The Callahans: The Complete Series

by Gordon Ryan

  “But, Gunny, I don’t want—”

  “Nobody asked ya, kid. Besides, I gotta tell Borello he’s now the platoon lieutenant. Captain Williams got approval from Colonel Catlin to give him a field commission.”

  Tommy crouched next to Gunny Holloman. “Now that’s the smartest thing I’ve seen come out of the command tent,” Tommy smiled.

  “Watch your mouth, kid,” Holloman grinned. “Borello ain’t gonna like it any more than you did,” he laughed again, starting to walk away.

  “Hey, Gunny,” Tommy called after him.

  Holloman halted and looked back.

  “Some of my boys are still out there,” Tommy said, rolling his eyes toward the battlefield beyond the trench.

  Holloman nodded and rubbed the stubble on his chin. “I know, kid. God’s got ’em now. We’ll try to recover the rest later.” He watched for a moment as Tommy struggled with the loss of men under his command. “See to the ones you can still help, Sergeant Callahan.”

  Tommy looked up again. “Aye, Gunny.”

  October 5, 1918

  Somewhere in France

  Dear Pop,

  Always the sky. Blue sky above and the memories of our fishing trips in the Uintas. For over six months we’ve lived in this hell hole, our feet rotting, our clothes tattered and mingled with dirt and the blood of our friends—and our enemies. But in the silence of my own thoughts, I lay down in the mud at the bottom of our trench and look at the sky. It seems so peaceful, and I am able to pretend, if only for a moment, that I am once again in the Utah mountains and that life is good.

  Pop, I’ve not yet found it within myself to speak with God as Uncle Andy suggested, and in fact, I’ve broken my promise to him that I would write to you before we went forward. For several months, we have been almost constantly engaged in one action or another, as you have probably read in the dispatches. Now, rumor runs wild that some end to this mess is in sight, but we’ve heard all that before.

  It’s turning gray now, as fall once again approaches. I don’t think the men can stand another winter under these conditions. What keeps most of us from complaining is the knowledge that the French and British have been here for three winters. It’s impossible to imagine. Already many of our regiment have succumbed to the elements after having survived the fire storm of the enemy. How difficult it is to write to parents and loved ones and tell them that their son or husband died of pneumonia or typhoid as a result of deplorable living conditions. What heroic statement can be made of such a wasted loss of human life?

  I’ve written this letter hundreds of times in my mind, Pop. It all eludes me now. But here I’ve learned that life is short. I’ve not yet turned nineteen, yet I’ve seen older men die. I’ve even seen younger men—boys really—die. As Benjamin died. These young men who have died in this war will be nineteen forever in the hearts and minds of their loved ones, permanently enshrined behind a piece of dusty glass in a brown, leather frame on someone’s dresser.

  You told me once that our days are numbered. And I read somewhere that Joseph Smith said “they shall not be made less.” If this is true, then perhaps my life may not be much longer than Benjamin’s. When I came over here, I had the feeling that God would take my life, and that the war would be my trial by fire. He may still make that judgment, but I’ve also learned that it is His to make. Not mine and not yours. I don’t know why I failed to keep Benjamin safe. I have blamed myself for years, and perhaps that is why your anger so affected me. I believed what you said was true. I had killed my brother. I no longer believe that, Pop. I’m sorry if that offends you. If you still feel that way, you will have to come to terms with it. I thought for many years that I would have to ask your forgiveness—to seek your permission to rejoin the family. But if my failure to watch over my brother was indeed the cause of his death, then it is his forgiveness I need, Pop. Not yours.

  If you are still of a mind to hold me accountable, then I will understand. For my own part, I will go forward with the remaining days God has allotted for my life. And if I survive this war—this desolation—then I will seek to accomplish something. I like the Marine Corps. Once again I am responsible for other men’s lives. And I have failed some of them, Pop. As I failed Benjamin. But there are others I have not failed, and they will live to come home. And I must keep trying for their sakes.

