The Path I Walked

By Richard Cacace

Richard Cacace wanted to leave a chronicle of his life to his sons and spoke to them about the idea. They told him to do it on two conditions: first, tell the truth and, second, tell it all-the good and the bad.

This book was written as a record of the memorable moments of his first twenty-five years. During that period, his life seemed to be a great roller-coaster ride. His life until he was twenty years old seemed like the long upward climb toward the highest point in the ride. Suddenly, he came crashing down to the lowest point in his life. It took almost four years to achieve another high point again. Pride in his achievements made the writing go quickly. When he came to the skeletons in his closet, he had to force himself to open the door and let them out. He wrote things about himself that no one knew. As a result, he felt a sense of relief for having done so.

He tells about his time in the US Marine Corps, where he was filled with a renewed sense of pride that helped him climb out of the abyss into which he had fallen. It taught him to value people not by their color or nationality but by their effort and desire. Vietnam gave him the desire to live again. There were incidents where he should have been killed but walked away without a scratch. There were incidents where he was at the edge of his sanity and someone stepped in to keep him from doing something that would have destroyed his life. Vietnam helped simplify the equation of the relationship of people to people in his eyes. They needed one another at a crucial time and didn't care whether they were White, Black, Hispanic, or Asian. It also taught him that in each of us, there is a battle raging between good and evil and, if we are not careful, the evil can win. Go back with him to the early 1950s and walk the path he walked.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: May 12, 2021
• ISBN: 9781662426889

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The Path I Walked

Richard Cacace

Copyright © 2021 Richard Cacace

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING, INC.

Conneaut Lake, PA

First originally published by Page Publishing 2021

Copyright © 1995 by Richard Cacace

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form of by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Author, except where permitted by law.

Library of Congress, United States Copyright Office TXU 690-592 Effective date of registration May 23, 1995

ISBN 978-1-6624-2687-2 (pbk)

ISBN 978-1-6624-2688-9 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

The Early Years

Pre-Adolescent Years

NYMA Freshman Year

NYMA Sophomore Year

NYMA Junior Year

Columbian Preparatory School

NYMA Senior Year

Summer, 1961

US Air Force Academy Freshman Year

Summer, 1962

US Air Force Academy—Sophomore Year

Summer, 1963

US Air Force Academy—Junior Year

Summer, 1964

US Air Force Academy Senior Year

Boot Camp, US Marine Corps

Advanced Infantry Training, Camp Pendleton, California

Staging Battalion, Camp Pendleton, California

C Company, Da Nang, Vietnam

H&S Company, Da Nang, Vietnam

Phu Bai, Vietnam

Dong Ha, Vietnam

Welcome Home

Edson Range, Camp Pendleton, California

Discharge

The Final Chapter

To my loving wife, Carole, whose care and support since the day of our marriage has been the greatest gift in my life.

To my four sons, Richard Jr., David, Darren, and Michael, who urged me to write this story provided I tell the truth and the whole story.

To my father Louis, who had so much of an impact on my life and who always made it so difficult to say thank you.

To my daughter-in-law Cristiane who helped me get this into an acceptable electronic submission.

Prologue

Since my father passed away in December of 1987, I thought about what kind of person he was, why he was the way he was, why he did the things he did, and why we always seemed to be at odds with each other. I couldn’t find the answer. The more I thought about it, the more I realized that I really didn’t know him very well. What I knew about him seemed always to be secondhand or through the eyes of others, which in hindsight appeared skewed and biased by their own relationships with him. I knew nothing of his childhood, his desires, his successes and failures. What a terrible shortcoming on my part, and what a waste of a relationship. I promised myself that I would leave a chronicle of my life to my sons and spoke to them about my idea. Two of them, my oldest son, Richard Jr., and my third son, Darren, told me to do it on two conditions: first, that I tell the truth and, second, that I tell it all—the good and the bad.

This book was written as a record of the memorable moments of my first twenty-five years. During that period, my life seemed to be a great roller-coaster ride. We all have ups and downs on a regular basis, but my life, until I was twenty years old, seemed like the long upward climb toward the highest point in the ride. Suddenly, for about six months, I came crashing down to the lowest point in my life. When I reached the bottom, it took almost four years to achieve another high point again.

