In the Fall of 2008, I was given an incredible gift and an amazing opportunity. It was a chance I never expected; a chance to retrace some of my Grandfather’s steps overseas.

My Grandmother and Grandfather on their wedding day in Princeton, Missouri in October of 1941. Two months later, Pearl Harbor would pull the United States into World War II.
My Grandfather was drafted into the United States Army just months after Pearl Harbor was attacked in December of 1941. He ended up serving as an engineer in the 5th Army. That unit’s exploits are legendary. The men of that unit fought and moved through Algiers, Morocco, Africa and Italy. It was the 5th Army that helped liberate Italy. My Grandfather was there in the square in Milan when Italy’s brutal dictator, Benito Mussolini, was hung.

The bodies of Italian dictator Benito Mussolini and some co-conspirators hang in a town square in Milan, Italy in April of 1945. My Grandfather was there.
For all the horror and hardship my Grandfather experienced during the war, the bright spot was always Italy…and particularly Rome. I can remember Grandpa telling me that he was just a kid from Iowa and that he never in a million years thought he would see the things he had seen and experienced the things he had experienced.
It was while in Italy that this “Iowa boy” developed a life-long love for Opera. I can remember to this day…if Opera ever came on Iowa Public Television, we would have to watch it. Also in Italy, he learned to love Italian food (especially lasagna). He became close with an Italian family and they called him their “Pisan”…an Italian term for friend or buddy. Growing up, Pisan was one of Grandpa’s nicknames for me.
It was evident in speaking with him all those years that Italy touched his mind and his heart. He always said he wanted to go back and visit. But his wish went unfulfilled and when he died in November of 1997, that was it for him.
But not his wish; not entirely.
Flash forward to the Fall of 2007. I was working at KSFY Television in Sioux Falls and I was presented with a unique opportunity; to host a tour of South Dakotans, Minnesotans and Iowans to Italy. I about fell over. I felt like Grandpa must have this; this Iowa boy never thought he would be going to Italy.
The folks hosting the tour told me I could bring along one person. I chose to bring along my Mom. She had heard the stories even longer than I had about how much Grandpa loved Italy and I wanted her to have the same experience I would have; to tour the country he loved so much.

This is a picture of me and my Grandpa Perry. It was taken in the Summer of 1993 in Des Moines, Iowa. He was an amazing man and I loved him very much.
The tour would last over a 10-day period and we would visit several Italian cities; Milan, San Gimignano, Florence, Venice and Rome. While I wanted to see all of it, I NEEDED to see Rome.
Growing up, Grandpa’s stories had always centered primarily around Rome and one story in particular.
The 5th Army had moved into Rome and had begun the process of taking the city back from the Axis powers. But the city was by no means safe or secure yet. And there was still a threat that the German Army would swoop in and attack and take Italy back.
The 5th Army used as their temporary bivouac area the historic Roman Colosseum. The place where Gladiators were born. The place where Christians were made to fight for their lives against lions. The place where the first sporting competitions were held. This is where my Grandfather pitched his tent and laid down at night, under the stars, dreaming of an end to the war and a return to Iowa.
One night, under the cover of darkness, the buzzing sound of airplane engines cut through the night. Air raid sirens in Rome sounded. There was fear and panic everywhere. My Grandfather ran under one of the Colosseum’s massive stone supports and waited. He could hear anti-aircraft guns being fired. He heard explosions but could not see any flashes.
My Grandfather told me that on that night, he thought he would die. He thought after four years of trudging across the Middle East, Ethiopia and into Italy, that he would die and the last thing he would see was the Roman Colosseum. He prayed to God that his death would be painless and that his family wouldn’t grieve too long.
The airplane buzzing stopped, as did the anti-aircraft fire. The darkness of the night in Rome became still again. He and all his buddies had survived. He was amazed, grateful and in shock. He thought for sure that his story was going to reach its final page that night.
This story was fresh in my mind as we entered Rome. What a beautiful, historic city. People say Paris is romantic. I think Rome might have it beat. And what amazing history. There are roads there were carved out years before Jesus walked the Earth, and you can still use them in Rome today. It is amazing.
A Roman emperor first ordered the construction of the Colosseum in AD 72. It was completed in AD 80….meaning the Colosseum is 1,931 years old. How much history has happened between then and now? It boggles the mind.
On the day we toured the Colosseum, I had a mix of emotions. As a huge history buff, I could not wait to get into the place and walk its halls and corridors. To feel the surface of the stones that were used to build to build the place. It was an odd feeling to stand in the middle of this structure and know it existed so long before I did and that it will be here for hundreds if not thousands of years after I am gone. If you ever want to feel insignificant and small, go stand in the Roman Colosseum for awhile.

It is amazing to stand in the Colosseum and just breathe. It is something else to just stand there and contemplate your life in the midst of all this history. I took this picture in early October 2008.
We had a tour guide who led us through most of the Colosseum. Then we were allowed some free time to walk around what I call the Mezzanine area; it was the walking area that separated the higher seats in the Colosseum from the lower seats. It was a wide area, a testament to the fact that thousands of people would cram into the Colosseum to visit events. The guide told us that ancient Roman engineers figured out a way to flood the floor of the Colosseum and keep the water from leaking out..so there could be re-enactments of sea battles held there.
My eyes drifted down to the Colosseum floor. This is the area where my Grandfather would have set up his tent and lived an uneasy life as a U.S. soldier in the midst of enemy territory. I looked around and saw any number of stone support columns…one of them was the one he ran to when he thought he was going to die.
I am not sure why, but the tears just started streaming down my face. I imagined his fear and his insecurity. I imagined his deep voice reaching for the words to ask God for either safety or peace in the afterlife. I closed my eyes and imagined the hornet-like buzz of the bombers that cruised over Rome that night 63 years ago. What is it like to know someone high above you is trying to kill you? I can not even imagine.
I cried because he was gone. Because he wanted to come back to Rome and never got the chance. I cried because I was there; through me the war-time prodigal son had been able to return. I completed the journey Grandpa was unable to make. I came back to say a silent prayer; fate had spared my Grandfather that night. Had he died, I wouldn’t be around.
I felt a hand on my back and a pat. It was my Mom. She had seen me and wanted me to know I was not alone. I wiped the tears off my face and looked at her.
”We completed his journey, Mom.” I said to her.
”We sure did, Hon.” My Mom said.
We left the Colosseum soon after that. As we pulled away, I told myself I would like to come back to this place and see it again. I then realized that was the exact same thought my Grandfather had when he left the Colosseum. The question now is; will I ever make it back? And if not, will anyone complete my journey for me?







