  I do not ask your forgiveness for Benjamin. But I ask your consideration, as my father, to accept me once again as your son. I have always loved you, Pop, and have admired the way you and Mom made your way in life. What I do apologize for is my anger toward you. I didn’t understand, in my youth, that parents have a right to expect certain standards from their children. But children have the same right to expect certain standards from their parents. I offer my solemn promise that, should I survive, I will seek to maintain the standard you have set, for I agree with it, and I agree with the necessity of establishing standards for our lives.

  Under the worst of conditions there is always a blue sky somewhere. I will never see the sky in the same light again, nor will I ever take it for granted.

  Lovingly, your son,

  Tommy

  P.S. Happy 43rd birthday, Pop. I hope this letter finds you, Mom, Tess, and PJ all in good health.

  The “plop” sound was as familiar to the men in the trench as any everyday sound of life. Only this sound carried with it the ring of death. Some were sleeping, but most were simply too exhausted to sleep at the time the German grenade rolled into the muddy trench and landed amidst the silence of the late afternoon. In the following moments, several men scrambled away, around the right angle cut into the trench specifically to limit the impact of such an incident. Sleeping soundly against the wall, his rifle and kit standing loosely against the wooden framing, Sergeant Callahan never even heard the sound.

  Lieutenant Borello’s action was immediate. He saw the grenade come over the top of the trench even before the other Marines heard the sound as it landed. He glanced at the sleeping Tommy Callahan and knew there would be no time to awaken or to drag his friend around the corner to safety. As Borello instinctively leaped toward the lethal device, his father’s face flashed into his mind, and he heard again the older Borello’s parting thoughts on the dock in New York. “God be with you, my son. Make us proud,” the former Marine had said.

  Diving on the grenade and clutching it between his legs as he fumbled to grab it, Lieutenant Borello saw several Marines scrambling to reach the safety of the right angle trench. For an instant, he looked toward Sergeant Callahan, whose eyes opened momentarily and locked with those of Borello. The explosion lifted Frank Borello’s body and threw him against Tommy Callahan. Pieces of shrapnel flew in all directions, but the bulk of the blast was absorbed by Frank’s legs, as it ripped and tore at the bone and flesh in his knees and thighs.

  Tommy wasn’t even aware of what had happened in that instant. The concussion from the exploding grenade rendered him unconscious, and he remained in that state for several days. When he finally awoke in the hospital facility, his world was dark and he was totally disoriented. He actually woke screaming, and the nurses who rushed to his bedside, along with several male orderlies, worked to restrain him while trying to explain to him that he was safe, in an American military hospital, and that he would be all right. He had been unconscious for eight days, they said, and his sight was, at least temporarily, gone.

  Six weeks passed before he learned of the details of the incident and the extent of the horrific injuries to Lieutenant Borello. His friend had lost both legs, they told him, high above the knee. The bones had been shattered and the flesh shredded. Gangrene had set in and in spite of the double amputation, an infection had developed which continued to plague Frank’s recovery. When Corporal Broderick described Lieutenant Borello’s selfless actions, Tommy had wept. Aided by the sight of another patient, Tommy had visited Frank in his hospital ward, but Frank remained comatose, and Tommy was never able to speak with him.

  The hospital troop
ship sailed from Brest in March, 1919, with both Tommy and Frank on board, and made the crossing in eleven days. But Lieutenant Borello traveled only part of the way. His death at sea from complications related to infection and heart failure, resulted in his burial at sea, along with two other Marines who had not survived their wounds. Sergeant Callahan’s eyesight had returned, as the doctors had said it would, and his relatively minor injuries were well on the way to being healed. When Tommy inquired, he was informed that the continuing infection had raised Frank’s temperature, reaching for, and finally finding, the young lieutenant’s vital organs.

