Chapter 13: The Summer Between
- Anthony Carbone
- Jul 22
- 8 min read
Updated: Sep 6
BELIEVE NOTHING YOU HEAR, AND ONLY HALF OF WHAT YOU SEE — A Memoir of Service, Shame, and the Search for Truth
The Summer of 1977: Family to Fort Leavenworth and I to College
The summer of 1977 marked a huge transition in my life — the bridge between childhood and independence, high school and college, Germany and America. Our family had just packed up our house in Bad Kreuznach and returned to the States, unsure of what was next for me — but with one major change for my father: he had received new orders to return to the Command & General Staff College at Fort Leavenworth, Kansas — not as a student this time, but as a field-experienced faculty professor and full colonel.
First Stop Boston, Massachusetts
We started that summer back in Medford, Massachusetts, staying with my mother’s family. It felt good to be home. We Army Brats used to joke about returning to “The Land of the Round Doorknobs,” a nod to the classic American doorknobs we hadn’t seen in years — so different from the L-shaped European handles. It was silly, but symbolic. For me, it really did feel like I was back where I belonged.
Next Stop: Nana & Papa Pietrantoni’s House in Medford
It was a short stay in Boston, but I made the most of it. I reveled in Nana Pietrantoni’s kitchen — her spaghetti sauce with meatballs, the Italian cold cuts, the fresh Scali bread from the bakery. I’d watch her cook, and those aromas wrapped around me like a warm, familiar hug. When I wanted quiet, I’d go sit in Papa’s sewing room. He’d be working at his Singer machine, radio playing in the background, and we’d chat about life while he stitched jackets and slacks. That rhythm — the hum of the sewing machine and the soft murmur of his voice — anchored me.
A Little Summer Work at the Carpenito Family Fruit & Produce
I also went back to my old summer job at 5-Cs, the Carpenito Family Fruit & Produce business in Medford. It was run by my father’s closest friend — his gumbadi — “Uncle” Pat Carpenito. In our Italian culture, every respected adult who wasn’t family still got called “Uncle” or “Aunt.” I had worked at 5-Cs on and off for years. My first job? Cutting onions. Tons of onions. I reeked of them. I remember going to church, and people would actually switch pews to get away from the stench coming off me.
But I did it all — unloading train cars, stocking produce, running the deli counter, making sub sandwiches. When I was just starting, they’d send me into the freezer to fetch things — Italian parsley, chicory, broccoli rabe — and I didn’t know what any of them looked like. My glasses would fog up instantly. I’d stand in there freezing until someone else came in so I could whisper, “Which one is chicory?”
Working With Delinquents
Uncle Pat had a big heart for giving second chances. He hired guys others called ex-cons or delinquents, but they were hardworking Italian men with tough hands and bigger hearts. They treated me like a younger brother. They’d throw 50-pound bags of potatoes into the back of the truck and laugh when they knocked me over. It was rough, but it toughened me up. I honestly believe it prepared me for Army boot camp later on.
Truck Deliveries with My Father & His Gumba, Uncle Pat
The best part of the day was when Uncle Pat would yell, “Go make us a sub!” I’d build two thick Italian sandwiches in the deli, and we’d hit the road, delivering produce to restaurants around Boston. Sometimes my father would come along, and we’d all ride in the cab of the delivery truck, trading stories, busting chops, and laughing until our stomachs hurt.
They had this running joke — whenever we passed a wedding party outside a church, Uncle Pat would slow down, roll down the window, beep the horn, and yell, “Don’t do it!!!” before peeling off. Every time.
And maybe it sounds small, but this next part meant the world to me: the only time my father ever seemed to show genuine admiration or pride in me was when I was working like a dog and sweating like a pig. When I was dead tired and covered in onion stench or loading crates like a longshoreman, he’d look at me and smile. Just a little smirk–but it was his smirk, and I lived for it.
Still No Idea Where I am Going to College (Or How to Pay)
At that point in the summer, I still had no clue where I was going to college. I had turned down West Point — an offer most would kill for — because I wanted a different kind of college experience. I had a 4-year Army ROTC scholarship, but it only covered tuition, not room and board. And places like Harvard and MIT were quoting over $3,000 a year just for room and board. That sounded like a fortune to me. There was talk of commuting to a Boston school and living with Nana, but I didn’t want to miss out on the full campus experience.
I Learned About Notre Dame and Its Cheap Room & Board
Then a friend of the family told me her son was going to the University of Notre Dame. She said his room and board were just $1,000 a year — including maid and laundry service. I had barely even heard of Notre Dame. Despite being a lifelong Catholic, I didn’t know anything about it. I hadn’t visited, seen a brochure, or even a photograph. But I looked into it — and discovered that it had a strong academic reputation, a solid pre-med program, and, most importantly, an Army ROTC detachment.
Call to Notre Dame’s Admissions Office
The clock was ticking. It was already mid-summer. I called the long-distance information operator and asked for the number to the University of Notre Dame Admissions Office, and surprisingly got through to the Director of Admissions herself.