As I progressed through the scenario, I found myself reliving the events as I wrote about them. Pride in my achievements made the writing go quickly. When I came to the skeletons in my closet, I had to force myself to be honest, to open the door and let them out. I had kept things inside me for so long that it was hard to put them down on paper objectively. But put them down I did, writing them and then rewriting them until they resembled some form of the truth. I had to write things that no living person knew about me. But write them I did, and as a result, I feel a sense of relief for having done so.

When I wrote about the worse times in my life, I cried. When I wrote about a near suicide at the age of twenty, I was sick at how low I had fallen, nearly ending a life that had not even begun yet.

When I wrote about my time in the Marine Corps, I was filled with a renewed sense of pride in one of the greatest fighting units in the history of our country. I knew what it did for me and how it helped me climb out of the abyss into which I had fallen. It taught me to value a person not by his color or nationality but by his effort and desire.

When I wrote about Vietnam, I experienced the adrenaline coursing through my body as I thought about some of the harrowing times. I relived the frustration, the sadness, the anger, and the satisfaction of having done a difficult job at a difficult time. Vietnam was my salvation, and it gave me the desire to live again. I am convinced that I am alive today because God was with me. There are incidents where I should have been killed, but I walked away without a physical scratch. There are incidents where I was at the edge of my sanity and someone stepped in to keep me from doing something that would have destroyed my life. Vietnam taught me about real faith in God, but it would cost me my interest in the outward manifestation of religious ceremonies that I came to resist and avoid upon my return. Vietnam helped to simplify the equation of the relationship of people to people in my eyes. We needed one another at a crucial time, and we didn’t care whether we were White, Black, Hispanic, or Asian. Vietnam also taught me that in each of us there is a battle raging between good and evil and, if we are not careful, the evil can win. I know we have in us a demon, which, if not checked, can escape and destroy us. In the wrong place, at the wrong time, the worst in our character can surface. It is frightening to know what we can be capable of regardless of our upbringing and training.

So, I invite you to join me in my story. Come back with me to the early 1950s and walk my path. It was the path I chose and course I followed.

Part 1

1951–1961

Chapter 1

The Early Years

I don’t remember when I first became cognizant of my surroundings as a young boy. My memories are many and often mixed up. Some things that I recall may not be chronologically in order, but they all blend into the picture of my background. They all had some part to play in my attitudes, my perspective, my recollections, and my feelings with regard to who I am today.

I was born to Louis and Catherine Cacace on September 2, 1943. My first memories seem to be of 55 School Street, Yonkers, New York. The neighborhood was a mixed one with predominantly Italian, many of whom were first generation, and Black Americans, known at that time as Coloreds.

Around the corner from our apartment building was Dante’s Bar, owned by Dante Cacace, my father’s brother. The bar had a back door that led into an area where there were two boccie courts and a yard where tables could be set up for eating and picnicking as the case might be. The area also wrapped around four in-line garages that faced the rear of our apartment building. I remember a grotto with a small icon of the Blessed Mother there also.

Toward the center of the yard was a giant old maple tree that provided shade to the area, making it a lovely place to spend a warm afternoon. Not far from it was a cherry tree that grew adjacent to the garages behind our apartment building and hung over the end of the left garage bay. A second rear door, one that egressed from the bar’s kitchen, opened directly into the lower yard of the apartment building. So you see, the bar became somewhat part of the lives of the children of the Cacace family by virtue of its proximity and also because it was owned and operated by our uncles, Dante and Phil Cherry Spinella (husband to my father’s older sister Theresa).

The backyard was my world and safe haven. Access to the yard was through a driveway that ran from School Street along the left side of the apartment building into an open turnaround area in front of the garages directly behind the building. From this lower yard, we could get into the upper yard by going up a few concrete steps to the left where the boccie courts were directly behind the bar. The upper yard, wrapping around the rear of the garages, provided an area where my uncle Cherry used to have a large vegetable garden. In the late 1940s, my father built a chicken coop on the edge of the property next to this garden where we raised chickens and even a few ducks.

Directly across from 55 School Street was the home of the Monchi family, and directly to the right of it was an empty lot called Miller’s Lot. This plot of land was used to store some trucks on the flat front area, and I recall that there were a couple of goats that grazed on the sharply inclined grassy rise at the back of the lot. This land was to play an important part in my young life as I grew up in that neighborhood.

