Surviving is Such a Joy!: A Memoir

By Tony De Angelis

About the Book
In this memoir spanning nearly 90 years, Tony De Angelis recounts the many unusual events that make his life unique. De Angelis grew up in Rochester, New York during the Great Depression, and his adolescence was greatly shaped by the drastic global shift caused by World War II. Inspired by the brave American heroes that fought during WWII, and with a strong desire to make a difference himself, De Angelis joined the Army when he was just a teenager, eventually serving in both the Korean and Vietnam Wars. During the Cold War, De Angelis found himself engaged directly in tracking Soviet intelligence, leading him all over the world and allowing him to meet incredible individuals.

About the Author
Tony De Angelis was born in Rochester, New York. After serving in the United States military for twenty-one years, De Angelis had a successful career in sales. De Angelis is deeply passionate about politics and has been involved in many political campaigns, most notably for his long-time friend George H. W. Bush.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dorrance Publishing Company
• Release date: Apr 24, 2023
• ISBN: 9798887297620

Book preview

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The contents of this work, including, but not limited to, the accuracy of events, people, and places depicted; opinions expressed; permission to use previously published materials included; and any advice given or actions advocated are solely the responsibility of the author, who assumes all liability for said work and indemnifies the publisher against any claims stemming from publication of the work.

All Rights Reserved

Copyright © 2023 by Tony De Angelis

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted, downloaded, distributed, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, including photocopying and recording, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented without permission in writing from the publisher.

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ISBN: 979-8-88729-262-5

eISBN: 979-8-88729-762-0

This labor of love is dedicated to my beloved wife, Lis,

the primary source of all my happiness,

and to all of those in this book who moved me to wax so enthusiastically, especially my sons,

Chris and Mike, who showered me with

more love and affection than any parent has a right to expect,

and eternally remain vessels of my deep love for them, too.

FOREWORD

Since some aspects of Operation Turn the Tables on Them are so bizarre as to defy belief, I have enclosed a copy of a letter from my boss who oversaw the operation, Clifford G Simonson. I had asked him to review that phase of my life at which time I served under him to see if he saw events as I related. My boss had previously managed the deception operation that on D-Day, June 6th, 1944, faked Hitler into thinking the real invasion would be elsewhere in France, causing Hitler to hold back his tanks, which could have pushed our forces back into the English Channel. Since his part was so secret for fifty years and not revealed until a few years prior to his death, ironically the German leader at the time Colonel Simonson was my boss, awarded him the German Iron Cross, the first American officer ever awarded such, which had they known of this World War II feat, probably would not have made such an award.

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INTRODUCTION

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Believe it or not, the tenacity that drove my signature success began with my very incubation. I survived a knife attack on my mother nine months before I was born. How does that grab you? Later challenges were just a walk in the park:

• Surviving Combat in Korea and Vietnam

• Fending Off Burmese Mobs

• Engaging the Russians’ Top Spy in Cold War Mental Chess

• Fighting Teamster Truckers to Improve Highway Safety

• Getting America a National Holiday

• Beating Cancer

• Rising to be a Top Salesman

• Advising President Bush’s Presidential Campaign… YOU NAME IT!

Being born under such odds, you believe a special mission in life awaits you. Be an example to others and never let the dirty bastards grind you down. There is always another day to shine!

Tony De Angelis

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Rochester, NY | Summer 1931

Although I wasn’t yet born until 1932, my initial memories were served by old and faded newspaper accounts from August 1931. I discovered them as a teenager while rummaging through an old steamer trunk stored in our attic, long kept family secrets that moved me to tears as I read them. I learned that my life began amid deep sorrow and tragedy during the depths of the Great Depression.

As I read the news clippings, it became obvious that these events shaped my very conception. It was a time when my Italian immigrant father, a laborer who served honorably in the U.S. Army during World War 1 but had limited job skills, found it difficult to find a good paying job. After World War 1, he kept his large family of five together by taking whatever odd jobs he could find. It was also the very beginning of my mother’s pregnancy with me. I was not yet born, but I would through divine providence join my four siblings (aged two through seven) in April 1932. My family existed in a harsh environment, with only the bare essentials a tarpaper shack adjacent to railroad tracks, with a wood stove for heat and cooking, no electricity, and outdoor plumbing. Food, what little there was, was produced from a small garden patch, a few chickens, and a goat.

