of altruism so prevalent among my parents’ generation. Because many of those people, as well as the markers of our industrial past – factories and military installations that once were the backbone of the United States’ war machine – are fading from the landscape, I am reminded that time is my principal adversary. While many World War II veterans survived by beating the odds every day they were in action, they cannot escape the river of time.

Surviving WWII veterans are a tangible link to one of the world’s most significant and life-altering events. They witnessed a war that changed the world so radically – culturally, morally, and politically – that seventy years later, we still live within its shadow. Though continually evolving, today’s geopolitical landscape was forged in the crucible of that epic war. Evil was defeated. Global superpowers were firmly established. Alliances and rivalries were formed that exist to this day.

This book recounts the history of Raymond A. Firmani – from his humble beginnings as the son of poor Italian immigrants, to completing twenty-five bombing missions and earning the Distinguished Flying Cross, then on to participating fully in family life and a successful career in the aftermath of the war. A citizen airman of WWII, Ray risked his life every time he flew a combat mission. His experience during the war was unique, but it also has much in common with that of other veterans. The task before them was simple in concept yet colossal in scale: Rid the world of evil by stopping the Axis powers from levying atrocities on civilization and carrying forth their imperialistic intentions. Altruism reigned when our basic freedoms were openly threatened. Those men – practically boys at the time – and the women who joined them in service to their country, marched bravely into the unknown.

I salute them all.

Mitchell M. Topal

PROLOGUE

In 1920, a year before Ray Firmani was born, the United States Congress passed the National Defense Act. It reorganized the Army of the United States into three components: the standing Regular Army, the National Guard, and the Organized Reserves. It also added three new branches, including the Air Service, which was separated from the Signal Corps.²

The debate about air power’s role in national defense commenced soon thereafter. The Air Service began to threaten a number of military domains as it took shape. Champions of air power insisted that the new technology would change the face of warfare.

The two schools of thought that emerged on the strategic use of air power caused a rift between the Army and the Air Service. The Army’s more traditional position relegated aviation’s role to limited forward observation and fire support – as done successfully during World War I. The Air Service largely countenanced the theory of Italian air-power advocate General Giulio Douhet, who proposed heavy strategic bombing to cripple the will of the people as well as a foe’s industrial capacity, transport infrastructure, communication, and government.³

Strategic bombing’s leading champion and a proponent of Douhet’s theory, Brigadier General William Billy Mitchell, was a larger-than-life character determined to prove air power could stop an enemy navy far out at sea. Mitchell convinced the Army to stage a series of tests to prove the potential of using heavy bombers to destroy warships.⁴

In demonstrations of air power’s effectiveness against sea power in 1921, Air Service pilots blasted away at two World War I German warships captured during what then was known only as The Great War or The War to End All Wars. Both the cruiser Frankfurt and the battleship Ostfriesland were sent to the bottom in short order. Despite the success of the experiments, top Navy brass clung to the belief that the nation’s main line of defense was its fleet.

Two years later, a series of bomb runs, dropping 2,000-pound bombs from 10,000 feet, were ordered on three obsolete Navy cruisers. Bombers of the day, notoriously underpowered, struggled to get up to altitude under the weight of the shells. The bombs nevertheless hit their marks; the Alabama and the Virginia sank to the depths while the New Jersey was severely damaged.⁵

Because of these successes – and a large dose of professional jeal- ousy on the part of his superiors – General Billy Mitchell was adulated by the rank and file but reviled by the Army and the Navy top brass. In 1924, Mitchell predicted a Japanese air attack in the Hawaiian Islands. His forecast was dismissed as exaggerated and unsound. His out- spoken behavior and open criticism of prevailing aerial doctrine resulted in reduction to the permanent rank of colonel in 1925. Later that year, he was famously court-martialed, found guilty of insubordination, and suspended from rank, command, and duty, with the forfeiture of all pay and allowances for five years.⁶ In the wake of the verdict and Mitchell’s resignation from the Army in February 1926, the vindictiveness of those defending the status quo temporarily trumped the enthusiasm of those who sought to shake it up. But over the next ten years, until his death, Mitchell continued to speak and write about the necessity of military air power and a separate air force. His foresight ultimately was vindicated, and today he is known as the father of the United States Air Force.

