Letters from World War II (2)
Part II: Frank J. Rubino
My mother’s sister Joan married Frank J. Rubino before the U.S. entrance into the Second World War. Frank was a principled man who was ideologically committed to defeating fascism and racism — both at home and abroad. In the wake of the 1942 Nazi annihilation of Lidice, a small Czech town about 12 miles from Prague, Frank wrote a long poem entitled “Nazi Fool!”:
Nazi fool that could not know, that this frightful bloody flow,
Has been tried before!
For where the soil is deepest red, amidst the
Heap of rotting dead
That is where the battle’s fiercest.
No, they haven’t died in vain, who suffer death’s last and sharpest pain
In Freedom’s heritage.
Nazi swine! The dead will rise to haunt you,
And forever will they taunt you,
In your helpless frenzy.
Nazi beasts who rant and rave and seek to murder
And enslave all peoples,
Your end is nigh.
Yes, you’ve neared the end of your foul plan, to
Crucify and conquer man —
It won’t be done!
Nazi murderer, did you think that you could stop the flood,
by the pouring of the blood
of helpless Czechs, and Jews, and Russians.
This is our answer!!!
Let the flag of Freedom wave.
Let the banner of the slave be brought to earth.
We will smash the tyrants’ heathen laws.
And crush his cruel and bloody claws.
In the dust.
For the tyrants come and go.
As all history does show
But the people never die!
A War So Close to Home
Though Frank yearned to join the war against fascism abroad, he was also appalled by the racism and injustices he witnessed at home. In late 1943, en route to Camp Jackson, in South Carolina, he encountered the conditions of American apartheid. He wrote to his relatives up north:
By the way, I had a very interesting time on the train down here. … We had reached Raleigh, N.C. at about 8:30 A.M. I woke up after having slept all night — in fact I went to sleep immediately upon reaching my seat — which must have annoyed a garrulous 1st Lt. sitting next to me — no end! He wanted conversation and all I did was sleep! I felt (when I awoke) that I was much in need of coffee — so I went to the rear car — a diner — to get some — killed about 30 minutes — came back to my car and found the entire car taken over by Negroes — including my seat.
It seems while I was away — Jim Crow was busy working and the Negroes had to be herded into these 3 or 4 consecutive cars — was I burned? I sizzled in the grand ‘Rubinoesque’ manner — and what do you think I did? I politely asked a colored woman if the seat next to her was taken — and she replied in the negative — so I plopped myself down and remained there for the last 5 hours of the train ride! … I just had to do something. … I thought that as long as they did not ask to be separated nor did I — then it was a political necessity to show my solidarity. I had an interesting conversation with the woman — which turned to politics — she fed me some cookies — so I felt as though I had really achieved something.
Frank’s courage grew in that train car as he confronted servicemen who were being disrespectful:
I also bawled out 3 lieutenants — the Navy! no less. They were stewed to the cars and using foul language. I didn’t mind — but there was a sailor behind me with his wife — who didn’t know what to do — so as I am not a member of the U.S.N. … I just walked over and said: ‘Why the hell don’t you cut it out’ and they subsided much to my surprise! And officers too! …
Well, I didn’t care because I knew I was absolutely correct, see? And the other servicemen in the car would bear me out. I acted real tough — like Humphrey Bogart — and they were young — and a bit scared — I think — so my ego bloomed out — to about 1000%. I think I am absolutely nutty at times. …
Take care of yourself; and hope for a speedy victory — in fact let’s work for a speedy victory — the hell with hoping!
Frank’s politics found further expression in his poem, “I Knew at Last,” a paean to conscience and nobility in the face of those dark forces engulfing the world:
I
A soldier came up to him and said, said he,
“I’m afraid to die! You see
I’ve always feared and looked with dread upon the thought of
Lying dead in some far distant place —
Away from home!”
II
He said: “Gosh! But I’m ashamed, and feel I’m wrong and should be blamed.
But what’s a guy to do
Who doesn’t have the urge to kill or drive the foe from distant hill —
Far, far away from home!
III
“Don’t get me wrong, bud,” said this boy, “I love this land and
All the joy that life has so far brought to me —
Wife — kids — a family —
But I don’t see why I must roam so far — so far
Away from home!”
