This Memorial Day I’ve decided to post a photograph I have of the young men from The Hill, the Italian area of south St. Louis where I grew up, who were killed in World War II.

Their last names are all familiar as I went to elementary school with kids with the same last names – likely these young men were relatives they never knew. One was my Uncle Charlie (top row, second from the right). He was killed with his buddy by a mortar round that dropped on their foxhole on April 10th, 1945 on Okinawa.

While we never knew our relatives – if we looked as we grew older, we could see the open wounds their deaths caused. I don’t think my grandmother Ambrosina or my dad ever got over the pain of my uncle’s death.

Deepest respect to these young men and all those who suffered their deaths.