Copyright Julie Macksoud & www.aerothentic.com
The below article was prepared especially
for this website,
and is aimed to give you an idea of
the resources we deploy
to discover the history behind MIA
sites.
Aerothentic is deeply grateful to Joseph Panciocco and Julie Panciocco Macksoud, for this presentation on their uncle. It is a moving presentation, in two parts. First, a factual description of what occurred, followed by an emotive essay by Julie. This is a familiar Fifth Air Force story – a bomber goes missing, and is found nearly five decades later. Its discovery awakens family ties and sentiments. The passage of time does not always diminish the loss of a loved one.
Mitchell
B-25J-11-NA serial #43-28134
MIA
9 January 1945 – Resolved
On 9th January 1945
S/Sgt Paul Panciocco was on "back up crew duty", and replaced S/Sgt
Riner Schallern who was sick that day. It was an ironic event, because Paul
had just returned five days prior from Nadzab Hospital in New Guinea’s Markham
Valley after being treated for a tropical disease. US forces had re-occupied
the Philippines for just over three months now, and the 345th Bombardment
Group launched seventeen Mitchells that morning from Tacloban
Airfield (Click here to see wartime map) to support the Sixth Army landing
on the beach at Lingayen Gulf, Luzon, approximately 550 miles north. Each
bomber departed at regular intervals but proceeded to the target individually.
Panciocco was aboard unnamed #43-28134 piloted by 1/Lt Wallace N. Chalifoux.
The Mitchell took off in early tropical morning darkness at 0430 hours.
We know from Lt. John K Zollinger,
a navigator on one of the other Mitchells, unnamed #43‑36165 that departed
shortly after Chalifoux, he saw two bright flashes at 0542 hours appear on
the peak of Mt.Guiting‑Guiting, a 6000 foot high mountain on Sibuyan
Island, about 180 miles from takeoff. Weather conditions at the time were
overcast.
In 1992 (47 yrs. later) two Filipinos
collecting rattan reported finding aircraft wreckage and crew remains on the
mountain. None of the people on the island live more than five miles from
shore, as the terrain and steep jagged slopes are treacherous. There are no
trails to climb ‑ its all jungle, with leeches, leopards and flying
lizards.
From 18 to 30 November 1992,
a team from the US military "Central Identification Laboratory of
Hawaii" visited the site to collect the remains and artifacts including
two ‘dog-tags’, eleven teeth and over one hundred bones, and the site was
identified as CILHI 0201‑92. They had insufficient time for a full
excavation, and recommended the site for further recovery in 1993. However
political instability in the area precludes recovery to this date. The site is
therefore still considered "open" and CILHI will return to complete
the recovery when it is safe to do so.
Paul's sister Margaret Femino of Maine was notified of the identifications from the site in November 1998. The six families involved submitted blood samples for DNA tests (CILHI#0201‑92). By March 2000 the results confirmed matches for all aboard except pilot Chalifoux.
CILHI personally delivered
photographs of the recovery effort to the Panciocco family in August 2000, and
helped make final burial arrangements for Paul, in Hyde Park, to be buried
alongside his parents on 21 October 2000. All remaining unidentifiable remains
of the six‑man crew were buried together with full military honors in
Arlington National Cemetery, on 3 November 2000.
Paul J. Panciocco had
finally come home. He was born in Hyde Park, Massachusetts on 19 July 1921 and
died when he was 23 years of age. He entered the Army Air Force on 16 March
1943, service number 31302176, and served with the 498th Bombardment Squadron.
Post-Script
S/Sgt Riner Schallern
was the original crew man who Panciocco replaced, but just before boarding the
plane that morning he had a severe case of "the G.I. runs". Riner
stayed on in the
military and
worked up to the rank of 2nd Lt. He was married and had two sons, but was divorced
early on, and has not seen his family in 30 years. He is now 80 years old, and
lives in a trailer in Silver Springs Florida. He is 100% disabled due to a
stroke he had several years ago.