IV
This man thought of what the soldier said — about the living and the dead.
He thought in silence for a while,
Then suddenly there came a smile upon his tired face
And he knew the anguish the soldier felt.
And so he answered him in whispers almost to himself,
V
“Don’t feel so badly, son, so filled with shame!
You’ve done nothing to feel such blame,
You’re just like any other man who’s gone before
On this transmission belt of war against the Nazi foe,
so CLOSE TO HOME.”
VI
Yes! “CLOSE TO HOME!” he said. “Right here in our very hearts
Has that foul beast aimed all his darts of hate and vicious crime
Against the people who had not time to close the gate —
And had no choice but — death!
AND CLOSE TO HOME!”
VII
“Death’s not the greatest tragedy, my boy.
There are far more tragic things.
To take the air we breathe that nature gave,
To make of man a bonded slave to grovel in the earth.
To make of life eternal misery
Is worse than death!
VIII
“Yes, you born of this land so free have now been called by history
At this most crucial point,
To square the score and drive the foe
Forever more, from off this earth!”
IX
“The WORLD is HOME to you. It’s furthest hill your closest door,
It’s furthest child your flesh and blood,
And all mankind your brotherhood.
There are no free men in a world half-slave.
There is no home within the dungeon deep
There is no peaceful sleep, no rest, no babes suckled at their mother’s breast
So long as tyrants wield the sword!
X
“My son, your noblest deed shall be to wipe this scurvy breed
Clear of the home you love so well,
Thrust them back into the darkest hell where they must perish,
And you will live
And know that you did give to make it so.”
With this I turned — I was alone!
The voice I’d heard had been my own; my conscience!
Knowing — strong — steadfast, I walked away.
I KNEW AT LAST!
Boot Camp
Not even the difficulties of military training could deter Frank’s fighting spirit. In a letter from Camp Blanding, Florida, dated December 18, 1943, he described the awful experience of boot camp in a tone that might be recognizable to some of today’s recruits:
This Army life is tough, don’t let anyone tell you different. Small pay, all work and no pleasure. Everything is double-time. We run from morn until night. You get so that you could kill a Nazi barehanded, you’re so Goddamn irritated. Right face, left face, about face, run, walk, column left, column right, left flank, etc., etc., until you bust. I tell you, War is the cruelest most horrible act that man can perpetuate on man. The only justification it can have is that Victory must bring a People’s Peace so that humans must not be made to suffer this way. That is why Fascism must be defeated once and for all. We may get weak occasionally but must never allow our weaknesses to conquer us.
Life in the army had its moments of relief. Frank explained:
We have some nice officers down here. I and two or three other ‘Professional performers’ have been asked to put on a Christmas Show on Christmas Eve. One is baritone, one a dancer and comedian, a piano player, sax, trumpet, etc. I shall recite some of my own compositions. I expect to write something this week; something appropriate for a bunch of lonely, home-sick men. I hope it goes over; it should brighten up Christmas for us.
Some months later, in a letter postmarked May 7, 1944, Frank wrote to my Mom, only three days after the premiere of “a brand new picture called ‘Gaslight’ with Charles Boyer and Ingrid Bergman. It was wonderful — she is tops as an emotional actress and beautiful besides. He is a good actor and the part was perfect. You will feel like tearing him into little pieces — he’s that mean!” After trying to resist telling Mom the plot, he does precisely that, outlining the ways in which Boyer terrorizes Bergman through a series of manipulative actions that have her doubting her own sanity. (Yes, the word “gaslight” is derived from the 1938 play, which was adapted for the screen, first as a 1940 British film and then as the 1944 MGM film with Boyer and Bergman; Bergman would go on to win an Academy Award for Best Actress.)
Frank was so enthusiastic about the film that he quoted word for word from Bergman’s final scene with Boyer “tied up in a chair. … You’ll find out, Annie you will love it!” Three more pages detailing the events leading up to this climax, Frank admits: “I’d better quit now before they take me to the booby-hatch, although I wouldn’t mind going along with Bergman!” He signed it, “Your passion flower, Frank.”
