The Callahans: The Complete Series

by Gordon Ryan

  On a bright Thursday morning, the third week in August 1917, one hundred and eight-two members of 42nd Company, 2nd Recruit Battalion, United States Marine Corps, proudly marched the mile and a half from their training area to the “Grinder,” the name affectionately given to the half-mile square, close-order-drill, packed earth parade ground. Hastily assembled grandstands stood off to one side and several hundred guests, parents, and well-wishers were in attendance.

  For eleven weeks the recruits had slogged through dirt and mud, learning to assemble and disassemble their weapons under the most trying conditions, and perhaps, more importantly, learning to obey orders without question. Their physical conditioning had gone on nearly the entire sixteen hours they were awake, and while they were trying to sleep, the sand fleas and mosquitoes mounted another assault on them.

  In the second week, squad leaders were chosen for the four squads in each platoon, and Tommy Callahan and Frank Borello were both selected for two of those positions. In the fourth week, Frank was chosen to carry the platoon guidon, and he assumed his position to the right-front of the fourth squad, marching alone to the forefront of the platoon. Tommy had retained his position as first squad leader from the second week right though training.

  By a third of the way through basic training, the recruits had been fully indoctrinated to the Marine Corps’ most important job: that of a rifleman. For a full week, they were subjected to “snapping-in,” the process of assuming the positions necessary to accurately fire their rifle from standing, sitting, and prone positions. Through the entire process, not one shot had been fired however. Each evening, the recruits went to bed with new muscles aching from the contorted positions they were required to assume. By the end of the week, when they finally commenced live-fire exercises, their muscles had adjusted, and they were able to assume the various positions with ease, and able to hold the weapon rock-steady during the final seconds of sighting the target. Both Frank and Tommy qualified “expert” on the first qualification day, and thereafter they assisted others in subsequent attempts.

  Tommy received several letters from his Uncle Anders and, after a few weeks, also from his mother and Tess. No communication was forthcoming from his father, and Tommy had sent none as well. He did not explain to his mother that his impetuous decision to join the Marines was based on his deep-seated need to demonstrate to his father that he was not the coward his father thought. Perhaps even he did not yet fully understand his motive.

  His friendship with Frank Borello grew. Each young man found in the other a person who understood the need to somehow establish a bond of sorts with his father. However, in Frank’s case, it was to please a father who wanted his son to be a good Marine and to follow in his footsteps. For Tommy, it was simply a matter of trying to overcome what he had seen for years as his father’s rejection.

  Attired in dress greens, the four platoons marched in perfect unison. Staff Sergeant Holloman, Company First Sergeant, watched them pass in review before the gathered guests. To a man, they stood taller than when they had first arrived. To a man, they reflected the pride of having completed the toughest training course that could be found within the United States military establishment. To a man, their hair was a full quarter-inch longer than the day they had been shorn as a flock of sheep. And to a man, they all waited for the one word with which Staff Sergeant Holloman would address them.

  Every heel hit the ground at precisely the same instant. Their column movements were orchestrated to maintain a proper interval between the man to the front and the man to the side. Their heads moved in unison, a far cry from the bobbing and weaving evident in their close-order drills of the first several weeks of training. Their rifle movements were also precise, with one crisp sound emanating from each platoon as their drill instructors gave the execution commands.

  In four columns, ten or eleven ranks deep, each platoon assumed its respective place in echelon as the company formed for review. To the fore of each platoon stood one single recruit, positioned to the right, in front of the fourth squad. This platoon member, referred to as the Guidon, carried the platoon banner with which he performed a series of crisp maneuvers, raising and presenting the flag with each platoon movement. Immediately behind him stood the four squad leaders, each heading his respective column. Behind them stood the forty to forty-eight remaining members of each platoon.

  Forty-second Company had dropped eighteen men since that day they arrived, were shorn of their hair, and stripped of their dignity. Two broken legs, seven cases of shin splints, four heat prostration’s, and five “I-can’t-take-it-anymores,” had reduced the original complement to the one hundred and eighty-two men now assembled.

  Sergeant Holloman stood forward of the review, between the four platoons and the podium, on which sat several senior officers and distinguished civilians. As the four platoons reached their final positions and came to a halt, Sergeant Holloman did a sharp about-face, and stood at attention, facing the podium. Colonel Albertus Catlin rose from his seat and stood at attention alongside the podium. Sergeant Holloman snapped a crisp salute, holding his fingers parallel to the corner of his right eye, his right arm perfectly perpendicular.

  “Sir,” he barked, “42nd Company, all present or accounted for, sir.”

  Colonel Catlin returned the salute. “Carry on, Sergeant.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” Holloman replied, sharply dropping his salute to his side. He placed his right foot exactly twelve inches behind the left, his toe touching the ground, and, pivoting on the ball of his left foot and the toe of his right, executed a precise about-face.

  “Companeeeeeee,” he called.

  Instantly, the four senior platoon drill instructors echoed the command to their respective platoons. “Plaaaatooooon.”

  “Orderrrrrr, arms!” Holloman cried.