1/Lt Wallace N Chalifoux
Pilot, age 22, from Illinois
2/Lt Neil Bennet
Davis Co‑Pilot,
age 22, from Iowa
1/Lt August (Fred)
Bauer Bomb/Navigator,
age 23, from New Jersey
S/Sgt John S. Orloff
Engineer/Gunner, age 33, New York
S/Sgt Paul Panciocco
Arm /Gunner age 23, Massachusetts
Parades and Epiphanies
Laying
a War Hero to Rest after 55 Years
I confess. Memorial Day and
Veteran's Day and even the Fourth of July have not meant that much to me over
the years. It's not that I am unpatriotic. Being part of the Bicentennial
events on the Boston Esplanade in 1976 was a memorable experience. But, for the
most part, these holidays seemed full of people I could not really relate to:
flag‑waving military types marching in parades. Granted, my father served
in the Air Force but didn't exactly see much action. Stars & Stripes
Forever never made it to my favorite song list. But I have been on a remarkable
journey, back through time, that has changed me, and made me think differently
about such matters. I have had the rare privilege of coming to know someone who
died before I was even born. He died for his country. For my country. His name
was Paul J. Panciocco. He and I came from the same small back pockety of
Boston, the hardworking, blue‑collar town of Hyde Park. We were descended
from the same sturdy Italian stock that emigrated to America at the turn of the
century (the last one). That's about all we have in common. He was my
grandfather's younger brother and he died at the unpardonable age of 23. As a
child, I remember being curious about the faded black and white photograph of
dashing "Uncle Paully" and intrigued by the mysterious circumstances
surrounding his death during World War 11.
For 23 years he belonged to
my family. For 22 months he belonged to Uncle Sam. For more than 47 years he
was missing in action. Until 1992, when two Philippine Nationals reported
finding the wreckage of his plane, a B‑25, and some remains on the small
(but steep) island of Sibuyan, a God‑forsaken, lizard‑laden jungle
in the Pacific. Unfortunately, it took the U. S. Government six more years to
notify our family of this discovery. Red tape, you know. Paul's parents were
long gone, of course, and his brother (my beloved grandfather, Rocco) had
passed on as well. But Paul's sister, my Great Aunt Margaret, who is a spry 89,
moved from Massachusetts to Maine in the 1970s and settled on Sebago Lake where
she lives today with my Uncle Joe. They had no children. So it was my father
who began to act as liaison. There were blood tests needed from all six
families who lost men aboard that ill‑fated mission in the early hours of
January 9th, 1945. DNA would be compared to the eleven teeth and more than 100
bone fragments found scattered over the site.
For the past year and a half
many unanswered questions have surfaced, many letters written requesting more
information and much anguish relived. My father, who has never been able to
grasp the concept of retirement, launched a virtual campaign from Cape Cod to
assist (provoke?) the government workers assigned to this case. He bought and
taught himself to use a computer, going on‑line to order all kinds of
World War II books and maps. He spent hundreds of hours on e‑mail trying
to connect with people who had knowledge of the 345th Bomber Group, 498th
Squadron. He educated himself on all facets of the failed air mission. And for
the first time in our lives, we worked together, as father and daughter, on a
project, researching the whereabouts of other descendants of Paul's crew. They
were from Illinois, Iowa, New Jersey and New York. The eldest was 33. These are
the facts, as they came to be dusted off. They were not the feelings. Those
came later, gradually, and surprisingly.
My aunt entrusted us with a
small, gray suitcase full of letters she had saved from her soldier brother. It
was tied tight with an old blue ribbon. At Christmas time, 1999,1 began to read
Paul's letters aloud in my sister Lisa's kitchen in Hopkinton, MA. They were
amazing. Neatly written with beautiful handwriting, and full of corny phrases
from the forties, such as "awfully swell" and "big lug" and
"sitting pretty." They remain his legacy to us. What a Christmas
present! The first letter was dated, coincidentally, on my father's eighth
birthday, March 19, 1943.
It tells of his being
shipped out from Fort Devens, MA. to Miami Beach, Florida, for eight weeks of
intense basic training. He said they had to shine their shoes four times a day
but "the chow is great. "Paul had originally entered the service
thinking he would train to become a mechanic. But after awhile, the lure of
being a gunner overtook him. To his astonishment, he was good at this soldier
business and kept succeeding. He tried to shield this information, however,
from his parents, which was not that hard to do as they could not read or speak
English very well.