In a letter to Mom dated May 25, 1944, Frank suggested that army life in the states was taking its toll. He wanted to go overseas to join the battle: “I can’t write too much. … I expect to see the Medical Survey Board tomorrow + I am all jittery and can’t wait to get out of here. So please don’t mind this letter, for I can’t think or concentrate on anything.” Perhaps to calm his anxiety, knowing that my mother owned a splendid 78 rpm record collection and that she was a huge fan of the big bands of the era, Frank made a request: “I have one wish to make + that is to have all your records + radio for I am dying for some music. … Are there any new songs out that are any good?”
Frank was deemed in good health. Around this time, Joan joined her husband at Fort Benning, where she worked in the camp until mid-August. Mom and Dad were having some difficulties with their landlord and had temporarily moved in with Mom’s parents. In a letter dated June 8, 1944, Joan implored Mom to take up residence in her apartment. “My home is your home + I don’t ever want you to forget it,” Joan wrote. For about ten days, the young Sciabarra family graciously accepted the offer, staying at Joan and Frank’s place before moving back into their own apartment.
On June 19, 1944, Joan shared more information about life on the army base:
We were going to send Papa a Father’s Day card Anna but we couldn’t for the life find one in this camp. I would have liked to send him a little present but I couldn’t afford it. As you know Anna, I’m working + I don’t get paid. All I get is my food + board. Which is the main + most important of all. The only money we have is the $18.00 [Frank] gets at pay day. So we keep that for … all other expenses we have. So it was impossible to buy Papa a gift. The army encourages the husbands down here to bring their wives + work on the post. They give them room + board free. And really Anna that is the only thing the wives have to worry about … So they get that + at the same time their husbands are with them. Altho I have a feeling the major will give me a few dollars when I leave. Most of the officers do that. They treat me very nice + they make me feel at home here. … I was a little homesick yesterday being Father’s Day. I was thinking of the family being at mom’s house … I wanted to call up, but it would have cost a few dollars so we thought it over and decided not to call.
Knowing that Mom was a huge fan of big bandleader Harry James — indeed, there was that concert at the Brooklyn Paramount where Mom nearly fell out of the balcony from her elation during one of his fiery trumpet solos — Joan added that she and Frank “saw two pictures with Harry James in them. The pictures were ‘Two Girls + A Sailor’ + ‘Bathing Beauty’. Well James was terrific. But the reason I mention that is because this fellow Vinnie Barlomenti from our neighborhood who plays trumpet is with James’ orchestra. So look out for him.”
In a letter to Mom dated July 19, 1944, Joan detailed Frank’s training for the Officer Candidate School (O.C.S.):
Frankie signed up for O.C.S. + he goes in front of the board for an interview today or tomorrow. And I’m a nervous wreck. I hope he passes this board. Once you pass the first board, you get a crack at the next board + then you’re in. If he makes good he will go to Officers Candidate School to beecome a Second Lt. which won’t be bad. So Anna say a prayer. … Don’t count too much on it but hope for the best. He stands a good chance of making it because his I.Q. was over 110 + his marks in school are very good. But you know how the army does things so we are waiting to see how things turn out … I would like to see Frankie make it because he has worked hard studying. I will let you know as soon as I find out. … Well Anna three more weeks + then home. I don’t know about Frankie coming home with me. … I don’t know whether he will get a furlough or not. … Frankie sends his love. Say a prayer for him Anna. I hope he makes it.
Despite his studious efforts, Private First Class (PFC) Frank Rubino didn’t make it into O.C.S. And he didn’t get a furlough. Mom received a letter from him, dated August 29, 1944, perhaps his last before going over to Europe. “I don’t know what to say,” he wrote. “I have moved around so damn much. I’m tired, besides I was looking forward to going over, really! You know I would have been a big hit with those Italian dolls! … Bye, bye for a while.”