  During the final few days of the crossing, his eyesight restored and his vision improving, Tommy spent most of his daylight and many night hours, standing on deck, his thoughts focused on the vagaries of life and the sacrifice Frank had made in Tommy’s behalf. When New York harbor appeared one misty morning, the ship was met by harbor tugs and escorted toward the Brooklyn Navy Yard, berthing not far from where their troop ship had sailed, barely a year earlier.

  Tommy leaned against the railing as the ship moored, watching dock crews secure the lines and position boarding platforms fore and aft. Hundreds of people lined the dock, restrained by wooden fence lines as the returning troops began to disembark. No bands were present, and the crowd was silent, with no flags waving. Tommy watched the wounded descend the gangplank, in many cases aided by those more ambulatory. He was joined by a ship’s officer who had occasionally stood and talked with Tommy during the crossing when his shift coincided with Tommy’s nocturnal meanderings. They stood together, silently watching the injured and maimed men returning home. He thought of Frank who had once asked, ‘Will they be here to greet us when we come home?’

  The slightly crippled led the blind down the ramp. The more severely injured were carried on stretchers. The sounds of crying, occasional screaming, and the constant low moan collectively escaping the individual families in the crowd as they found their loved ones, haunted the scene, filling Tommy’s mind with the faces of those comrades he had left behind in France.

  He uttered a silent prayer of thanks that no one had come to meet him, and that his family did not have to suffer through the agony of waiting to see the condition of a loved one. Slowly, the hospital ship disgorged it’s cargo of mutilated young men, returned from their generation’s effort to preserve what President Woodrow Wilson had called “World Democracy.”

  Tommy understood the silence from the assembled crowd and their individual need to wait for their particular loved one, frightened by thoughts of the moment when they would actually see him. But something about the assembled families continued to confuse Tommy. There was something wrong with the scene on the dock below, and for the better part of an hour, Tommy stood, side by side with the ship’s officer, as they watched the tragedy unfold before them.

  And then suddenly, one young woman behind the railings fainted, overcome perhaps by the press of the crowd or the vision of yet another young man who, crippled, blind, or even insane, had lost his future. The reaction of the crowd was instantaneous, and, as if by instinct, Tommy immediately understood what was wrong. Waiting as each man descended the ramp—walking, led, or carried—the crowd collectively leaned forward, seeking fearfully to identify their loved one. Not seeing him, the relief on their faces was evident, but fleeting. Unable to endure the agony of yet another family’s trauma—almost as a body, they turned their faces away.

  Sergeant Callahan continued to observe the bitter aftermath of “The Great War” for some hours, as the crowd slowly thinned, filtering away to who knows where. Periodically throughout the ordeal, tears unashamedly streamed down his face. From that moment on, young Thomas Callahan, barely nineteen, would never be the same.

  “Sergeant Thomas Callahan, United States Marine Corps, reporting for orders,” Tommy announced to the Naval Corpsman in the hospital administrative office.

  “Callahan, Callahan,” the corpsman said, riffling through a stack of papers. “Ah, here it is, Sergeant. You’re to report to Major Kendrick at the War Department. You can catch a ride with the courier outside in about twenty minutes. Here are your hospital discharge papers.”

  “Thank you, Corpsman,” Tommy replied.

  Major Kendrick’s office wasn’t easy to find, especially since the corpsman had not indicated Kendrick’s branch of service and because the War Department in Washington, D.C. was a busy facility. Finally locating his office, Tommy entered and approached the corporal at the desk.

  “Sergeant Callahan. I’m supposed to see Major Kendrick.”

  Again, the corporal thumbed through a stack of papers on his desk, extracting one and standing. “Have a seat, Sergeant. Major Kendrick will see you shortly.”

  “Right,” Tommy said, looking around the room, which was furnished only with a couple of wooden chairs. Even before Tommy sat, the corporal returned.

  “The Major will see you now, Sergeant.”

  Tommy stepped into the office and was pleased to see a Marine Corps uniform behind the desk, gold oak leaves on the shoulders of the dress greens.