I am especially fond of a letter
he wrote to my father and his brother on April 7, 1943: "Gosh, I miss you
two little rascals. I wish you were down here for a while, boy you would love
it. I know you would be proud of me if you could see me in my snappy uniforms
& zooming around here in airplanes. You pray for me and maybe someday I
will fly right to Hyde Park in one of these big, big planes. You do pray for
me, don't you? Well, I hope so because I ask God to bless you both every
night."
Paul was a good kid;
enchanted by the sights and sounds of a strange, southern city that he found
"too damned beautiful." he went to church. He wrote his mother every
day (at first) and asked constantly about 'his girl' Mary. He was small and
swift and started boxing. On April 15 he wrote his sister: "I had already
heard that Mom was a citizen & am I proud. We are all Americans now. I wish
I was home. I'll bet she was as happy as a kid with a new toy - you are right
about us Panciocco's, Mag. We are a tough outfit to lick."
Paul wrote a lot of letters.
He told about the nosebleed he got the first time he flew, pulling guard duty
at 3AM, how hard it was to get by until payday. What he wouldn't do for a cold
beer. He wrote of his journey across America by train, to other stations,
before being shipped overseas. It was not something the average boy from Hyde
Park would normally experience. He was genuinely appreciative and shared his
wonder and excitement about what was happening to him in writing. He shared his
worries and concerns as well, about his buddies and his fading hope of love
with Mary (who eventually did break their engagement and his heart). Paul wrote
about his bouts with malaria (something even a boxer would not out spar), and a
nagging sense of not returning from the war. He just had a feeling.
After weeks of reading these
pieces of the past, they became a kind of diary to me. I stared to know Paul,
to like him. I was familiar with his handwriting, his sweet expressions, with
the high he felt upon each accomplishment, and the ultimate low that waited for
him as the stacks of letters dwindled down to their inevitable and inescapable
ending. It was awful. Like watching a movie you never expected to enjoy. Just
when it starts to get really good, you recall that you have already read the
book and know how it is going to end. Badly. Paul's ending was somewhat ironic.
He had just returned from a hospital in New Guinea, having suffered another
setback in the tropical disease arena, which was common for many servicemen. He
was officially listed as "back up crew" at that point when a
Staff/Sergeant took sick himself and needed to be replaced. Paul was the
replacement. The B‑25 took off at 4:30 A.M. from Tacloban Air Strip on
the island of Leyte in the Philippines. A far cry from the narrow garden paths
of his father's home on Garfield Avenue. The target destination was
approximately 550 miles northwest. They were one of 17 planes headed to Luzon
in poor weather conditions. They never made it. Someone said about the
Philippines "every cloud has a rock in it", and in fact we did loose
more planes to the weather than to the Japanese.
One hundred and eighty miles
into the flight there was a bright flash and a loud explosion. Mt. Guiting-Guiting
‑ which remains today untouched by the modern world ‑ had appeared
suddenly and in an instant (we hope) he was gone. Paul was classified as
missing‑in‑action, the second worst string of three words in the
world. My aunt kept the delicate telegram that meant she would never see her
brother again. The war ended seven months later. The investigation is over.
Finally. As my family now prepares to lay Paul's remains to rest in the
cemetery in the town he never got to come home to, I can't help but reflect on
all the lives Paul touched in his brief 23 years. And the ones he touched long
after he left this world. The man he replaced is still alive. He is in his
eighties now, living in Florida. That Christmas afternoon when we read Paul's
long forgotten words was the first time I ever saw my father cry.
Paul’s sweetheart, Mary,
turned out to be the aunt of one of my college friends who presented me with
the gift of his letters to her family which makes us feel related somehow. My
Aunt Margaret now has peace of mind (not necessarily peace of heart) that can
help her close this painful wound, left raw with uncertainty for so many years.
As for me, I look at the blessing of my own sons and wonder about the boy named
Paul with the laughing brown eyes of my grandfather. He never got to show off
his uniform to his nephews, marry the girl of his dreams, or buy a home of his
own. He never got to have children, count the days to retirement or reminisce
as a veteran. And it occurs to me, not without more than a little discomfort,
that I have missed the point of many a parade.
Rest in peace, Uncle Paul.
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