Over There
By the fall of 1944, Frank had finally made it to England. He was overwhelmed by the history that surrounded him. He wrote to his wife:
You should see the sights that I have — I can hardly wait to see and tell you. The 12th Century towns — imagine! You haven’t seen the cobbled streets — narrow-winding up and down; the dark alleys — lanterns hung up in the streets; ‘Fish and chips’ places all through the town. The ‘Pubs’ which are the town night life — with the pretty bar-maids — and all my shillings and pence, etc. confusing for a few days now I am as British as the rest. … The scars of the war are here for everyone to see — this must be typical of most small English towns. I have found some very nice hard-working people, pleasant, clean, and a pretty museum in town. … Cyclists everywhere you look, mostly women — driving on the left. I almost got killed the other night. The darkness is overwhelming — and the mixture of these “women of the night,” with all the fever of wartime — is an exciting thing. … the tiny tots, swarms of them — hanging on my coat, every night the same plaintive cry: “Any gum chum?” or “Ave you a cigarette for my pop?” or “Give me a doughnut mitey” (meaning ‘matey’) … I wouldn’t have missed some of this for the world.
Not to worry my Aunt Joan about those pretty bar-maids and those “women of the night,” he penned two poignant poems, expressing his love:
As the Flowers need the sun and as little brooklets run,
And with the memories of the fun that we once knew;
As a child looks to its mother and as a brother loves his brother,
So shall I ne’re seek another.
But my dearest Joansie — you!
And in this poem, entitled “Slacken Not the Pace,” his love for Joan extended to his dreams of raising a family:
The years just come and go — so swiftly past
And each so sweet — more precious than the last.
As from life’s golden urn they slyly slip —
Completing man’s too brief and earthly trip —
But have staunch faith and slacken not the pace
And walk erect with loving wife and son
Undaunted, fearless, with your shining face
Alight with all the battles to be won.
On this day accept my deepest love
I swear again the faith I did before
And slowly surely shall we went our way
And be as one — for now — and evermore!
On Thanksgiving Day, November 23, 1944, Frank sent Joan “a gripe from abroad!” He wrote:
Of course I could gripe — everyone does. I think they can’t help it — but what’s the use? Things could be more on the basis of equality — but the Army is just like the old civilian “politics” game … if you are independent and don’t “brown-nose” too bad! I do okay! I’M STILL THE CAPTAIN OF MY OWN SOUL! That’s important, isn’t it?
On that same Thanksgiving Day, Mom wrote to Frank. She couldn’t help but share her sadness:
Heard from Joan you are now in England. … I should have realized that from your APO [Army Post Office] number. You see, my brother-in-law Charlie had that number when he first went overseas — he landed in England. Well, Frankie, you finally made that trip, do you feel better now? You spoke about it long enough. What is it that makes you fellows all feel the same — somehow you don’t feel right unless you make that trip across. Oh well. What’s the use of talking anyway. How do you like it out there? Did you get sea-sick on your way up? … You know me, quite the sentimental and melancholy type, that’s right. I’m blue as could be when any holiday comes around. Time sure makes a lot of changes — what a mess. This year finds you all away from home. … That doesn’t leave us much to be thankful for — but to have you all well and safe is plenty to be thankful for today. Tell me, did you at least have the dinner special of the day — turkey with all the trimmings? Out here, anyone who had turkey in their homes were sure considered lucky as they were pretty scarce this year. My people were one of the lucky ones. Wish you could have been here for your slice of turkey.
The letter was returned.
On Thursday, December 7, 1944, Mom wrote to Frank again:
I have yet to hear from you. … it’s three years since the Pearl Harbor attack, back in 1941, ’44 seemed so far away that we thought surely it would be over by this time, but here we are, still going strong, but very much in our favor and with all that, still no sign of victory. How does it look? Do you think it will be much longer? However long it may go, remember Frankie, patience, hope and faith — without that, we’re goners. Take care. Don’t let it get you down. So long for a while, wipe the Axis out and hurry home. It will be time you got to settle down to being a family man.
The letter was returned.