  “Sergeant Thomas Callahan, sir. Reporting as ordered.”

  “Stand at ease, Sergeant.” The major looked at Tommy briefly and began to peruse the file in front of him. “Hmmm, three meritorious service awards, promotion to sergeant. Two French awards for valor, and let’s see, recommended for a field commission before you were wounded,” he voiced quietly as if reading to himself. He looked up again at Tommy whose eyebrows had raised. “So, they didn’t tell you that in the hospital, did they?”

  “Sir?”

  “The field commission? They didn’t advise you of that, did they?”

  “Sir, I’m unaware of ...”

  “Right, right, right,” the major interrupted. “So what are your plans, Sergeant?”

  “Sir?” Tommy asked again, somewhat confused.

  “Are you planning to muster out? Go back home?”

  “Sir, I’ve only been in the Corps just under two years. I hadn’t actually, I mean, well, sir, I hadn’t thought about it yet.”

  “Well, you’ve got about three minutes, son, to decide. I’m supposed to sort through this pile of returning Marines, wounded and,” he paused, placing his hands on another stack of files, “otherwise,’ he said softly. “These poor Marines have had their choices taken away, however,” he said, leaving Tommy to assume they were deceased.

  “Well, here you have it, son, in a nutshell. You can apply for immediate discharge or,” again he paused, once more looking at Tommy’s service record, “given the nature of your record I have been empowered to offer you one of fifty slots the Corps has been given in the next class at Annapolis.” He looked up to gauge Tommy’s reaction.

  “Sir?” Tommy asked.

  “Sergeant Callahan,” Major Kendrick said, rising from his chair and coming around to the front of his desk. “The Corps has learned some hard lessons in this brief but disastrous escapade in France. We need seasoned, combat experienced professionals to build a cadre of officers who can further the needs of the Corps. The war’s over, so we’ll probably be gutted again, and if Congress has their way, our manpower will be reduced, but the Commandant has seen the wisdom of plucking out the best of the best. Your service record and the recommendation of your company commander, says that’s you. So, what’s it to be? Mr. Callahan, or Midshipman Callahan, United States Naval Service, class of, let’s see, uh, Class of 1923 it will be.”

  “How much time do I have, sir?”

  Kendrick looked at his watch. “Sergeant, I’m having lunch with the Commandant’s adjutant in fifteen minutes. I’ll be back here at precisely one-thirty. By one-thirty-three, you will either be on your way to Annapolis for entry into the summer program in May, or I’ll send you down the hall where you can turn in your dress greens. That’s all you have, son. An hour. If you want a piece of advice, this is a rare opportunity. I’ve already filled thirty-eight of my fifty appointments and congressmen are calling me every day, tr
ying to slip their favorite candidate into one of my slots. But the Commandant is adamant. Marine war veterans with exemplary records are to have first shot. Think about it, son, and if you know anyone in this town who you can contact for advice, I’d use the next hour wisely. One-thirty,” he said again, gesturing to his watch. “Don’t be late.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” Tommy said, coming to attention as Major Kendrick left the office, leaving Tommy standing alone in front of his desk.

  April 3, 1919

  Mr. Thomas Callahan

  Chairman of the Board

  Utah Trust Bank

  Salt Lake City, Utah

  Unable to return Utah as planned—Stop—Assigned Quantico, 6th Marines Training Unit—Stop—Enter United States Naval Academy in May as Midshipman—Stop—Tell Mom I’m sorry—Stop—Love, Tommy.

  Chapter 12

  Tom sat on the granite bench, his hands chilled by the coolness of the stone. With winter reluctant to release its hold, the buds on the rose bushes had yet to show green. He picked a few dead twigs off the ground and tidied a couple of loose odds and ends, more from the need to feel he was doing something than from the actual gardening required.

  He looked again at the marble headstone, the edges of the lettering still sharp from the engraver’s chisel.

  Sister Mary Theophane