Thomas Joseph Martin Campbell, Jr. , USAF/USARMY, Ret. ~ 01 September 1931 to ~ 24 January 2017 ~ Aged 85 years ~ Thomas Joseph Martin Campbell, Jr. was born on the 1st day of September in the year 1931, in Brooklyn, New York, to an Irish-German immigrant family. Tom. Tommy. Slim. Father. Dad. Da. Grampa. Great-Grampa-pa. Beloved by many. Esteemed. Well-liked. Respected. Raised in the turbulent environment of the Great Depression and World War II, Thomas was given over to the state at the age of 3, along with his two sisters, Katherine (the elder) and Dorothy (the younger), both of whom have pre-deceased him, and spent his youth in the Brooklyn Orphanage where he began his career as a crooner, rivaled only by Frank and Bing. A few years later he was sent to the Brookwood Hall Orphanage in Islip, Long Island. Here he honed his singing skills, learned to play stick ball, and kick-the-can (and broke his toe when someone played a trick on him by hiding a sizable rock inside the can!). Dad also learned the meaning of giving of oneself, and of having very little. He related to me once the story of how on Christmas morning they would race downstairs to see what Santa had left under the tree for them, and be delighted with the toys they would find, since they had none, only to find those precious commodities taken from them the very next day by the staff of the home to be shipped to far-away missions. While his biological father (Thomas Joseph Michael Campbell, Sr.) was Roman-Catholic, his biological mother (Charlotte Redenback) was German Lutheran. Thomas (Jr) was baptized at the Ridgewood Presbyterian Church, Queens, New York,September 27, 1931 and was baptized later as a Catholic when he married Marilyn. His parents were very poor, barely scrapping a living in the poorest parts of the immigrant neighborhoods of Brooklyn. Much of this was brought about as a result of his father’s alcoholism, and how his father would “drink away his pay before it made it home”. Thomas, the Sr., was a veteran of the Philippine War, World War I, and World War II. In those days there was very little help for veterans with PTSD, shell shock, and gas. It seems understandable that he took to the drink to lose himself and forget. So sad. So tragic. The impact on others and especially the little ones, forgotten. His real parents must have still yet loved each other, for they died within a month of one-another. Marilyn only met them once or twice. His children never met them for they died when we (the two eldest) were still babies. A tragic loss to family connection. Ironic that Tom’s own father (and his father’s siblings), were to be raised in an orphanage as well when their parents died tragically and unexpectedly. Tom was equally fortunate to be absorbed into the Madden clan of tight-knit uncles, aunts, cousins, and grandparents, when he found Marilyn. She had grown up under the bonds of a strong and very large family, especially influenced by their Grandmother, Christina Madden, Great-Gram. It was these bonds that continued to support and encourage him through the remainder of his life here on earth, and will continue to connect him to us now that he has passed over. Tom joined the Army (1st CAV) at the age of 17 years. He told me that he came to a cross-road in his life and had to make a decision which would affect his very survival. You see, sleeping in friends cars, running the streets with other boys, sometimes running for his life down the alleys between the tenements to the railroad tracks, and it was during one of these flights for the tracks that he found himself close to being at the losing end of a fist & knife fight with a rival gang. In the army, he would see the world and experience the horrors of war, the tragedy of loss of life, loss of friends. It would haunt him for the rest of his life. He never ceased in his pride for his Troop, had many good and jolly stories to tell, yet bittersweet, still felt sorrow and pain for the loss of friends, and buried gruesome memories. He rarely spoke of the sorrows, and not until later years, when Honor Roll would be called, did he share his tears. He came home from Korea a changed man, who wouldn’t have? Tom left the army a TSGT, re-enlisted into the Air Force, less than year later, but lost a stripe for waiting too long to do so. He served in New Foundland, where he drank coffee with Elvis. MacGuire AFB in New Jersey. Anderson AFB on Guam (he was almost sent to Alaska-but swapped orders with a friend!) Retiring