Throughout the 1920s and 1930s, the geopolitical landscape in Europe and Asia was changing rapidly. Japan and Germany were threatening the Pacific Rim and Europe respectively by pursuing aggressive, imperialistic courses, eventually taking over their neighboring countries. Even more troubling was the Anti-Comintern Pact, signed by the Imperial government of Japan and the government of Germany in November 1936. The pact promised the two would remain cooperative, sharing both war materiel and technology against the Communistic International organization, whose ultimate goal was not only to bring about disintegration of existing nation-states but also to establish worldwide communism.⁷

Japan, an island nation with limited natural resources, needed fossil fuel, metals, and minerals to power her industrial growth. Its solution was to occupy vast swaths of China, Indochina, and other resource-rich Asian countries. After withdrawing from the League of Nations (the forerunner to the United Nations) and announcing that it no longer would abide by the Washington Naval Treaty, Japan began to exercise a policy of active isolationism and military expansion.

Germany, downtrodden and reeling from its defeat in World War I and facing an economic calamity, was ripe for political change. Adolph Hitler, a megalomaniacal yet charismatic dictator, began to amass political clout among Germany’s proletariat who were desperate for change and the restoration of national pride.

The Roosevelt administration paid close attention. Stymied by a deep-seated sense of isolationism among the electorate, President Roosevelt walked a fine line between assisting America’s European allies directly threatened by Hitler’s actions and a Congress that was uncooperative and unwilling to get involved. On the other side of the globe, Japan was aggressively expanding while the United States was making a vain effort to find a diplomatic solution to the unrest.

As global threats mounted during the 1930s, the Air Services grew in both strength and organizational structure. General "Hap’ Arnold was named one of three Deputy Chiefs of Staff of the Army. His bailiwick was the Air Corps, which in June 1941 became the US Army Air Forces (USAAF), a semi-independent branch of the Army.

CHAPTER 1

DOUGHBOY’S SON

Ray Firmani’s parents became engaged long before they ever met. His father, Alexander, was an Italian who immigrated to the United States in the early 1900s and fought in the US Army in World War I. While slogging through the European trenches with other doughboys,⁸ he was the victim of a German chlorine gas attack.⁹ Barely able to breathe, Alexander was evacuated from the battlefield by ambulance along with the other survivors. He recovered sufficiently in an Allied field hospital to be shipped back to the States, eventually returning to his hometown of Camden, New Jersey. There he convalesced and was able to return to work, but he had sustained permanent lung damage and continued to suffer the effects of chlorine poisoning the rest of his life.

As the Jazz Age began and America launched into an era of unprecedented growth and prosperity during the 1920s, ordinary citizens, including Alexander, were swept along on a tide of hope for the future. The prospect of marriage was pleasing, and through friends and relatives, he had the good fortune to become acquainted with Elsie Brandi, a lovely young woman who still lived in Italy. The long-distance relationship, approved by both families, was the tradition among insular, close-knit ethic communities of the day.

Not permitted to journey to the United States until the young man proposed and both families agreed to the marriage, Elsie came to know Alexander via mail. They shared photographs and stories with increasing frequency and sparked such interest and desire in each other that, in 1920, the young woman – with assurances from her brother, who had immigrated to Wilmington, Delaware, some years earlier – finally was allowed to become betrothed and then travel to the US to meet Alexander.

Like most Europeans coming to America, Elsie traveled by ocean liner to New York City and was ferried to Ellis Island for processing. Her parents had emphasized she must never lose her travel documents or give them to anyone. Without them, she would not be allowed to enter the country. It is not surprising then, that when an official demanded her documents, she refused to hand them over. Having hidden the papers in her bosom, Elsie gave the man a look of stubborn resolve and shouted, No, no, no!