With the exception of the apartment house where all the Coloreds lived, the area was basically an Italian neighborhood where one might describe our location as being on the outer fringe. As you walked up School Street passing Dante’s Bar on the right and the Colored’s apartment on the left, you came to Park Hill Avenue. When you reached this street, you now entered the main block of the local Italian community. If you turned right, you headed toward New Main Street, and if you turned left, you headed uphill toward Waverly, Linden, and Oak Streets, all of which ran parallel to School Street and all of which resembled minor arteries feeding into the aorta of the local Italian community. Just above Waverly Street stood the Church of Our Lady of Mount Carmel, a beautiful but aging little sanctuary in the bustling neighborhood. It seemed to my young eyes at the time to be a basilica and the center of our Roman Catholic religion. The fact that Italian was the spoken language made it even more mystifying to me. First, the mass was said in Latin, and then the homily would be said in Italian. How strange a world it seemed and how far above me and my limited ability to understand.

Once a year during the summer, Mt. Carmel Church would become the center of great excitement—the Italian feast. From School Street to Linden Street, filling both sides of Park Hill Avenue would spring up from nowhere these tents and sidewalk vendors selling every conceivable type of southern Italian cuisine, typical carnival games, and sidewalk groupings of Italians of all ages. The most amazing thing to me was that everyone seemed to know everyone else. I, however, knew very few of the people by name, but they all seemed to know me. It was a great feeling, a safe feeling, a sense of belonging which would erode as the years went by and time and distance would take its toll.

The main attraction of the feast was the procession of the Madonna. This procession would start at the church proceeding down the hill slowly and to the strains of music played by local Italians in a marching band that I cannot remember seeing at any other time except during that procession. People would go up to the icon of the Madonna, which would have hundreds of ribbons streaming from it, and pin money onto the streamers. Many, I was sure, gave in true respect to Our Lady of Mount Carmel. Unfortunately, as I grew older and became more cynical of things around me, I realized that it was also an opportunity to demonstrate one’s position to others by just how much was being pinned on those ribbons and by how much of a show accompanied the act. Nevertheless, it was a grand experience while growing up.

Not far from my house were several large movie theaters. Two that stand out in my mind are the RKO Proctors and Loews, both of which were located on South Broadway. These theaters were not like the ones that our children and we attend today. No, these were magnificent structures. Each had front lobbies that were huge enough to contain two or three of today’s smaller mundane theaters. These theaters weren’t only for showing movies but also for live performances. I can’t imagine young children today wanting to leave the movie to go to the bathroom and delaying their return to the movie. Yet I remember leaving just to roam around the large lobbies and being so impressed by the architecture and decor. I can remember the amazement I felt during those early years at the gold-colored filigree, the deep reds, blues, greens, and golds of the rugs and tapestries. It was magnificence at its best. The grandeur of the decor just seemed to overwhelm me every time I went to the movies.

The most amazing part of this activity was its affordability. Every Saturday at one theater or the other, for only $0.25, we could enjoy a double feature of full-length movies generally preceded by five cartoons.

In addition, there would at times be some shorts or special news film updates on the major happenings around the country and the world. I remember news about the Korean War and about the sinking of the Andrea Doria. I can still see the vivid images of young American soldiers covered in mud and then freezing cold. I remember the different feelings welling up within me when I saw our soldiers—pride, courage, fear, helplessness, anxiety, always overwhelming me, always wondering why this was happening. I remember seeing that ship rolling helplessly at sea, completely at the mercy of the ocean. I remember developing a sense of respect for the seas and the enormous power it contained. I remember, at times, leaving the theater and going home, looking forward to seeing my street, the familiar surroundings and faces of its occupants, and the safety and security of my house, my backyard. Here, no one could hurt me. Here, no enemy soldier would kill me, and I could not die from the cold. Here, I had family, parents, aunts, and uncles, all of whom would not hesitate to protect me. Here I was safe.

My paternal grandparents owned the house we lived in. It was a three-story, walk-up, cold-water flat that was heated by kerosene stoves. We lived on the third floor right. Each apartment consisted of railroad rooms. By this I mean that upon entry into the apartment in the kitchen at the rear of the building, you would have to walk through each of two bedrooms to get to the living room, which was situated at the front of the building overlooking School Street. We had no bathroom in the apartment, and the toilet was located in the hallway to the left of the kitchen (apartment) entrance. Behind the toilet and off the kitchen was an additional bedroom whose single window opened onto an enclosed back stairway leading from the kitchen via a back porch down to the backyard. There was just enough room for two single beds with about twelve inches between them and a small dresser at the foot of the bed adjacent to the window. This is where my brother and I slept.

