Steve Mellon, Post-Gazette Nicholas Samilia, of Washington, Pa., looks out over the National World War II Memorial in his first-ever trip to the Washington, D.C., site. Click photo to a slideshow about the trip.

By Bob Batz Jr.
Pittsburgh Post-Gazette

Steve Mellon, Post-Gazette Pittsburgh-area veterans of World War II pause for a prayer at the National World War II Memorial in Washington on Wednesday. From left are Joseph Forkel, 79, of Port Vue; William Shaffer, 79, of Aliquippa; Edward Mazurkiewicz, 85, of Glassport; and Richard Killmeyer, 81, of Bellevue. Click photo for larger image. Slideshow Veterans voices at the WWII Memorial Related article Bus trip's organizer would like to see more of the same

For 43 Western Pennsylvanians who served in World War II, Veterans Day came early.

By 5:30 a.m. on Nov. 1, they'd mustered in the dark parking lot across from the Coraopolis borough building. Over donated coffee and muffins, they conversed in the parlance of the old.

Alexander Dyga, who's 83, told Bob Dale, who's 82, how he'd just transferred his wife to the new National Cemetery of the Alleghenies, which is fast filling with WWII veterans. "We're losing a lot," he said, throwing out a number higher than the 970 the government says are dying every day.

Mr. Dale nodded.

Beside them and directing helpers was the younger veteran who'd invited them all here, Jim Hilts. He's 59, a Vietnam War vet and son of a WWII vet who'd wanted to see the long-awaited National World War II Memorial in Washington. But his dad died before it was dedicated in 2004.

Mr. Hilts knows many veterans want to see the memorial but, now in their 80s, are unable to get there. He came up with a plan to charter a bus, perhaps in spring. Then he thought, "There's going to be some guys who are going to die over winter, and they could have gone." So he put together his first trip this fall.

His small engineering company paid the $2,100 for the bus, and he solicited donations to pay for box lunches and soda. He wanted the trip to be free to the veterans, to honor them. All around Coraopolis he put up posters and banners: "Let's get them there before it's too late."

Among those who signed up were one female veteran and several volunteers, including a doctor and a nurse.

They loaded a half-dozen VA Pittsburgh Healthcare wheelchairs into the belly of the bus as the vets boarded. The trip pulled out on time: 0600 hours.

On board, the mood was light. The jovial Mr. Hilts welcomed them: "For all you Navy and Marine types, there's a head back here. For all us Army and Air Force guys, there's a latrine!"

They laughed. Some, still amazed at what Mr. Hilts was doing for them, God blessed him as he passed out black caps he'd had embroidered with "WWII Veteran -- National Memorial" and the Victory Medal ribbon. Most took off their caps and put on the new ones. As they settled in for the five-hour ride, Mr. Hilts played CDs of big-band music.

Mostly strangers, the vets talked, as much as WWII veterans do. That's not much, not about their wartime service, which many started before they'd finished high school.

They'd tell each other their branch, and a little about how and where they served. When asked by a reporter or one volunteer who was gathering oral histories, they'd say a little more.

The oldest, 87-year-old John Yuknavich, pulled out a battered sepia photo of himself as the youngest man on his attack transport ship and told how he was in three hellish invasions. He'd brought a disposable camera to have his picture taken with his Neville Island neighbor, Arthur Withrow, 82, who told how he was an Army guard of Japanese and German prisoners in Hawaii's pineapple fields. "You couldn't get better duty."

A few rows up, Beverly Howard, 82, of Moon, described how, because her parents wouldn't sign for her, she waited until she was 21 to enlist in the Air Corps, where she inventoried airplanes.

Behind her, sitting alone, Bellevue's John Peters, 81, allowed that he was in the Air Corps, too. But he doesn't talk about it, he said. He was a gunner kneeling in the cramped tails of B-17 bombers for 35 missions. He knew men who didn't make it back. But he doesn't talk about it, he repeated.

"One time," he softly said, "I missed a fighter I should have got." That German fighter shot down 10 Allied planes. It still wakes him up some nights.

Asked if seeing the memorial would being back memories, he said, "I hope not."

"The men are more important," Mrs. Howard had said when she'd decided she'd said enough. "They did the actual fighting." Her husband was at Pearl Harbor. He's dead now. As the bus rolled into Washington, she freshened her lipstick.

It was a sunny, leave-jackets-on-the-bus day at the memorial, which was busy with tourists and other visitors. The veterans emptied the bus like kids on a field trip, only more slowly.

They were met by an upbeat Army chaplain Mr. Hilts had contacted, former Western Pennsylvanian Maj. Kenneth Homer. He led them in singing "God Bless America" and said he was humbled in their presence. "Through this memorial," he said, "the days of your sacrifice will never, ever be forgotten."

After sandwiches and cookies from their moveable "mess," the vets walked, or were wheeled, around the big-as-a-football-field memorial. Over the rushing of its many fountains, a park ranger explained its various elements, including the Freedom Wall, inscribed "The Price of Freedom." Each of its 4,000 gold stars represents 100 Americans who died in the war.

"Wow," Mr. Withrow said.

His friend, Mr. Yuknavich, who'd never even seen pictures of this place, took it all in. "To me," he said, "it's awesome."

With several hours before the bus pulled out around 4 p.m., the Pittsburgh travellers scattered. Some vets looked up their names on the touch-screen registry, while some headed to nearby sites. Others sat quietly in the memorial. Most gathered on benches beneath yellow-leaved trees and chatted, frequently voicing their gratitude to Mr. Hilts for organizing the trip.

All were surprised when the thank-you's came their way.

A woman approached one and said, "I want to say thanks." A man stopped and said, "Thank you for a job well done."

George Trent, 84, of Ben Avon, was, for a moment, overcome. "I've been out of the Army for 60 years. Well, 60 years and two weeks. And it's the first time anyone's ever thanked me," he said, his voice cracking.

"I appreciate this day."

Rudy Van Cura, 83, of Pine figured it was his brand new hat. At least five different people thanked him as he sat in a wheelchair with his cane on his lap. Talking about it made him laugh, then cry.

Just then, a young woman reached for the hand of John Peters, the B-17 tail gunner. "What are you doing?" he asked.

He was more astonished when parents approached and told him their 10-year-old daughter had never seen a veteran and may she shake his hand? With his permission, they snapped a photo of him and her.

But what really got to Mr. Peters and those with him was how, as the family walked off across this expanse of gray granite, the girl kept looking back.