Because she didn’t understand a word of English or the role of the customs official, a small kerfuffle ensued. Hearing the commotion, a translator spoke to her in Italian. Signorina, siamo Stati Uniti agenti personalizzati. Dovete darci i documenti per entrare in questo paese. (Miss, we are United States Customs Agents. You must give us your papers to enter this country.)

Elsie discreetly extracted the papers and handed them to the official. Ah, ora capisco. Mi dispiace molto (Ah, now I understand. I am very sorry).

After processing, she boarded a ferry to the Communipaw rail terminal in Jersey City where she was met by Alexander’s brother, Emil. They boarded a train to Philadelphia, then ferried back across the Delaware River to Camden, their final destination.

Inside their modest home, the entire Firmani family had gathered to greet Elsie and witness the couple’s introduction. Instantly smitten, Elsie married Alexander soon thereafter. A year later, on 19 September 1921, Elsie gave birth to their first child, Raymond Alexander Firmani.

In later years, Elsie described the first meeting with Alexander to Ray: Your father was so handsome – even more than in his pictures. He looked like Rudolf Valentino!

CHAPTER 2

GROWING PAINS

Settling into their new life in New Jersey, Alexander and Elsie Firmani worked hard to provide for their children. Alexander, an experienced carpenter, worked for a construction firm. Elsie, who stayed at home, gave birth to Ray’s brothers: Dominic, nicknamed Mimi, and Cipriano, nicknamed Chip.

Ray’s earliest memory is of fashioning a toy airplane out of Popsicle sticks and a rubber band when he was just shy of five years old. He proudly showed it to his Uncle Emil who laughed and asked, "Dove si trova il motore? (Where is the motor?). That was the beginning of Ray’s lifelong fascination with airplanes.

Alexander continued to suffer from the chlorine gas attack. With impaired lungs beginning to fail, he frequently coughed up blood and soon found it difficult to breathe. In 1926, when Ray was only five, Alexander died, leaving his beloved wife to raise three children alone.

Unable to afford the rent in Camden, Elsie and the children temporarily moved into her brother-in-law’s home nearby. The living situation soon grew crowded and untenable, and Elsie had no choice but to move the family across the Delaware River to live with her brother in the rapidly growing port city of Wilmington.

The largest city in Delaware, Wilmington enjoyed industrial-era prosperity in the 1920s. Famous for its manufacturing sector, Wilmington was home to E. I. du Pont de Nemours and Company, the chemical and research giant, as well as to a thriving railcar and shipbuilding industry along the Christina River that slowly wends its way to the Delaware River. The prospect of employment attracted substantial immigration from abroad, and pockets of Irish, Germans, Italians, eastern European Jews, and Poles developed around the city.

The family easily assimilated into the parish of Saint Anthony of Padua Roman Catholic Church, the pillar of the surrounding Italian community, and Elsie found work quickly. A talented seamstress, she performed piecework and held a full-time job in a textile mill as well. But her wage was barely livable, and working conditions were hazardous. With a heavy financial burden and facing yet another crowded living situation, Elsie soon knew her only option was to remarry.

Through the family, Elsie was introduced to Carmen Cuinci. They dated for a short while, and less than a year after the loss of Alexander, her dashing first love, she felt compelled to accept Carmen’s proposal of marriage. Over the next six years, Elsie bore three more children: Sandy, Albert and Joe. Ray remembers his home atmosphere as a hub of activity. With five brothers and a sister trailing in his wake, friends always were coming and going.

The Great Depression set in three years after Elsie wed Carmen. Food was scarce, but the young mother knew how to stretch a dollar, and the children rarely went hungry.

When Ray was old enough, Elsie enrolled him in a public elementary school. He was a fair student, eager to learn, but he was socially awkward. Because his parents were Italian immigrants and he was first-generation American, he felt different from the other students at an age when fitting in is paramount. One day, when Ray arrived home from school, his Mother started speaking to him in Italian. Frustrated, Ray put his hands over his ears and shouted, Speak English! Speak English! Speak English! He suffered his quota of ridicule from other kids, but having been taught the value of education by his parents, he persevered.