The apartment, as I said, had no bathroom, so baths and showers were out of the question. For these, we used the Linden Street public bathhouse and pool. I remember one of the most humiliating experiences as a young child was being put into the kitchen sink for a washing by my mother until I was old enough to go to the bathhouse on my own. Two events that stand out in my memory about the living conditions are, first, the installation of a large vertical water tank and piping tied into the kitchen stove to create hot water and, second, when the Spinellas broke through the kitchen wall and installed a door directly to the toilet from the kitchen. These things amazed me. The Spinellas were really avant-garde. What a great idea—a toilet in the home! It wasn’t until a little later and somewhat to my embarrassment that I learned that having water and a toilet in one’s house was not so uncommon.

Another thing I remember is the old piano that used to be in the third-floor hallway directly behind the stairs. I remember a few instances when my uncle Dante used to play that piano and, like a pied piper, he would draw me to the sound. With my little fingers trying to emulate his quick movement and trying to create something that sounded like music, I started on a career of driving people crazy with the banging out of raucous tones and off-tune singing.

I don’t remember what year it was, but it must have been around 1950 or so; my grandparents gave us their old television set. It was a large box with a small twelve-inch oval-shaped screen. What an amazing machine! You could turn it on, and in a minute or so, there, from out of nowhere, was a movie screen right in your own home. Of course, it was a black-and-white set. A few years later when color came out along with larger television screens, I can recall the first attempts to create color from our black-and-white set. My parents bought a plastic transparency that had three-colored areas on it. On the top third was blue (for the sky), in the middle third was red (for skin tones), and on the bottom third was green (for grass, of course). So there we were looking at blue skies, red faces and clothes, and green grass. It didn’t make any difference at all that we were watching interior scenes. There had to be a better way! When the larger screens started coming out, we, of course, jumped right on board and brought a magnifying screen. This large magnifying glass was placed over the screen to enhance the images by about 5 percent and forced everyone to sit directly in front of the screen or else see a distorted picture.

There had to be a better way!

My father, Louis, was a strong person who dominated his family, but I cannot remember him ever hitting me to discipline me. When he spoke, however, I was totally intimidated. He was a high school graduate of Saunders Trade School, where I understand he did some boxing. It seems that everything he would do in his life could be characterized as being very macho. I think his idea of being a father was to be remote, manly (nontouching) and to provide protection for his family. He was the classic example of his generation where the man provided for the family as the breadwinner and the mother took care of the children. He epitomized the Italian concept of respect—unquestioning obedience and homage to the patriarch.

My earliest recollection of his career is that of a police officer. It is the only thing I recall him doing, but I understand that he was once a tunnel rat (one of those men who worked in the tunnels under the Hudson River). The term tunnel rat would become more personal to me later in my life when I served in Vietnam. He also served a tour of duty with the US Marines during World War II after being drafted. He spent his entire service time in the United States, but it was always one of the proudest memories I have of him and one of the few things we would later share. As a patrol officer, he once captured two burglars one night at gunpoint, resulting in his receiving an on-the-spot promotion to detective.

My mother, Catherine, was a seamstress by trade, and my most prominent memories of her are that she would give her children anything she could. She was a bellicose person who would argue at the drop of a hat. She didn’t get along with my father’s side of the family, and this was always a source of tension among our family. When I think back, it seems that she had little self-esteem. I’m sure that what I saw was simply the result of years and years of unhappiness. No one would ever talk about the problems between my mother and father and their in-laws. During the many arguments and fights, a few unkind words would come flowing out, making no sense to anyone but them. A hard worker, I cannot recall my mom ever not at some sweatshop working for minimum wages and doing piecework—that is, being paid by the number of units she could sew.

Louise, my older sister, was a pretty and intelligent teenager. Not only was she smart, but she worked hard at everything she did. One of the first recollections I have of her is her studying, walking back and forth from her bedroom to the kitchen. She did well in school and also assumed the burden of being the oldest child. With my father and mother working, she babysat for her younger siblings. She would eventually become a victim of my father’s concept of what sons or daughters should do and who should go on to college and who shouldn’t.

My brother Phil was a typical teenager of the day in our neighborhood. Very few were planning to go off to college, and most of them could be found every afternoon in the local pool hall. Of course, there were exceptions. My cousin Anthony Spinella would break the mold and go on to Manhattan College to earn a degree in civil engineering. The thing I remember most about my brother was that he was not at all interested in school. We did very few things together. One thing that does come to mind was our joint participation in the American Legion’s Frank A. Rea drum and bugle corps. This was one of the few pleasant and memorable activities we shared. During the summers, we would travel to different towns throughout Westchester to play in the local volunteer firemen parades. Afterward we would enjoy the carnivals. Great times were these.