A month after my conception, it was in this stark environment of August 1931 that my oldest sister, Jo Ann, behaving like the five-year-old she was, refused to eat the chicken served her at dinner (a treat in light of the times!). She sensed it was her pet that had been sacrificed. My father, plagued by economic desperation and in declining physical health during the Great Depression, exploded in a great rage, targeting my sister. As my siblings related the story, he grabbed a large kitchen knife, intending to cow her into eating, but lost emotional control after my mother leaped between him and my sister wildly swinging the knife, he stabbed my mother in the back.

Immediately realizing the horror of what he had done, in his agony he raced wailing along the railroad tracks adjacent to our humble home, continuing toward the nearby open railroad bridge and high cliff overlooking the Genesee River raging below, which empties into Lake Ontario. Upon reaching the cliff, he leaped to his death—leaving my mother fighting for her life with an uncertain recovery ahead. He also left my mother as the sole caregiver of four very small children, with the additional burden of me on the way (surely had today’s social guidelines been in effect I would have been aborted—my own circumstances being a good case for humans not to play God in deciding who lives and dies). At that dark moment, my family and I had no place to go but up, and optimism and hard work became the driving forces of our lives—motivating us all to a triumph over adversity.

Rochester, NY | 1932-1936

Memories from this early period of my life in winter-frigid Rochester are mostly secured from my beloved mother just prior to her 90th birthday, still exhibiting a very sharp mind as she told me of my early life. She related to me how she lay in a maternity ward bed several days after my April 23, 1932, arrival, awaiting a nurse to present me to her. After seeing everybody else get their new babies, she was starting to think that just maybe I didn’t make it. It was then that she got her dander up and demanded, Where is my new baby? At that point the nurses felt she was emotionally ready to be introduced to me.

She told me that my first bed was a wicker laundry basket (evoking images of Moses in the bulrushes!). More surprising to me was finding out that because she was still recuperating from my father’s attack, my brothers and sisters were biding time in an orphanage while I was doled out to a well-to-do family’s home for care (the kind of considerate people that today some sleazy people try to demonize as the despicable rich).

I know that my brothers and sisters (two of each) were reasonably happy in that orphanage, managed by loving and caring Roman Catholic nuns, though they did complain that they did tire of the food served there. I can even remember my sisters taking me along for visits to the orphanage after they left, and I recall the happy smiles on both theirs and the nuns’ faces during those treasured moments of reunion.

It was sometime during 1936 when I was four, that I recall my first fleeting memories of all of us together as a warm and loving family (a single mom with five children). We lived in a very modest duplex (well below the plush standards of today’s public housing), and it seemed always with nice neighbors, cheerful, friendly, and concerned people who always looked out for one another. Our rented home was in a blue-collar neighborhood of single and duplex houses surrounded by a complex of factories, all within a few minutes’ walking distance for those fortunate enough to enjoy jobs in those days of desperation.

My uncle Pat lived with us for a while, helping my mother to manage us. We hosted many visitors for Sunday pasta dinners. (I knew there were a lot because the house was so packed with people that I usually was seated on a high and narrow kitchen counter where I had to eat my dinner. I think it contributed to my subsequent fear of high places.) It was a time when we shared warm moments of togetherness around the big Philco radio, listening intently to neat dramas like Gang Busters (featuring the father of General Schwarzkopf of Desert Storm fame), and the The Shadow (featuring a moral alert, Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men?). I never wanted to go to bed because either I was having so much fun enjoying those exciting moments of togetherness, or I dreaded sleeping at the bottom of the bed between my two older brothers’ feet.

One time I woke up after hearing a lot of commotion. Descending the steps downstairs and opening the door into the living room, still half asleep, there were many strangers talking in hushed tones. They then turned and looked at me sympathetically, signaling that something was really wrong and cause for concern! These people turned out to be our neighbors, and they told me not to worry, that my mother who was just taken to the hospital in an ambulance, but she was going to be all right, and that my siblings and I would stay with different neighbors for a few days.