In the depression years of the 1930s, few people could afford an automobile, so the empty streets regularly were used for play. When a car or truck happened by every ten or fifteen minutes, the children rushed to the side of the street then back again like a raucous ocean tide. The games quickly resumed and often were played into the night. From the steps of their small but neat row houses, mothers and fathers called at the top of their voices – sometimes in Italian, sometimes in English – for their children to come home.

As Ray grew more confident and popular among his schoolmates, things spiraled downward at home. His stepfather, Carmen Cuinci, an alcoholic, wasn’t a happy drunk and became abusive toward Elsie and the children. It wasn’t long before husband and wife separated, but they remained married, because divorce – even though a couple was unhappy – was condemned by the Catholic Church. Those who chose divorce over an intolerable marriage of convenience often were excommunicated by the church.

CHAPTER 3

LOOKING UP

Wilmington grew as a steady influx of immigrants came to the city looking for work in the shipyards and factories. The city struggled to meet the growing demand for public services and built new schools to accommodate the ever-expanding population. Ray attended Public School No. 11, a dingy building that lacked the safety of fire exits. Eventually, New Castle County condemned the old school. The property was sold to St. Anthony’s parish and absorbed into their rapidly growing campus. In 1932, the Charles B. Lore Elementary School, a new building in the Collegiate Gothic style, with a four-story central tower, battlements, and a steeply pitched roof, replaced old School House 25. When construction was completed in the new location on West Fourth Street, Ray and his classmates were transferred to the handsome brick building with all of the latest amenities.¹⁰

Ray remembers cruising the creaking wooden floors that lined the aisles of the local five and dime store after school one day and discovering the hobby department. "From one set of shelves, as though waiting just for me, stacks of balsa-wood airplane kits beckoned. I dug through my pockets to count my allowance money and was just able to scrape together enough pennies to cover the ten-cent price tag of the least expensive model. I made the purchase, then hurried home as fast as I could to open the kit. Inside, I found plans, instructions, wooden airplane parts – including the propeller – and a large rubber band. I immediately began to lay out the parts and read the instructions.

A couple of days later, with the pieces glued together and set, I was ready to test fly my new balsa biplane. I spun the propeller in reverse direction with my index finger until the rubber band was taut and filled with knots. Then, with my arm high in the air, I gave it a gentle nudge. It flew!

Hardly able to contain his delight, Ray picked up the plane, re-wound the rubber band, and flew it again, just to be sure it wasn’t a fluke. Though roughly built, it flew straight and true, landing gently on the ground when the rubber band had fully unwound.

Ray could hardly wait for his next week’s allowance. The five and dime boasted a great variety of balsa models, and I wanted to build and fly them all. By the time I graduated from middle school, I had amassed a fine collection of flyable balsa scale models and was proud to have learned the principles of basic aerodynamics and flight in the process.

Looking through the funny papers one day, Ray noticed an ad for a punch-board raffle. He could sell chances to contestants to win a Univex camera and earn money and prizes for himself. I sent away for the punch-board, assembled it, and sold all the chances, each represented by a punch hole with a name placed randomly behind it. When I punched a hole to see who had won the camera, the local butcher was revealed as the winner.

Ray immediately set out for the butcher’s shop with the punch board and the camera. As always, the butcher was busily trimming and wrapping meat for the horde of customers waiting in line. About to burst with excitement, Ray finally caught his attention.

You won the raffle! Ray shouted over the din.

Won what? asked the butcher.

A new Univex camera!

The butcher was less than impressed. A what? A camera? What in the world would I ever need that for? Unless it slices meat, I don’t want it. Why don’t you keep it, son? The butcher turned back to the counter and continued to wrap and tie neat parcels of chicken, pork, and beef.

Ambivalent, Ray put the camera under his arm and walked home. At first, he was more than a little put out by the butcher’s reaction, but he had some money in his pocket from the sale of the raffle chances, and he had gained a new camera by default. What he didn’t know was that the camera was about to change his life in ways he never could have imagined.