  As one, the men in the four platoons executed the three-point movement, coming from right-shoulder-arms to the position of “order arms,” with the rifle resting lightly on its butt end, standing alongside each man’s right leg.

  Observing the movement, Holloman waited several seconds, then continued. “Paraaaaaade, rest,” he concluded. Again, one hundred and eight-two left arms snapped to, with the back of the left hand laid tightly against the small of the back and the left leg and foot extended about eight inches to the left, widening the base of support for the men who would be required to stand in this one position for an extended period. While called “parade rest,” the position was no less formal than “attention,” requiring the person to stand rigid and immobile. Still, the small extension of width provided to the feet allowed the person leeway to imperceptibly shift weight between legs, facilitating blood flow and preventing restricted circulation, which would cause unconsciousness.

  Sergeant Holloman again performed an about-face, and came himself to the position of parade rest, both hands clasped behind his back, since he was not in possession of a rifle. Colonel Catlin immediately stepped behind the podium to address the guests and assembled troops.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, it is my honor to address you today, August 16, 1917. Assembled before you is one of the earliest companies of Marines recruited, trained, and prepared for embarkation since the president’s call for Americans to stand forth. They are an honorable group of men. I have personally observed their training, their intensity, and their rise to manhood as they have assumed the mantle of a United States Marine. I am proud of them, as is Staff Sergeant Holloman and the various drill instructors who have brought these young men to this point. But they have further to go, ladies and gentlemen. Soon, they will join the great conflict on the European continent. I am confident they will acquit themselves well, and that they will uphold the highest traditions of the Marine Corps and the United States of America.

  “We are greatly honored today to have with us, two distinguished representatives of the Congress. Representative Denby, long a proponent of the Marine Corps, and Congressman Anders Hansen of Utah, who served with a medical de
tachment nearly twenty years ago in the Spanish-American War. We will first hear from Congressman Hansen, and then, in conclusion, from Congressman Denby. Congressman Hansen?” he said, turning and offering the podium to Anders, who rose and took up his position behind the lectern. The empty left sleeve of his suit jacket was neatly folded and pinned to his shoulder. Tommy’s eyes grew large with the realization that his Uncle Anders was to be a speaker at the graduation ceremony.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, honored guests, and Marines...” he said, looking over the lectern at the assembled troops “... history is nothing, if not prophetic. Several times each century it becomes necessary to assemble the brightest, the strongest, and the bravest of America’s youth, and to stand them on the wall to defend us. The cause for which these wars are fought is often lost in the chaos of battle, but I have learned one thing certain in my brief life: wars are not fought for political reasons.

  “Oh, I understand that old men such as Congressman Denby and myself voice all these platitudes about ‘just cause,’ and the ‘honor of the nation,’ but once the battle commences, it is fought by each man in support of his comrades. It is fought to preserve life—the most sacred gift that God has given us. And when honor reaches its highest plane, it is fought to preserve the life of someone other than ourselves. For as God has told us, ‘Greater love hath no man, than he lay down his life for his friend.’” Anders paused, and glanced back at Sarah, sitting alongside his empty seat and smiling at him, her hands folded in her lap.

  As Tommy stood in the sun, his thoughts segueing over the past several months, he only partially heard Uncle Anders’s remarks. He began to think of Utah and the 4th of July, followed by the Pioneer Day celebrations and the massive fireworks displays over the lake at Nibley Park Resort. How his family had loved the patriotic enthusiasm and the picnics his Mom had prepared for an all-day-in-the-park occasion. Now, with these men standing alongside him, men he had shared three months of intense discomfort with, he felt part of that patriotic fervor. For a time, Tommy had wondered if he would make the grade, actually become a Marine, and have something to contribute to the country. But, gradually, he and the others had come along. They had reached the point where they looked with disdain on the incoming raw recruits. During the final week of their training, even the Drill Instructors had begun to treat Tommy and his class with a grudging measure of respect. They were becoming Marines.

  Nearing the conclusion of his remarks, Congressman Hansen softened. “Now let me add one more thought: it is inevitable in any war, that some will give their all. Say what we will about duty and honor and glory, the truth is, my young friends, that each of you will likely leave behind on the field of battle some of your dearest comrades—you must never forget those with whom you serve.

  “Now,” he smiled and surveyed the troops standing before the podium, “may the same God who guided the Israelites through the wilderness, preserve, protect, and defend you as you follow Him in righteousness. And may He who also sacrificed His all, go with you on this sacred mission. God bless you.”

  As Anders sat down, the several hundred guests applauded his remarks. Moving to the lectern, Congressman Denby waited for the applause to subside, then began his address.

  “Marines, you have heard this day the voice of one who served his country by serving others first. When Congressman Hansen went to Cuba in 1898, to serve with a hospital detachment, he was not part of a military contingent. Little did he know that he would be called upon to crawl through enemy fire to rescue wounded troopers. But he did, and in that service he lost his arm. I have seen the plaque of commendation that hangs in his congressional office, signed by President Theodore Roosevelt, who also participated in that earlier conflict. I am proud to serve in the United States House of Representatives with such a man, and I am privileged to call him my friend.