from the USAF as SSGT, he had made a career out of the military. It was the best thing he ever did. For himself. For his family. There are so many stories to tell, too many for these few pages, so many that you, the reader, know and we yearn to hear. We encourage you to share in his memory book, or via his online remembrance. Tom enjoyed music and magic, old movies and westerns, bowling, baseball, hockey, boxing, and football. He made it one of his missions to take expose us to as many positive influences as possible. From air shows to rockets, from K-9 demonstrations to spring training, laying on the hood of the car watching jets and planes soar over our heads, it was important to him that we experience life. The Harlem Globtrotters, the Lipizzaner Stallions, the Kennedy Space Center, the Grand Canyon, a San Francisco trolley ride, a week’s stay in a traditional Japanese house, so much more. He made our lives full. Tom actively followed politics and sports, history and weather. He was an experienced weatherman, a certified air traffic controller, a walking encyclopedia of knowledge, a purveyor of facts and dates. If only we could have hooked up electrodes to his brain to burn it all to CD. Tom was passionate about his old cars, or for that matter, any car, especially his beloved Packard. At one point, Marilyn exclaimed, “This place looks like a used car lot!” Dad loved to entertain with yo-yo tricks, prompt-to magic shows, card tricks, the string thru the neck exhibit, and the coin behind the ear. Any child who would smile at him was in for a treat. Tom relocated his family to Florida in 1970, after his retirement from service to our county, escaping the cold northeast winters. Only, he did not know that he had retired, for he never ceased in his service, not to his country, nor to his family, nor to God. He was a strict disciplinarian. The military never left his blood. At times, to his children, he may have seen hard, but he was ever loving and ever supporting, wanting for his children what his own father was never able to give him. Dad worked hard to earn the extra pennies. He sold Cutco, insurance, laid sod, and bagged groceries, without complaint. He moved his family to a temporary home in Azalea Park until, when in 1971, he and Marilyn located a beautiful home and piece of land to call their own, and which is still their own. He encouraged his wife to start her own business. He went the extra mile to send not only his children to college, but himself as well. Tom and Marilyn immediately joined St. Mary Magdalen parish in Maitland, and in later years, as the church expanded, would attend the satellite church built in on Montgomery Road, which would later become the Church of the Annunciation, and later still, Annunciation Catholic Church. Thomas J. Campbell, Jr. comes from a long line of veterans and service to country. His great-grandfather, Bernard Campbell, was a Union soldier of the Irish Regiment of Brooklyn, the fighting 86th, as was Bernard’s father. It was only in recent years that we uncovered this piece of forgotten history, for Dad had no idea and was very pleased indeed because it tied up some lose ends for him. He always knew, from things he heard as a child, that there was a connection to Bath, New York (Upstate). He even traveled there, seeking out his family history. He had a real sense of urgency to know his roots. It is brilliant that we were able to go on this journey together and that he was able to finally realize his connection to Ireland. Dublin, in fact, is where Bernard hailed from, as did Mary, his wife. As a result of Dad’s persistence in looking toward Bath, we are able to bestow upon him membership in the Sons of the Union Soldiers of the Civil War. One day soon, a trip will be made to take bit of Dad to his ancestral home, and bring a piece of it back here for him. Dad told us often stories of the cardboard in the shoes, the ketchup or applesauce sandwiches, and of running the streets when he was older. He told us, too, of having his ears “boxed” because he tried to give back $100 he had found on the “community” sink in their apartment building. As children, that’s exactly what we thought they were, “stories”. Not until we were older, old enough to really grasp the reality of his childhood, did we fully comprehend just how cold & hostile his childhood really was. Heaven blessed Tom with a few strong friendships which led to his rising up out of the tenement slums. The most influential