Unlike today’s mostly remote neighbors (who you are lucky if you even know their names), these folks were a part of our extended family; if you lived together it stood to reason that you could count on each other in a crunch. That was my first experience with the charity of other people, an early comforting event that told me no matter what happened in life beyond one’s control, people usually would be there for each other. Yes, welfare existed then; however, we were too proud to sponge off of other people, and we learned early to rely on ourselves. We saw welfare as assistance for people who were victims of Acts of God such as floods and fires, and we counted our blessings that we didn’t fit in that tragic category.

The first Christmas I can remember in 1936 was marked by the excitement of my brothers Chuck and Joe, and sisters Jo Ann and Lu, bringing the tree into the house. They bought it late Christmas Eve, after the market for trees had evaporated and prices were at their lowest, and the tree looked every bit the 25 cents they somehow had earned to buy it. It didn’t matter, though; it was better than not having one. You never forget the first and only toy you got that first Christmas, either; in my case, it was a metal heating oil truck with a nifty back door you could actually open and close, and I often filled it with dirt! Ironically, decades later a Vietnam War friend found just such a rusted toy like my first one and gave it to me. To this day my career diplomat son still proudly displays it in his own home as a symbol of his humble heritage.

Rochester, NY | 1937 (Age 5)

This was the year my early horizons really began to expand as I ranged out into my neighborhood to meet other children and adults, and experienced the novelty of the movies, all of which really was an exciting new world. 1937 also was the year that I started Catholic school. I was somewhat traumatized after seeing for the first time nuns draped in forbidding black habits. Their stern image tended to take the starch out of me, leaving me cowed and in awe of them.

As for my neighborhood, I just loved it and all the people in it. To me, my neighborhood was basic Disneyland—oh, so enjoyable! Areas of discovery were immediate and many: observing factory employees at work making everything from shoe trees to bowling pins, from forging train wheels to canning vegetables at the local Beech-Nut factory. The latter was an event we especially looked forward to every year when tomato farmers lined up their trucks from one end of the street to the other in front of our houses. It was a special treat biting into the lush red tomatoes the farmers gave us, passing around a saltshaker to season them.

The movies back then were something else. We had a neighborhood movie theater, the State, right behind my house; however, we walked around the block to get there, because in those days you just didn’t take shortcuts through other people’s yards. You learned early to be civil and respect others. Since seeing a movie cost a dime and money was tight, you knew a movie was indeed a special treat. I still see in my mind’s eye newsreel pictures of the huge Hindenburg dirigible looming high above me on the big silver screen; this monster object in the sky was falling in flames, and I just sat there in awe of this unprecedented spectacle.

My first day of school was also my first sin that I remember…stealing! My mother asked an older boy to take me to school, unfortunately this boy had a reputation of having light fingers. As my mentor and I passed a small store with fruit displayed out front, he suddenly grabbed a big juicy looking apple and ran. Since he was my role model for the day, I naturally did likewise. I wasn’t thrilled about this aspect of school, since I sensed it wasn’t quite right if you had to run away, with the prospect of somebody taking after you in anger. Needless to say, it was only a matter of days when we were taught all about Adam and Eve, and the forbidden fruit aspect really began to eat away at me. It was a full year before I was able to unload this mental burden at my very first confession. Unlike today where I believe a huge moral vacuum is developing relative to right and wrong, the nuns were very effective in shaping our values early on.

I got off to a bad start with girls, too. Basically, I was a person who loved people, especially pretty girls. I was in the first-grade cloak room when I found myself next to a pretty girl to whom I took a fancy. I kissed her just as a nun walked in. Biff! Bam! Wham! As I was coming to my senses from the nun’s fast-moving hands, I found myself being lifted and hung up on a cloak hanger like a piece of meat, a learning experience that conveyed to me that I had crossed some kind of a no-no line. Unlike today, where I would have been charged with sexual harassment for the same situation, those nuns were my moral traffic cops and meant a lot to me, providing me guidance that led to a real happy life.