  “This current conflict in Europe has been called ‘The Great War.’ But can any war be great ... ?”

  Again, Tommy’s thoughts drifted far from the confines of Parris Island Marine Corps Training Center, thinking perhaps of the last words Uncle Anders had said. Some give their all. Was it his turn to die, and how many of them, Tommy thought, as his peripheral vision took in a half-dozen of his platoon mates, would not come home from this war? For the first time since the exciting venture began, Tommy Callahan felt a twinge of fear.

  “ ... if this war is ‘great,’” Denby continued, “then it is great because of the valor of men such as yourselves. May you uphold the honorable traditions of those proud Marines who have gone before you, and as Congressman Hansen has said, may God go with you on the journey.”

  Congressman Denby received another round of applause and retook his seat. Colonel Catlin rose to stand alongside the podium once again, and Sergeant Holloman, immediately below and to the front of the reviewing stand, came to attention.

  “Sergeant, dismiss your Marines,” Catlin commanded.

  “Aye, aye, sir,” Holloman replied, performing another about-face.

  “Companeeeeeee.”

  “Platooooooon,” the drill instructors echoed.

  “Attennnnn hut!” Holloman barked. “Right shoulder—Harms!”

  Tommy snapped his rifle off the ground, and in another precisely executed three-point maneuver, brought it to rest on his right shoulder. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Frank perform a similar maneuver with the Guidon pole, raising it high above his shoulder before bringing it smartly to carry position. And then they waited for the moment that would culminate their eleven weeks of training—the moment when they would be accepted as full-fledged members of the elite of the United States military establishment.

  Holloman looked left and then right, once again appraising the troops assembled before him. And then he took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the power to properly give the command they all awaited.

  “MARINES,” he trumpeted, “disssssss-missed!”

  As a single voice, the sound reverberating across the parade ground, one hundred and eight-two young men replied, “AYE, AYE, SIR! SEMPER FI!”

  Chapter 8

  Frank Borello’s burly, loud-voiced father was everything Tommy had expected. Frank’s mother was quiet and demur, her pride in her son reflected by the more loquacious father.

  “So, they made you Guidon? You didn’t tell us that in your letters.”

  “Well, Pop, I wasn’t sure I’d keep it.”

  “Nonsense. They recognized your qualities, wouldn’t you say, Tommy?” he laughed.

  “Yes, sir. Frank was the best among us,” Tommy smiled.

  “There. You see, Frank. Even your platoon mates saw it. Good for you, son. Good for you.”

  “If you’ll excuse me, Mr. and Mrs. Borello, I’d better see if I can find my uncle. It was nice to meet you. I’ve heard wonderful things about you from Frank. Frank, I’ll find you later at the mess hall about seventeen-hundred.”

  “Good, Tommy. Thanks for meeting my parents.”

  Tommy nodded and started to turn.

  “Stick with my Frank, son,” Mr. Borello said. “He’ll see you through.”

  Tommy and Frank exchanged brief looks, and Tommy could see the embarrassment in Frank’s eyes.

  “He already has, Mr. Borello, just getting me through boot camp. When we get to France, I’ll stay closer than his knapsack. You can bet on that. See you all later.”

  Tommy turned and left the Borellos, searching through the crowd for Uncle Anders and Aunt Sarah. Hundreds of parents, friends, and relatives were fawning over their newly graduated Marines. Tommy caught a quick glimpse of one of his squad mates being admired by his parents and a shy, lovely girl who Tommy could see wanted to hug her new Marine, but, in the presence of his parents, was too timid.

  Angling through a cluster of well-wishers, Tommy spotted Uncle Anders, speaking with Colonel Catlin and several of the Training Center officers. He hesitated, content to wait until Uncle Anders was free, not wanting to interfere in their conversation, but Ander
s spotted him and called out.

  “Tommy, ah, there you are, lad. Come and join us,” Anders beckoned, waving his arm. Not wanting to enter the cluster of officers, Tommy thought for an instant to pretend he didn’t hear Anders, but Colonel Catlin briefly caught his eye and Tommy noticed an almost imperceptible nod of approval from the Colonel. Tommy walked up to the group and immediately came to attention.

  “Sir, good morning to the Colonel,” Tommy said, rendering a crisp salute.

  “And to you, Private Callahan,” the Colonel said, reading his nametag and returning Tommy’s salute.

  Aunt Sarah gently placed a quick kiss on his cheek, which Tommy endured silently in the presence of the officers.

  “So, Tommy,” Anders said, “now you not only wear the uniform, but you carry the title as well. We’re all very proud of you, son. And I’m sure your mother and father are also,” he quickly added. “Colonel,” Anders said, turning to Catlin, “would there be any objection to my nephew joining us for lunch?”

  Colonel Catlin glanced at Tommy, aware that the private was in an awkward position. “Congressman Hansen, I think that on this special occasion, we can permit Private Callahan entrance to the Officers’ Mess. Captain,” he said, looking toward one of the younger officers, “please arrange a separate dining facility for, uh, let’s see,” he paused, looking around the group, “eight, I make it.”