One Friday afternoon near the end of the school year, Ray was finishing up an assignment when the school bell rang, signaling the end of the day. He handed the completed paper to his teacher and walked the long hallway to his locker. Across the hall, an older friend, Tuffy Thompson – an active kid with a devil-may-care attitude – called Ray’s name.

Hey, Tuffy how are ya? Ray responded as they stowed their books.

When the boys stepped into the warm afternoon sunshine, Ray noticed Tuffy eyeing the outside of the school building. Hey, Ray, I got an idea. Meet me here tomorrow. We’ll have a lot of fun.

Whatever Tuffy had in mind probably would involve something daring. The intrigue appealed to Ray’s adventurous side, and he accepted the offer without hesitation.

Sure thing, Tuffy. What time?

How about four?

Great. See you then.

Saturday afternoon, his chores completed, Ray asked his mother if he could go out for a while.

Of course, Raymond. But I’m making some nice linguini with clams I bought at the market this morning, so be home by six for supper.

I will, Ma. See you later! He rushed out the door and ran toward school.

Ray found Tuffy sitting on the sidewalk in front of the ornate main entrance. Cut into the base of the stone surround of the immense two-story oriel window over the front door, he couldn’t help but see the words – in elegant bas relief letters – Charles B. Lore School.

Goading Ray to follow, Tuffy walked to the corner of the building where a square copper drain pipe ran up to the gutter that hung below the high-peaked, slate roof. Like a monkey, Tuffy began to shimmy up the pipe.

No, Tuffy! What happens if we get caught?

C’mon, Ray. Don’t be chicken! he yelled when half way to the top. You can do it! There’s no one here but the janitor.

Remembering when Tuffy broke his arm but was out the very next day playing tennis with his arm in a cast, Ray shook his head, shrugged his shoulders, and reluctantly followed, alternately moving his arms and legs upward in small increments. When they reached the top, Tuffy grabbed hold of the rain gutter and, in an acrobatic move that could have resulted in a disastrous fall to the pavement far below, swung himself up onto the steep roof. Ray carefully negotiated the gutter and climbed onto the roof, duplicating Tuffy’s every move. Like alpine mountaineers, the boys clawed their way to the summit. Then, straddling the peak, they crawled laterally until they were lined up with a small gable about fifteen feet below them.

When Ray got up his nerve, he lifted his head and shifted his gaze from the rooftop. Suddenly, he felt like a king on the ramparts of his castle taking in the view of his wide-spread domain. The Delaware River shimmered to the east between New Jersey’s western shore and the Wilmington skyline, and to the southwest, he could see all the way to the Christina River and the smoggy shipyards that lined its banks.

C’mon, Ray. Let’s go. Tuffy’s voice broke the spell, and holding the roof’s peak for support, Tuffy flipped onto his back and let go. Trapped somewhere between awe and terror, Ray watched as his pal slid off the roof and landed perfectly on the protruding gable.

Whoa, Tuffy! I don’t think I can do that, Ray exclaimed. His racing heart seemed about to burst from his chest, and his limbs began to tremble.

C’mon, Ray. How else are we gonna get down from here? You can do it!

Ray figured it was more than forty feet from the top of the roof to the ground. If he missed, he might not survive, or could be crippled for life. He mustered every bit of courage, crossed himself, and took a leap of faith.

Using his hands and feet to slow his precipitous slide, Ray landed right next to Tuffy. Ragged breaths followed by slow exhalations began to calm his jangled nerves.

Below them, a large courtyard featured a small, single-story extension of the school that was used as a greenhouse by the science department. Tuffy climbed off the gable and, holding onto the rain gutter, dropped onto the roof of the greenhouse. Ray followed suit and landed beside him.

Almost there, Ray. Let’s jump down.

The boys hung from the edge of the greenhouse roof and dropped to the ground. Suddenly, a door swung open on the opposite side of the courtyard, and the custodian ran out waving his finger in the air.

What do you boys think you’re doing? You come here right now so I can call your parents. You’re in a world of trouble!