My first hospital stay was one of my more memorable experiences. I was lured there with visions of a rare ice cream treat, to be served only after I let them take out my tonsils (whatever they were!). Just outside the operating room was a long line of us little tots waiting on a bench. Being a little gentleman, I was happy to let all the girls go first, the boys, too! I bucked them all up with assurances that everything would be fine, and the sooner they did it, the better (for me). Before I knew it, somebody opened the door and beckoned to me. Looking around, I discovered that there was nobody behind me anymore to push forward. That’s when I cowered alone in a corner until I was led by the hand into the operating room. Having screwed up my courage, I was very proud how brave I was laying on the operating table; that is until I got the first whiff of ether (which seemed to me more like poison gas!). I exploded in a fit of flailing physical resistance, which included biting the hand of the doctor (big mistake). That’s when I heard him utter, Little son of a bitch! followed by my seeing stars as the doctor knocked me out with his fist. The next thing I remember was slowly waking up in a hospital ward complaining of extreme thirst, soon remedied with a serving of dream-like ice cream, and I was once again happy.

Rochester, NY | 1938 (Age 6)

This is the year that I became aware of the larger world around me. We made our first of many moves as a complete family in Rochester, N.Y. This time it was to a more residential neighborhood, which I still recall as a favorite place (even if now it is inner-city minority dominated today, plagued by drugs, crime, and coarse behavior). Again, it was then a neighborhood of loving and caring neighbors living in well maintained homes, more upscale economically than where we previously had lived.

In 1938, newspapers remained our principal source of information, and the headlines about this Hitler guy began to scare us. We were told he wanted to take over the world and make us all his slaves (I didn’t cotton to the idea of having to shine some Nazi thug’s jackboots!). Comic books were just coming on the scene full force, heralding reassuring heroes like Superman and Batman (who still are going strong today for our grandchildren), who if push came to shove, we knew would save us all from this Hitler demon. In fact, comics helped me learn how to read; seeing the action along with the words made the storyline so much more obvious.

One really frigid winter Sunday morning in February I trudged a mile in a snowstorm to Catholic Mass (with my little six-year-old legs, that proved a lot of trudging!). As the storm virtually whipped me through the front doors of the church vestibule, a very beautiful young woman standing alone saw me make my dramatic entrance, and with a look of care and concern, she took me by the hand and led me to the nearby steam radiators lining the walls. Removing her leather gloves, she helped me warm my numb hands, guiding them just over the heaters. After a few minutes, she gave me a nickel so I could ride home on the trolley, and she opened the inner church door for me so I could enter the church. When the collection basket came around, it was the first time I ever had any money in my pocket during Mass, and I believed that God needed the nickel in my pocket more than I did. After I put it in the basket, a warm glow washed over me and remained with me as I walked home, leaving me feeling very good the rest of that Sunday. It was the first time I discovered that good intentions provide emotional highs.

It was the year, too, that I remember a muscular truck driver who began seriously courting my widowed mother seven years after my father died. He was a tall handsome man of German descent, very kind, and a decent person we all loved. We hoped that our mother would marry him (it was clearer in my mind as I had never known a father as my four brothers and sisters did). However, my mother proved a fiercely independent woman, determined that she would not saddle somebody else with her responsibilities (i.e., me and my siblings)! And true to her word, she didn’t marry Ray Bohrer until we all were grown and out of the house. She impressed self-reliance on us in a way nobody could forget, an essential character virtue in short supply in today’s What are you going to do for me? culture. Fortunately for both of them, after a twenty-five-year courtship, they finally married and lived a very happy life until his death from cancer six years later (he was puffing on cigarettes almost to his last breath).

Although we were just getting by, as we said in those days, we didn’t know how desperate our circumstances were. Like many of our contemporaries, we subscribed to the belief that the best things in life are free. We might have been broke (we had too much pride to say the word poor), but in essence, we were steeped in values and emotionally enriched. (We learned early on that Scrooge might have been materially rich, but his spirit was terribly miserable, just like his greedy counterpart, King Midas).

I got my first paid job about this time, too. Watching a janitor polish the brass rail of a nearby factory office entrance, I expressed a desire to help. When I finished my polishing chore, the man handed me a shiny new Lincoln penny. My wages in hand from my first job, I proudly showed it to my mother, running all the way home. However, my mother was more concerned about me accepting money from a stranger, and she insisted I immediately return the penny. I did return it, but I felt quite hurt since I felt that I had earned it. However, my mother saw it as welfare, and she made it abundantly clear that You don’t let other people buy you. The negative connotation of those words stuck with me, making sure that I always paid my own way in life.

