n the 4th of July, 1944, my father left North Africa and sailed for Italy. He was stationed outside of Naples, briefly, before receiving orders for Corsica.

He was in Corsica, longer than in any other country, while overseas. He spent a good deal of time between sea and sky, traveling the narrow, winding road that rings the island, ascending 14,000-feet up into the mountains in places. He was continually uprooted in his early days there, receiving three assignments in two weeks: packing, unpacking, meeting new people and saying "Goodbye."

With the 121st: warm memories in the cold Corsican mountains.

ventually, he ended up as medical officer for the 121st Quarter Master Battalion. The 121st was a trucking outfit, which, most notably, had hauled personnel and supplies in support of the invasion of Southern France.