My younger sister, Linda, was six years younger than me and was really too small to be a part of my activities as I was too young to be a part of my older sister and brother’s affairs.

I have often heard others describe me as a hyperactive, annoying youngster. Now that I am reflecting on my youth, I can see it as an accurate description. I was always very good at my schoolwork. Throughout the entire eight years at St. Mary’s School, I managed to be in the top five students of my class academically. The amazing thing about it was that I never studied. Academics just came naturally to me. This natural aptitude was only going to get me through grammar school, however, and high school was to prove to be a challenge.

I loved to participate in all the activities available at school. I ran to school each morning to play stickball in the schoolyard. When lunch came, we couldn’t wait to get outside to start up another game. Usually we got the teachers (LaSalle Christian Brothers) to play with us. As a fifth grader, Brother Camillus, our teacher, was organizing a boys’ choir, and I decided to join. It seemed like most of the Irish kids were becoming altar boys and most of the Italian and Polish kids were joining the choir. This was to become a source of competitive activity for us. That year, I became involved in the annual student variety show too. I discovered it primarily to be a way to meet and interact with the girls at our school. You see, boys and girls were separated from the third grade to the eighth grade.

One of the pressure points in my young life was my parents’ expectation for me to excel. No matter how good my grades were, they could or had to be better. I can remember making the honor role on so many occasions yet being afraid to bring home my report card because I had to explain why I ranked second or third in my class. How could I have let this or that Irish kid beat me out? Eventually something would have to give.

The third-floor apartment at the left of the stairs belonged to my paternal grandmother, Luisa Cacace. My grandfather Felice died in 1944 before I could salvage any memories. I’ve seen photographs of him and me together, but I have no recollections of him. I cannot remember my grandmother Cacace ever being young. She was a different person to different people. To me, she was an elderly person who didn’t speak English very well; yet when she needed to be understood, she would get her point across. She was the matriarch of the Cacace family who seemed to have fairly good control over her children. She was the epitome of the Italian immigrant. She retained all those characteristics of the homeland that made her what she was and accepted only those things of America that suited her. In fact, until the day she died, she never spoke English unless she absolutely had to. Although very stern in appearance, she was always kind to me. Through the years, she always encouraged me to try to stand out, to achieve something, and above all else, to be proud of my heritage and name.

She and my mother never got along well. Early on I knew things were not right between the two of them. At these earliest of times, I began to wonder who was the good one and who was the bad one.

Because I was so young, my only understanding of the family situation was that someone had to be right and someone had to be wrong if there was an argument or disagreement. It would take years of growing up and experiencing life and education to begin to understand that there need not be a right or wrong but merely a condition that exists due to circumstances which are, or appear to be, beyond the control of the individuals involved.

She called me Reechee. When I remember her, I always hear the words Reechee, God a bless. She never expressed to my face any other sentiment that I can recall other than to invoke his blessing upon me. I know that I was a hell-raiser, yet this elderly woman was able to tolerate me. Not only did she overlook my hyperactive behavior, but she always managed to extol my better qualities.

Living with my grandmother Cacace at the time was my aunt Annie, who was also my godmother. I guess the thing I remember most about my aunt Ann at that time was how little of her I saw. A pretty woman, she was in the prime of her life enjoying the dating scene and going through what I’m sure was a dual breakaway ritual. Not only was she trying to live her own life, or should I say the inevitable parent-daughter parting, but she had the added task of dealing with the dissimilarities of ideas between the first and second generations—ideas and attitudes of those who immigrated to this country and those who were born and raised here.

One of the most exciting incidents I can recall was the day my aunt eloped. All hell broke loose. I can still hear the screaming and arguing, the gathering of my aunts and uncles and my father at my grandmother’s apartment. Apparently, my aunt had run off and married not only a non-Italian but also a non-Catholic. I’m not sure which mistake of the two was the worse my aunt had made in the eyes of my grandmother.

Below my grandmother’s apartment (second floor, left) lived my aunt Tess and uncle Cherry. The Spinellas had three children—Anthony, Phyllis (Sister), and Philip Jr. (Junie). They were older than me, ranging from