I told her my story: my family had just returned from Germany, I had just graduated from high school, and I had an Army ROTC scholarship but no school. She asked my class rank. “I was valedictorian.” She asked my GPA, SAT scores, and what schools had accepted me. I rattled them off.
Admitted to the University of Notre Dame!!!!
Then she said something that changed my life: “If you can send me your transcript, SAT scores, and proof of your ROTC scholarship acceptance right away, we’ll admit you for the fall.” And just like that, I had a college.
By late August, we were preparing for our cross-country move to Kansas. My father surprised the whole family by trading in our old Pontiac station wagon for a brand-new yellow Chrysler Cordoba. It was beautiful. It was also the first family car we’d ever owned with air-conditioning — perfect timing for a long, hot summer drive.
Road Trip from Boston to Fort Leavenworth
We packed up, said our goodbyes in Medford, and began the trip to Fort Leavenworth. I took my usual seat in the front between my parents, map book in hand. My father treated every road trip as military training. Reading a map was a critical skill for any young officer. GPS didn’t exist yet. You had to know your terrain.
As always, we stopped at Howard Johnson's or Holiday Inns along the way — affordable, family-friendly, usually with a pool.
Arrival at Fort Leavenworth, Kansas
We arrived at Fort Leavenworth and pulled into our new quarters: a stately, red brick townhouse along the post’s main street. It was one of the old cavalry-era homes, and it had real charm. A front sitting room with French doors, a formal living room, a dining room separated by more French doors, and a long hallway leading to the kitchen, bedrooms, and a screened-in back porch. Diana had arranged to do her externship at the post dental clinic. I started meeting neighborhood girls. For the first time in a while, things felt settled.
Already Time to Leave for College
Then it was time. My father and I packed the Cordoba again, this time for the nine-and-a-half-hour drive to South Bend, Indiana. I was taking only a suitcase or two. I think my mother was quietly keeping a room for me back at Fort Leavenworth — just in case.
Father’s Words of Wisdom
The drive was long and mostly quiet. Neither of us spoke much. Now and then, my father would offer some short bursts of advice. “Work hard. Push yourself. Be careful who you trust. Don’t drink. Don’t use drugs.” Then, the line I’ll never forget — the one I still carry with me today: “Believe nothing you hear, and only half that you see.”
I believe that quote had as much to do with surviving as an officer in combat as it did with life in general. It’s an old quote, attributed to Edgar Allan Poe, but I heard it first from my father’s lips. And in today’s world of spin, misinformation, and digital illusions, it feels more true than ever.
Arrival at South Bend and the University of Notre Dame
We arrived in South Bend before sundown. I had never seen a photo of the school. I had no expectations. But as we turned onto the main avenue and I caught my first glimpse of Notre Dame — the Golden Dome of the Administration Building glowing in the evening light, the towering steeple of the Basilica beside it, the ancient trees stretching over the brick paths — I was stunned. I was in love. I didn’t even know what a college campus could look like until I saw Notre Dame.
Seeing the Golden Dome for the First Time
Our Stay at the Morris Inn on Campus
My father pulled into the Morris Inn, Notre Dame’s iconic hotel just off the main quad, where we would stay the night. I didn’t have a welcome packet. I had no dorm assignment. No schedule. We had dinner, slept, and woke early the next morning.
Visit to the Army ROTC Building
We walked across campus to the Army ROTC building. It was quiet — only a young Army captain was there. When we entered, the captain stood immediately at attention. My father introduced himself: “Colonel Carbone. This is my son, Tony. He has a 4-year Army ROTC scholarship but no dormitory assignment.” The captain picked up the phone and, within two minutes, had secured me a room: Fisher Hall, Room 212.
Got a Room Assignment at Fisher Hall
We walked over together. Fisher was one of the newer dorms on South Quad. It didn’t have the old Notre Dame charm. Rumor was it had once been a convent for nuns — which might explain why every room was a single. That part I liked.
The room was tiny — more like a cinder block cell than a student room. A single bed under the window, a small desk, a sink, and a closet. No roommate, sheets, blanket, or idea what came next.
My Father’s Quick Goodbye
My father set my suitcase down in the closet, looked around, and said, “This looks really nice.” He gave me a quick hug. “Goodbye, J.R. Good luck in school.” And just like that, he turned and walked out. No long goodbye. No words of encouragement. Not even five bucks for pocket change. Just a final reminder: “Make sure you write your mother.”
The door clicked shut behind him. And there I sat — alone in Room 212, Fisher Hall. A bare white room. A suitcase. And the heavy, ringing silence of being completely on my own. But there was something else sitting in that silence with me.
As I watched my father walk away, I couldn’t shake the feeling that he was disappointed — not in me exactly, but in where he was leaving me. I knew he had imagined dropping me off at West Point, not Notre Dame. I could feel it in the way he looked at me, in the way he didn’t linger. And that feeling — that quiet shadow of his disappointment — stayed with me for years. If I’m honest, it never completely left — not even after he died.