My mother also was an extremely resourceful woman, maximizing scarce resources. She could pluck burdock weeds from an adjacent empty lot and make a tasty meal out of them, and we ate meats you would call exotic today—kidney stew and mystery meats. But whatever she put on the table, it tasted good and kept us healthy and happy…she expertly prepared the basics that were within our means. Sodas, ice cream and fancy cereals were seen as special rare treats well beyond our pocketbook! Somehow, she stretched a pittance of a widowed veteran’s pension check along with whatever the rest of us earned from odd jobs. Amazingly in those days, anybody with a little gumption could hustle up some change: delivering newspapers, running errands, selling magazines (which I did starting at age six), cleaning cellars, shoveling snow, mowing lawns, tasks that many people today on food stamps and housing assistance refuse to do. We didn’t let lack of minimum wage stand in the way of opportunity!

Being self-reliant, you felt good about yourself, that you were on the way to being your own person, in the mold of Gary Cooper and John Wayne, cinema heroes that I enjoyed seeing on the bigger-than-life movie screen. And those movies were laced with so much wholesomeness and goodness that they helped shape your life (unlike today, where the message for the young is to blow each other up!) Characters in those movies were your cultural role models. I determined that life was like a movie, and I wanted my life to be the best movie I could make. I felt adventure would be my destiny, so Humphrey Bogart (Casablanca and African Queen version) served as my character guide. As I grew into adulthood, some friends told me that I physically resembled him. (In reality, I was tougher than Bogart and John Wayne; unlike them, I fought in a few wars).

Rochester, NY | 1939 (Age 7)

This was a very exciting year for me. Amid the massive publicity projecting so many wondrous events at the New York World’s Fair, one sensed that the future had already arrived! And the movies that year were just fantastic: Beau Geste, Stagecoach, Gone with the Wind, and Four Feathers, to mention a few; some believe 1939 was the best year ever for so many top-notch quality movies made in a single year!

Like most sweet things there was a sour side, too; the dark clouds of war loomed heavy above us. That mean-spirited Hitler guy was starting his world takeover. However, it was somewhat confusing that in spite of Hitler’s belligerent threats, some voices continued to insist that what was happening over there was none of our business. One had to be a grown-up to understand that many of those voices were friendly toward that Hitler guy’s pal, Stalin. Together they had started World War II. It was only later that we learned of the secret annex of the German-Soviet Non-Aggression Pact that detailed how both leaders would conquer Poland and share the spoils.

With the extra income that Chuck, my sixteen-year-old brother, earned working in the Civilian Conservation Corps (or CCC, a US Government Depression era work program), our lot in life improved. As the oldest sibling, Chuck also served as a sort of surrogate dad, helping my mother with discipline and support. On that overcast Fourth of July in 1939, our mother gave a neighbor friend of my brother’s, who owned a car, fifty cents to transport the whole family to a beautiful lakeside beach area for a picnic, at least a thirty-minute drive. Next to the picnic area was the greenery of a ball field and golf course, providing beautiful bucolic surroundings. A few other times we traveled by trolley to other more accessible beach areas for family picnics. However, those trips seemed to take forever before we ever got there (sometimes I would even get car sick from the trolley rocking back and forth over the rougher rails).

These family outings were such happy events that even if there was never another one, the memory would sustain us, and we would be eternally grateful. Our attitude of not having great expectations and counting our blessings proved especially beneficial in the long run; our harsh and stoic start taught us to accept our lot in life and expect nothing (seeing rich people living it up in the movies did not elicit feelings of envy, since we remembered the biblical exhortation to not covet other people’s goods.)

In essence, anything over and above our negligible expectations proved to be gravy, a healthy emotional attitude that helped minimize damaging pitfalls of disappointment. To this day, this attitude is still a part of my family’s mental make-up, and it has served us well. It doesn’t mean we didn’t have hopes and dreams; I believe we were more mature and reasonable in our outlook in life, an attitude honed by our earlier adverse experiences. Adversity truly sharpens the soul. Ironically, the only black kid in our neighborhood who played with us, Walter Dukes, grew up to be richer than any of us. Dukes, who grew to be 7-foot tall NBA basketball star in the 1950s, playing center for the New York Knicks, Minneapolis Lakers, and Detroit Pistons. As kids, my other friends and I were a little jealous of our tall black friend, as the mother of one of our other friends always ensured that Walter got first dibs on toys or treats.