The young scamps glanced at each other. They knew they had the jump on the janitor but would have to climb over an eight-foot chain-link fence to get out of the courtyard.

Let’s go, said Ray. The boys ran as fast as they could and jumped onto the chain-link fence. After climbing up and over the four-story school, the fence was a cinch. They scrambled over it in seconds.

You boys get down offa that fence right now! The janitor’s words barely made it over the fence before the fleet-footed boys hit the sidewalk running.

Giddy with laughter, Ray said, I can’t believe we got away with that crazy prank.

Yeah, me neither said Tuffy. When the janitor came after us, I thought we were done for.

An old man can’t catch up to the likes of us, Ray crowed. See you at school on Monday.

See ya, Ray.

A few minutes later, Ray wandered up his front steps and into the living room to find his mother darning a pair of socks.

Raymond! You are dirty, and you’ve torn your shirt. How did that happen? Elsie was not pleased.

Sorry, Ma. I guess I caught it on a fence.

She gave him a suspicious look. All right. Go upstairs and take a bath before supper. And bring me that shirt. I will fix it for you.

Ray did as he was told, and Elsie knew better than to inquire about her son’s antics.

I ragazzi saranno ragazzi, she muttered to herself in Italian as Ray climbed up the stairs. Boys will be boys.

In his youth, Ray never shied away from a fight, especially when it meant protecting one of his younger brothers. He faced antagonism with fearlessness, threats with swift action, and left behind a trail of bloodied noses.

Bullies seem to pick on smaller foes, Ray said, and it was no different for me. We Firmani boys weren’t as big as most of the other boys, so the only way to get through those years was to fight back and show that you were not an easy target. It may have been the hard times and the frustration from the Great Depression, but quarrels often were solved in a pugnacious manner."

One late-summer day, Ray and his brother Chip were climbing trees at the Woodlawn Park playground across the street from Lore School. Typically filled with children who came to play on the swings and slides, the park was rimmed with huge sycamore and sweetgum trees. The more daring youngsters climbed the trees to gather monkey balls, spiny seed pods about the size of a golf ball and weighing about as much. Like monkeys, the kids populated the trees to stage wars by throwing the seed pods at each other. The pods were heavy enough to do some damage, causing bruises and an occasional black eye.

Chip was laughing and having fun in the monkey ball wars when an older kid began to throw the balls at him with accuracy and velocity. Chip started to climb down from his tree, ducking and bobbing, trying to avoid the barrage. The pods pummeled him, and he cried out. Ray instantly recognized Chip’s yelps and dutifully ran to his aid.

Hey knock it off! He’s my brother, Ray yelled and extended an arm to help Chip out of the tree.

Oh, yeah? You wanna make somethin’ of it?

The taunts angered Ray, but when the tyrant started tossing monkey balls at his head, that was the only excuse Ray needed to take action.

When Chip’s tormentor climbed down, Ray grabbed him by the ankles and, blood boiling, yanked him out of the tree. The ruffian hit the ground with a thud Ray could feel through his shoes. When the bully, shaken and angry, jumped to his feet and assumed a fighting stance, Ray recognized him as part of a gang from a neighborhood called Ghost City. He was much bigger than Ray, who knew he had only one chance to land a single effective blow before the ruffian beat him to a pulp.

Ray laughed when he remembered the incident and the outcome. "I drew back my right fist, let go with everything I had, and socked the bully on the bridge of his nose, causing him to stumble and fall backward. Before the kid could recover, I grabbed Chip by the arm, and we two boys ran home lickety split.

I realized if I went back to that playground, the bully or his friends would beat the crap out of me. I didn’t go back to that park for the whole summer! Ironically, years later, that bully became one of the city’s police detectives.

The Firmanis required a lot of milk – at least a couple of gallons a week, which they purchased for their large family at the Delamore Dairy, a city milk processor and purveyor on Lancaster Avenue between Lincoln and Scott Streets. Delamore sold skim milk at pennies a quart, which shoppers purchased