Still not having heard from Frank, Mom followed up with a letter on Tuesday, December 12, 1944. Her references to “Georgie” and “Charlie” are to my father’s brothers who were also fighting in Europe. (Their letters are the subject of my next installment.) Mom wrote:
Time out for a minute to let you know I am listening to a recording of ‘White Christmas’ by Frankie Sinatra. Truly beautiful. But leaving a sad touch. It’s just too awful this damn mess has sure done plenty of damage. Better change my tune but fast, before I get you to feel blue. … We’ve had no mail from Georgie or Charlie for weeks now. Georgie is still in Italy at least we think he is. As to Charlie — well, he’s right in the middle, Germany. Patience, they tell me. Gosh, you have to be made of iron and even then, the cards go against you. … Take care of yourself. Keep that chin up. Don’t worry. At least try not to. … As ever, your sis-in-law, Annie. P.S. — Write soon.
The letter was returned.
The Battle of the Bulge
Frank never received Mom’s letters from Thanksgiving or thereafter. He was already in the thick of war on the continent. By December 16, 1944, he was deployed as part of the 346th Infantry Regiment of the 87th Infantry Division during the last major German offensive on the Western front in the Ardennes region of Belgium and Luxemburg. It would become known as the Battle of the Bulge, running its course through January 25, 1945.
On the eve of that battle, Frank wrote home:
I will say that I have been bearing up pretty well. My natural curiosity about people — things etc. keeps me going, — although I can’t quite escape the morbid thoughts of the future — specially with the Nazi last stand decision. We may get the worst of the whole thing — my good fortune — as usual, who knows? I often think of the many times I have stated my long expressed opinion about destiny and combat, etc. … I am anxious to get back and I will try awful hard — in case anything happens to alter my plans — well, I hope it’s sudden! The hell with this drawn out suffering for me. … I feel that … all the other common folk on the earth will get a real chance at living, especially the younger generation, and maybe I can contribute my little share.
Frank J. Rubino was killed in action under the weight of a German tank on January 3, 1945.
When uniformed servicemen arrived in Brooklyn to see my Aunt Joan, she knew from the sight of them that she was about to receive the unbearable, devastating news. She ran from the doorway of the house, hysterically crying. Months later, the army honored her request to provide additional information on her husband’s death. That letter dated June 8, 1945, and signed by Captain Walter A. Divers, reiterates:
It is my sad duty to give you more complete information which you desire concerning the status of your husband, Pfc. Frank J. Rubino, 42 053 958, who was killed in action on January 3, 1945. I know there are no words we can express to bring peace and comfort to your heart in these hours of loss and emptiness, but there is one pride in which we all will remember and that is, he performed his duty splendidly and was loved and admired by all who knew him.
Pfc. Rubino was a member of Company A when they went into attack near Bizory, Belgium. Their mission was to take and hold the town of Bizory with the weather conditions very bad. It was cold and raining with ice and slush covering the ground. The unit attacked and suffered some casualties as the result of enemy artillery, tanks, and automatic weapons. Pfc. Rubino sustained wounds causing his death. The Graves Registration Office was notified and they took care of the burial. … These words cannot unburden our sorrow, but they bring pride and inspiration to us all. We are proud that he was a member of our organization and we will remember him and all the others that fell on the field of battle when we reach the gates of victory.
Frank was posthumously awarded the Purple Heart Medal for having given “his life in battle in the service of his country.” His body was temporarily laid to rest in the U.S. Cemetery at Grand Failly, in northeastern France. In the period from 1947 to 1950, as this French region was returned to agricultural use, Frank’s body was moved along with all those who had fallen during the Battle of the Bulge to the Luxembourg American Cemetery and Memorial.
A collection of Frank’s poems, “I Knew at Last”, was published in August 1945. The preface opens with poetic foreboding. It reads:
Frank’s legacy to those who love him, his family and his friends, is contained in this little booklet, and in his words: “So if you loved me, long to keep me in your aching hearts, then live for what I’ve lived and died, and we will never have to part — forevermore.”
In next Tuesday’s installment, I turn my attention to two Sciabarra brothers — my Uncles George and Charlie — whose experiences in the European theater of the war had a brutal impact on their lives and the lives of their loved ones on the home front.
Series Installments
Part I: Letters Found (August 12, 2025)
Part II: Frank J. Rubino (August 19, 2025)
Part III: George & Charlie (August 26, 2025)
Part IV: The Navy Boys (September 2, 2025)