of these brought him into the family of Mary (Mae) Scherch. Her son, “Uncle Harry”, became fast friends with Tom, and soon Nana had “adopted” him. It was because of this great friendship and love of a family not his own, he eventually made it to a dance at a local Catholic Church and met Marilyn. It was the direct influence of all of these people, upon Thomas, that formed him with strong conservative values, solid work ethics, and raised him up in the Roman-Catholic faith, to which he became devoutly dedicated. Ever the crooner, he loved to sing and dance and wooed the young lady he had met at the church dance. Dad once told me that women and men are very different in how they find their faith. Some are born with it (mostly women) and others (mostly men) find it in the most far-reaching places, like the foxhole. One must wonder if he found his (or part of it) in somewhere in a field in Korea. Taps sounded as did the Tattoo, and Tom, ever faithful to a higher command, followed orders and took a final death rattle as the last of his breath passed from his body in the early morning of the 26th day of January, in the Year of our Lord, 2017, this from complications of sepsis which developed from an improperly treated UTI. It is central our belief that in the end our soul flies from our physical body and passes thru the mist to the other side and so in sharing with you what I am about to impart, I know that some of you will doubt, and some will chuckle, but believe me when I say that his soul left his body before the midnight hour in the form of a small whitish-gray flutter of something that floated out of his mouth and upward to the ceiling. I caught just a glimpse. And my science trained mind reasoned that it was a moth, and then rationalized that the ICU has no moths nor flies – there were none, since we entered the room – and that just prior to this vision, he had ever so weakly nodded from left to right for the nurse when asked if he was in pain – and just a short time later, it was after this “flutter” that it was clearly observable that there was no longer any recognition of voice or sound or visual – just his physical shell responding to medications, pressors, and stimulants. Although we (and he) were all too aware of the imminence of his end days approaching, and the inevitability that all life on this plane will eventually come to an end, this passing came rapidly and unexpectedly, like a sniper’s shot, hitting its target point-on. The volley was fatal and direct, and Tom was just plain dog-tired and although valiantly fought it, had not the strength to overcome it. Thereupon he passed from uneasy earthly slumber into Heavenly sleep, on a journey to Fiddler’s Green, where now he may take a well-deserved sleep, and quench his thirst at the canteen, joining the other Troopers who have passed before. FIDDLER'S GREEN Halfway down the road to hell, In a shady meadow green, Are the souls of all dead troopers camped Near a good old-time canteen. And this eternal resting place Is known as Fiddler's Green. Marching past, straight through to hell, The infantry are seen, Accompanied by the Engineers, Artillery and Marine, For none but the shades of Cavalrymen Dismount at Fiddler's Green. Though some go curving down the trail To seek a warmer scene, No trooper ever gets to hell Ere he's emptied his canteen, And so rides back to drink again With friends at Fiddler's Green. And so when man and horse go down Beneath a saber keen, Or in a roaring charge or fierce melee You stop a bullet clean, And the hostiles come to get your scalp, Just empty your canteen, And put your pistol to your head And go to Fiddler's Green. Tom is survived by his wife, Marilyn, and their children: Dr. Thomas B. (Tina) Campbell, Kathleen M. (Dr. John) Connor, Douglas M. (Brenda) Campbell, Patrick G. (Sylvia Gallo) Campbell; their grandchildren (in order of age): Kaitlan Connor Williams (Deputy Nicholas S. Williams), Thomas Wayne Campbell, Kelsey Connor Testa (SGT Peter P. Testa), Travis B. Campbell, Kiersten Connor, Trevor A. Campbell, and Talya I. Campbell; their great-grandchildren (in order of age): Peter Vinton Testa, Aiden Connor Williams, Reilly Mae Testa, and Nora Kate Williams; nephews and nieces John Bernard Maher, Gary Maher, Yvette (Tartaro) Irwin, Donna (Tartaro) Klosterman, Ernie Palmer, and Linda Palmer; cousin Kathleen Campbell Grimando and her extended family, and many other nieces, nephews, grand-nieces, grand-nephews, and cousins; his brother-in-law