Uncle Joe alongside the Military Cemetery in Cypress Hills, Brooklyn, NY

My Uncle Joe O'Donnell (on the right) sitting with a friend alongside "Snake Hill" in the Cypress Hill section of Brooklyn, NY. In the background is the Military Cemetery whose entrance is on Jamaica Ave.  Not too many years later, on Oct. 13, 1951, when he was 29 years old, my Uncle Joe was killed in action on Heartbreak Ridge in Korea and was laid to rest in this cemetery.  His grave site was directly behind where he is sitting on this particular day (date not known).  His wife Marie Murphy O'Donnell, who also died tragically on June 25th 1965 at the age of 40, was laid to rest beside him.

Newspaper Article about TJ O'Donnell

You Go Grandpa O'Donnell , I'm so proud of you - It pays to have been a Farmer!

Today in my "massive house clean-up", I came across this article about my maternal grandfather, T.J. O'Donnell.   It is obviously from an old newspaper clipping and it is rapidly disintegrating, therefore, before I retire for the evening, I will type a copy of it into my Blog in an attempt to preserve the information for future generations.   It does not contain a date or the name of the newspaper.

MANY ARE RESCUED IN DASH OF RUNAWAY

_________

Bravery of Patrolman Thomas J. O'Donnell Saves Lives of Woman and Child.

_________

OFFICER HIMSELF INJURED.

________

Grasps Horse and Succeeds in Throwing It to Ground.

_________

       A woman, her five-year-old son and a policeman narrowly escaped serious injury yesterday afternoon when a horse ran wild in Fulton street, between Albany and Tompkins avenues, and imperiled the safety of scores of pedestrians, who ran to safety in hallways or stores.

       The woman, Mrs. Bertha O. Floyd, 25 years old, of 1490 Atlantic avenue, and her son, Frank, Jr., sustained bruises of the face and body when they were hurled from the path of the onrushing animal by Patrolman Thomas J. O'Donnell, of Atlantic avenue station, who grasped the horse about the neck. 

       The patrolman was dragged about a block before he managed to turn the animal into Kingston avenue, where he headed it toward a stone wall.  As the animal reared at the wall, the wagon turned over and the horse fell on its side.  The policeman, bruised, and his uniform badly torn, climbed on the horse and sat on its head until people came to his rescue and helped him hold it. 

       Mrs. Floyd and her son were attended by Dr. Marcus, of Jewish Hospital, who had been summoned by Patrolman O'Donnell.  The patrolman had escaped serious injury and refused medical attention to bruises.

       The horse, owned by Morris Levine, of 293 Ellery street, a painter, was attached to a wagon and had been left  in Fulton street near Albany avenue by the driver, Isadore Lowenthal, of 494 East 139th street, the Bronx. It was reported the horse might have been frightened by the whistle of an elevated train overhead, which caused it to start on a mad rampage down the street.

        Patrolman O'Donnell had heard the cries of woman and children as they rushed to safety.  He saw the animal dashing down the street, with the wagon swaying from one side to the other of the street.  Directly in the path of the animal was Mrs. Floyd and her son.

        The patrolman ran across the street and bolted over the woman and boy just in time to prevent them from being run down.   At the same time he reached up and clasped his arms around the neck of the animal, and by turning the horse's head directed it toward the stone wall. 

  _____________

Remembering Uncle Joe once again this Veterans Day

The night before my Uncle Joe O'Donnell left for Korea, he and my Aunt Marie stayed up all night talking. They wanted to spend every possible moment together, as they knew there was a possibility that Joe might not return.  The trip to La Guardia airport the next day was solemn and somber. We were all so terribly sad.  I was only 6 and 1/2 years old at the time, but until this day, whenever I pass the airport, I still feel the blanket of sorrow that covered us, Joe's family, as we hugged and said our final good-byes.
When Joe arrived in Korea, he had no way of getting to his post.  Since there was a desperate need for officers at the front, Joe arranged to share a jeep with an Army Chaplin, the Rev. James Meeder.
During their quiet ride together, Joe told Father many family stories about his wife and two little girls and spoke unabashedly of his tremendous love for them.  The next day, Joe shared in Mass and Holy Communion with Father Meeder and the rest of his platoon before leaving for the front.
Even though he was a strong and brave young man, my Uncle Joe was not what I envisioned as a warrior.  Although he had served his country for three and a half years during World War II as a member of the 325th Glider Infantry Regiment, 82nd Airborne Division, and had fought and survived the horrors of the Battle of the Bulge, when I think of Uncle Joe, I remember a kind, sensitive and unusually gentle man.
I remember a man who drew pictures in his letters home so his two little girls would get some idea of the people and places their Daddy was seeing.  I think of a devoted son - a son who composed an original poem for his mother one Mother's Day, adding a note of apology at the end because he wasn't able to get to a store to buy a "real" Mother's Day card.  I have no doubt this poem meant more to my grandmother than all the most expensive store-bought cards she ever received.
On October 13, 1951, 1st Lieutenant Joseph T. O'Donnell was killed in action while leading his men, soldiers of the 38th Regiment, 2nd Infantry Division, up a hill called Heartbreak Ridge.   On the day the news of Joe's death reached us at our home in Brooklyn, my Grandma - a reserved and ladylike woman - ran out in the street screaming, attempting in vain to run away from the most horrendous news any mother could ever receive.  My Grandma had six children, but Joe was her only son, and he was just 29 years old.
I remember the bitter cold day in January when we brought Joe's body to its final resting place.  The six year girl in me can hear the loud and frightening 21 Gun salute, and the final, mournful sound of a bugle playing taps. But most of all, I still feel the sadness on my Aunt Marie's face as this 26 year old mother of two was handed the folded flag of a grateful nation.
Now, many years later, I walk up State Street and pass a memorial to another forgotten war, Vietnam.  There on the silent, dark monuments are the names written in bronze, too numerous for me to count.  I slow my steps and purposely allow my eyes to fall reverently on the names of the young Americans who gave their lives in service to our country.  I offer a silent prayer for them and for their families.  I learned at an early age the pain and sadness that lingers forever when one so young, one so beloved falls on a battlefield.    And, it causes me to think these thoughts once again.  May we continue to remember them.  May we never look lightly on war and may we work feverishly, unrelentingly to maintain the freedom and peace they died to preserve.