Orville Swett Like the veterans he helps each day, Swett has a war story of his own. (Photo Staff)

But a life spent working in the optical field has proven otherwise. Swett started volunteering at the Daytona Beach Veterans Affairs Outpatient clinic in 1985, working five hours a day. He adjusts and repairs glasses for many of the several hundred veterans walking through the doors each day.

Like the veterans he helps each day, Swett has a war story of his own. In the fall of 1942, Hitler was gaining strength and World War II laid wreckage to the lives of men and woman across Europe. While warring countries struggled for power, 17-year-old Swett was working a steady job in coastal Maine.

"I went into the service the day my daughter Carol Ann was born," Swett recalled. "I had to leave her in the hospital and go straight to basic training,"

The following January, Swett and hundreds of other men were sent on an Italian operation to overtake German military forces. Victory would facilitate a second attack on Rome. Hugging the coast of southern Italy, the seaside town of Anzio sits 33 miles south of Rome. Under the cover of darkness on January 22, 1944, allied forces made an amphibious landing on Anzio's shores.

The third division moved 10 miles inland. Swett was sent to an outpost 300 yards away from the company, where German tanks pushed to break through the Allied ranks.

In the shadows, Swett stood in a ditch, watching the silhouettes of the tanks on the hill in the early dawn light. Passing by were enemy tanks, trucks, and half-trucks.

"I was facing in the direction of the tanks, so I could hear them coming," said Swett. Suddenly, one tank hit a mine near the outpost. Chaos descended as the armored vehicle exploded, hurtling shrapnel through the air.

"One piece hit me in the head and killed the fellow that was with me," he said. Swett fell to the ground, with the impact of the fall driving his head down into the muddy earth. "There was no pain until I put my hand up to my head and all that I could feel was bone," Swett recalled. "The flesh was all gone." Only the thick mud that congealed over his skull prevented Swett from bleeding to death. For the next three hours, he drifted in and out of consciousness. Shortly before dawn, Swett summoned the strength to leave the muddy ditch. A hospital unit was only 10 miles away, and there were no vehicles or medical workers in sight. "We had to get back there on our own," said Swett.

He began the 10 mile journey crawling on his hands and knees, helped along by another wounded soldier. Swett successfully reached the hospital and doctors put six staples in his head to hold his skull together. But his relief was short lived.

"I was in the hospital for one day before the Germans bombed our hospital," he recalled.

Swett was quickly transported to the HMHC St. David, a hospital ship anchored in the cold Mediterranean waters of Anzio Bay. The 2,702 gross ton ship was big enough to provide soldiers with the much needed feeling of security. , but before he could receive anymore medical attention, the hospital ship was bombed.

Sections of the ship exploded and the mast collapsed as it sank, taking 67 lives with it. Swett's injury prevented him from recalling how he got out of the ship. "I remember being in the water. There were two friends in my outfit who were only slightly wounded and they were taking care of me," said Swett. "We waited until we were picked up by a LST, a landing ship tank."

His skull felt as if it was splitting apart with every wave that pounded the small ship. Swett was finally transported to a large hospital in Naples, where he would stay until April. Shortly after he arrived, bombs hit the center of the hospital.

"I was right next to the window when it happened," Swett said. "All the glass came right down on top of me, but I didn't get a scratch."

Swett stayed in a ward until his already tenuous state of health took a turn for worse. He fell unconscious for almost six weeks and was quietly transferred to a private room. The medical staff doubted he would ever regain consciousness.

"But my wife had sent pictures of my two children," Swett said. "The nurse put the picture in front of me, so each time when I opened my eyes, I'd see the picture and stay conscious a few minutes longer. They say that's what saved my life."

Gradually, his condition improved and Swett was moved back to the ward. In March, Mount Vesuvius erupted. Swett watched from the safety of the hospital ward in Naples.

"I could see the lava coming down the mountain to Pompeii," he said. "It was beautiful."

Home came one step closer when he was transferred back to North Africa in March of 1944 and waited anxiously for the hospital ship that would take him back to his family.

The ship docked in Norfolk, Va. and Swett finally received surgery. Serious brain damage erased all of his education, rendering him incapable of even writing his own name. Swett was told that he would never work again.

"But after two years, I went for on-the-job training at Bausch and Lomb optical," Swett said. "Anything I learned, I had to do with my hands. That's how I learned to be an optician."

He spent the next 22 years working with Bausch and Lomb. After that, he and his wife opened up a small optical store called Casco Opticians in Portland.

Swett's move to Florida from Gray set in motion his volunteer work with the Veterans Affairs clinic. At age 83, Swett continues to work and help patients five days a week.

Presently, Swett and his wife Shirley divide their time between Florida and Gray. He has met every goal he has set for himself."I don't give up," Swett said.

Vuille-Kowing is a college student and interviewed Mr. Swett while he was in Daytona.