Peter (Ruth) Sbashnig (and their children: Susan, Patricia (Jerry) Loneran, Barbara (William) Reilly, and Peter Sbashnig); brother-in-law Robert (Teresa) Sbashnig (and their children: Margaret (Peter) Seery, and Peter (Sandee) Sbashnig); sister-in-law Irene (Penny Scherch) Marrow; Pre-deceased by his sisters, Katheryn, Dorothy Maher, and Theresa (Scherch) Tartaro; Tom leaves behind many other second and third cousins and dear friends, Artie Sweet, not forgotten but too many to mention herein. Wake Service to be held on Sunday, the 29th day of January 2017 at Baldwin Fairchild West Altamonte, 90 Weathersfield Avenue, Altamonte Springs, Florida 32714. Service begins at 5:00 pm, officiated by Father Bowman of Annunciation Catholic Church, with Wake gathering to continue as a catered celebration and gathering of family and friends until 8:00 pm. Funeral Mass will be held on Monday the 30th of January 2017 at 9:30 am, Annunciation Catholic Church, 1020 Montgomery Road, Altamonte Springs, Florida 32714 with Father Baumann officiating. Piper Bradley Greene will pipe in; escort of Troopers; pall-bearers: Sgt. Peter Testa, Deputy Nicholas Williams, Dr. John Connor, John Maher, Patrick Campbell, Douglas Campbell, and Dr. Thomas Campbell. Tom will be committed and laid to rest with full Military Honors in Arlington National Cemetery at a later date. The Family requests that in lieu of a Vigil and Rosary being held the night before, persons of like mind kindly hold a quiet Vigil and Rosary Recitation in the privacy of their own home, at a time convenient to themselves. The Family is accepting donations for The Fisher House, in remembrance of Tom’s legacy. Donations may be sent to the Family, to the attention of Tom’s daughter, Kathleen, at the office: 860 North S.R. 434, Suite #1009, Altamonte Springs, Florida 32714; or, donations may be made directly to The Fisher House, online at: https://www.fisherhouse.org/ Please visit www.baldwinfairchild.com to sign the Family Guest Registry. In Flanders fields the poppies blow Between the crosses, row on row, That mark our place: and in the sky The larks still bravely singing fly Scarce heard amid the guns below. We are the dead: Short days ago, We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, Loved and were loved: and now we lie In Flanders fields! Take up our quarrel with the foe To you, from failing hands, we throw The torch: be yours to hold it high If ye break faith with us who die, We shall not sleep, though poppies grow In Flanders fields Composed at the battlefront on May 3, 1915 during the second battle of Ypres, Belgium Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae It’s the Soldier ~Charles M. Province A protest raged on a courthouse lawn, Round a makeshift stage they charged on, Fifteen hundred or more they say, Had come to burn a Flag that day. A boy held up the folded Flag, Cursed it, and called it a dirty rag. An OLD MAN pushed through the angry crowd, With a rusty shotgun shouldered proud. His uniform jacket was old and tight, He had polished each button, shiny and bright. He crossed that stage with a soldier’s grace, Until he and the boy stood face to face. “FREEDOM OF SPEECH”, the OLD MAN said, “Is worth dying for, good men are dead, So you can stand on this courthouse lawn, And talk us down from dusk to dawn, But before any Flag gets burned today, This OLD MAN IS GOING TO HAVE HIS SAY!! My father died on a foreign shore, In a war they said would end all war. But Tommy and I wasn’t even full grown, Before we fought in a war of our own. And Tommy died on Iwo Jima’s beach, In the shadow of a hill he couldn’t quite reach Where five good men raised this Flag so high, That the WHOLE WORLD COULD SEE IT FLY. I got this bum leg that I still drag, Fighting for this same old Flag. Now there’s but one shot in this old gun, So now it’s time to decide which one, Which one of you will follow our lead, To stand and die for what you believe? For as sure as there is a rising sun, You’ll burn before this Flag burns, son. Now this riot never came to pass. The crowd got quiet and that can of gas, Got set aside as they walked away To talk about what they had heard this day. And the boy who had called it a “dirty rag”, Handed the OLD SOLDIER the folded Flag. So the battle of the Flag this day was won By a tired OLD SOLDIER with a rusty gun, Who for one last time, had to show to some, THIS FLAG MAY FADE, YET THESE COLORS DON’T RUN
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