Mourned by nieces who never knew him, long-missing WWII soldier buried at Fort Snelling

As a kid, Kathy Salisbury Massie would visit her grandmother's house just south of Lake Harriett, go to the attic and spend time with the uncle she'd never met.

In the attic were Uncle Billy's Army trunk, and Uncle Billy's Purple Heart, and nearly 50 letters Uncle Billy had sent home from World War II.

Second Lt. William H. Melville of the U.S. Army Air Forces, a 1941 graduate of Roosevelt High School, had died at age 20 in a plane crash over the island of New Guinea in 1943. His remains were never found. As the little girl read through those letters, though, Uncle Billy came alive: his love of flying, his desire to get married, and his excitement to meet his new niece. "I … wonder if you know by now whether Kathleen, very pretty name, has 'curly' hair like her uncle or if she's not so lucky," he wrote.

On Friday morning at Fort Snelling National Cemetery, 77 years after Uncle Billy's P-39Q Airacobra fighter crashed nose-first into the jungle, Massie watched as a soldiers from the Army National Guard Honor Guard solemnly removed the flag from Melville's coffin and folded it just so.

Uncle Billy's remains had been found, and now he was finally home.

It was three years ago when Massie had received a Facebook message. A Tennessee man named David Daniels had petitioned the government to reopen efforts to recover the remains of 1st Lt. Frank Pitonyak, who piloted one of the other planes that went down with Uncle Billy's. Miraculously, a team from the Defense POW/MIA Accounting Agency found Pitonyak's watch, his class ring, his teeth. Daniels asked if Massie wanted to pressure the government to find Uncle Billy.

"I wanted to find him," she said. "I just had to do it."

"No longer is this abstract," Kim Salisbury, another of Uncle Billy's nieces, said as three generations of Uncle Billy's family gathered. "There's the coffin. The pomp and circumstance of bringing him back. It wasn't real at all until that moment. All of the sudden, Billy meant more to me."

There was a casket, half-opened, holding a 36th Fighter Squadron dress uniform from World War II. There was a family tree; for Uncle Billy's two siblings, it fanned out to children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren, whereas Uncle Billy's branch ended with him.

"Uncle Billy, we wish we could have known you," it read.

At the visitation, Uncle Billy's kin read his letters aloud.

"Flying is a lot of fun and beautiful at times," he wrote in November 1942, while he was in training. "Perhaps in a few years practically everyone will know how to fly."

"Mother dear," he wrote in September 1943, a month before he died. "Just got your letter of Aug 17 and was I ever happy to receive it. It's been a long time since I've heard from my mother. I get a hoot out of your calling me your little boy. You know I'm almost 21 years old and not very small."

He never saw age 21. By October, Uncle Billy's squadron was flying daily patrols from Australia to Papua New Guinea, going on the offensive against Japanese forces. Weather there was unpredictable, and Uncle Billy's P-39Q Airacobra fighter didn't hold up well in bad weather. Four planes got caught in a sudden storm on Oct. 28; only one made it out.

For decades, his specter lived on in this family.

Kari Hansen is Uncle Billy's great-niece and a librarian at Roosevelt High School, the same school Uncle Billy attended.

A few years ago, she found an old leather-bound book listing the names of all the Roosevelt graduates who died in World War II; Uncle Billy's name was the last one listed, since for years he was considered missing until he was presumed killed.

"It was all abstract, even what little my mother would talk about," said Salisbury, the niece. "She'd say to me, 'Oh, I wish Billy were here.' "

On Friday morning, Massie sat under a shelter at Fort Snelling National Cemetery. The flag-draped casket was brought out of the hearse. A taps bugle call was played, then "Amazing Grace" on bagpipes. A rifle squad fired volleys. A soldier handed Massie the folded-up flag: "On behalf of the President of the United States, the United States Army, and a grateful nation, please accept this flag as a symbol of our appreciation for your loved one's honorable and faithful service."

Two fighter jets roared in from the north. Massie looked toward the hazy blue skies. Something felt complete. Her mother and her grandmother had grieved for him their entire lives. They never had closure. She wished they could have lived to see this. But now, at least, it felt like she actually knew her uncle.

It was a remarkable testament to the promise that the U.S. military will never leave a soldier behind: Three-quarters of a century after 2nd Lt. William H. Melville's death, Uncle Billy was finally home.

The jets buzzed over the ceremony. Massie gasped, then she clutched her heart.