Earlier in the year, February I believe, I witnessed the results of my first train wreck. It happened in the main rail yards adjacent to the business section of my neighborhood, near the route I took to church. I remember the locomotive lying on its side, steam escaping in clouds, with some of its boxcars askew. It was quite a sight to see, turmoil galore. Soon after, I was fascinated to see a picture of the calamity on the front page Extra edition at a nearby newsstand. Extra editions of newspapers were a pre-TV feature to signal news of an emergency nature. That edition also reported the death of Pope Pius XI.

In 1939, I seriously began to explore my new neighborhood, which was my favorite so far. It was primarily residential, within walking distance of my old neighborhood, and in a bustling business district. Neighbors looked out for each other, so you didn’t worry about kidnapers, molesters, or other creeps bothering you. There were plenty of other kids to play with, and nearly always something to do. Without TV to addle your mind, our creative juices kept us stimulated with amazing games and conversation. If we were really bored, we would take long walks, several miles sometimes, to a big park and spend the day there. We usually had a great appetite by the time we returned home and slept very well that night. One of our favorite pastimes was reading comic books, which were becoming very popular about that time. Superman and Batman dominated then, but the comics we liked best were those with strong colors (Dick Tracy being good example.)

I remember my mother one day took me shopping with her in the downtown area, an all-day ordeal. After an exhausting morning, she treated us to a movie, so memorable that I never forgot it, Four Feathers, a 1939 classic. That movie made quite an impression upon me at a very early age as to what was expected of a man in a crunch…honor!

The newsreels accompanying the ten cent movies were filled with the latest news about the start of World War II. For kids who liked to play war, it all seemed so exciting. It was about this time we started hearing songs like We Did it Before and We Can Do it Again and it made us kids feel we were preparing to fight the Germans, too. We knew we were Americans and felt that if push came to shove, we were going to win. That said, seeing newsreels of Stuka dive bombers attacking civilians, including children, had a chilling effect upon you. Most perplexing of all were the reports that the bad guy Hitler was beating up the Poles…the good guys! It wasn’t supposed to be that way; the good guys were supposed to win. We just didn’t know what to expect next.

Movies were becoming a major part of my life that year. You were a social outcast if you didn’t show up at either Saturday or Sunday matinees. Virtually all your friends were there, and you often made new ones there, too. You usually stood in a long line, often for at least a half hour, to ensure you got a choice seat close to movie screen, so you could be in the middle of all the action. The most exciting part of the afternoon was the start of the show, when the curtains slowly parted and the movie studio logo flashed on the screen…Leo the Lion roaring…triggering yelling, whistling, and foot stomping! Sometimes we were so excited that they would send the ushers down the aisles wearing their authoritative admiral-like uniforms to calm us down. They would flash their lights in our faces like lasers and threaten to throw us out if we didn’t behave. If the movie was really great, we would stick around and watch it again.

Rochester, NY | 1940 (Age 8)

My memories are somewhat mixed about this year. It was the year that my mother transferred me to a public school because it was closer to our new home. Consequently, my academic life proved one of no forward motion, best summed up as a day care experience.

For me, the events outside of school were much more stimulating, including the 1940 presidential campaign. I was for FDR because I thought we were supposed to have Roosevelt for life, and I had never heard a discouraging word about him. I recall how we spelled out R O O S E V E L T with chalk in big bold letters the full width of the street pavement. That was my introduction to the American political scene.

Hitler’s proclivity for wars spurred my developing an intense interest in geography. I poured over Atlas maps and the globe in the library to better understand the larger world around me, and more importantly, to monitor Hitler’s next move. I really was upset when he conquered little Denmark, a country that later provided me with the core of my happiness, my wife, Lis. Hitler was growing in my mind as a threat that America would have to deal with, increasingly featuring as the main monster in the flood of movie newsreels and new comic books. Moreover, he stood in my mind as a brutal giant astride the top of the European continent he had just ruthlessly conquered. At the same time, I began to notice more and