The Callahans: The Complete Series

by Gordon Ryan

  “I would appreciate the company, Tommy.”

  “Then it’s settled. Pop, I’ll take the train to New York with you and Mom. Seby, I’ll see you in New York the day after tomorrow.”

  “Good. I’m at the Waldorf.”

  Tommy looked toward his father, who nodded. “That’s where ­we’re staying, too.”

  “I have plenty of room in my suite, Tommy. I’d be happy for you to join me.”

  “Thanks, Seby, ­you’re on.”

  Leaving the Waldorf Hotel in a cab, Seby and Tommy crossed the Hudson River into New Jersey to the small airfield where Seby had left his plane. They pulled up next to a wooden shed, and a man in overalls came out, wiping his hands on a greasy rag. The cab driver exited the car and began to collect the several pieces of luggage from the trunk of the vehicle.

  “All ready, Sam?” Seby queried the aircraft mechanic.

  “Gassed up and ready, Mr. Stromberg. Weather looks good,” he said, glancing at the nearly cloudless sky.

  “That’s the variable ­isn’t it, Sam?” Seby replied.

  “Yes, sir. Can’t control that one, I can’t,” he laughed. “Let me help you with that luggage,” he added.

  “Thanks. This is Thomas Callahan, Sam, a newly commissioned Marine Corps lieutenant.”

  “Pleased to meet you, sir,” Sam said, extending his hand. “Do I know you, sir?” he said, studying Tommy’s face.

  “Don’t know, Sam. Where do you think we met?”

  “A new lieutenant, you say. Just in the Corps?”

  “No, actually—”

  “That’s it, sir,” he said, his face brightening. “­You’re Sergeant Callahan, 6th Marines, ain’t ’cha? Private Sam Donaldson, sir—served under Gunny Holloman as a vehicle mechanic, I did. You was at Belleau Wood, wasn’t you, sir?”

  Tommy nodded. “I was, Sam. I’m proud to make your acquaintance again. Got yourself a good little business here, it looks like,” Tommy said, looking around the small airfield and repair hangar.

  “Yes, sir. Life’s been good to me and the missus. Kinda miss the Corps though, if you know what I mean,” he said, a broken-toothed grin highlighting his smile.

  “You know what they say, Sam. ‘Once a marine . . .’”

  “Semper Fi, sir,” he smiled back, giving Tommy a loose salute. “Here, let’s get your stuff aboard the aircraft.”

  The three men walked around the hangar to where a single engine, high-wing monoplane stood, secured by wing ties connected to stakes in the ground.

  “I haven’t seen many single winged planes, Seby. What is it?”

  “Actually, Tommy, it’s a preproduction model. At your father’s suggestion, I made a small investment in a fledgling company with a man named Ryan. And then I bought one of his early models. This is what he’s calling the Ryan B-1. Supposed to be a five-seater, but I’ve had the backseat removed and an extra fuel tank installed. We can seat three, four in a pinch, if ­they’re all friends,” he laughed. “We can cruise at about 180 miles per hour with a range of eight hundred to a thousand miles, depending on winds and altitude.”

  “How long to Utah?” Tommy asked, walking around the aircraft.

  “Two long days if we don’t have any trouble. On the westward leg, though, I usually put down east of the Rockies and cross over the next morning, making it two and a half days. Don’t want to risk flying in the dark over the mountains. We’ll make Indianapolis tonight, or maybe even Springfield, Illinois. Probably stop in Cheyenne the next night and get in to Salt Lake late Wednesday morning. Of course, we’ll make several fuel stops each day.”

  “Actually, not much faster than the train,” Tommy commented.

  “True,” Seby smiled, reaching into the cockpit, retrieving a set of coveralls and pulling them on over his clothes. “There’s an extra pair of coveralls behind the front seat on your side, Tommy.”

  “I’m getting enthusiastic about this, Seby. You know, aviation is becoming a big part of military strategy. Observation, primarily, but there are those who advocate its use on the battlefield to a much greater extent than we did in France.”

  “You interested in flying?”

  “I don’t know,” Tommy replied, buttoning his coveralls.

  “Well,” Seby grinned, walking in front and checking the engine cowling, “let me put you in the air and I’ll convince you.”

  “I’m all yours, Mr. Stromberg.”

  “Looks good, Sam,” Seby said, shaking the man’s hand. “Don’t expect to be back for a couple of months, but you never can tell. I’ll telephone or telegraph if that changes.”

  “Anytime, Mr. Stromberg. We’ll take care of this baby,” he said, patting the side of the aircraft.

  “You always do, Sam. Take care now, and regards to your wife,” he said, climbing up into the pilot’s seat. Tommy settled himself into his side of the plane and following Seby’s example, buckled a canvas belt around his waist. Sam stood by with a fire extinguisher as Seby set the throttle and cranked the engine. Ryan Aviation had installed an electronic starter, eliminating the need to prime the engine and manually crank the propeller to start it. With the engine running smoothly, the pressure gauges checked, and the temperature having reached normal, Seby waved off Sam and began to taxi toward the downwind end of the grass strip. With a wink at Tommy, Seby advanced the throttle, and the small monoplane began to gain speed across the bumpy field, taking two or three bounces as it struggled to gain airspeed and lift. Finally, the wheels left the ground and the Ryan gained altitude, quickly rising above buildings of rapidly diminishing size on the ground and crossing over a patch of woods, a narrow rural road, and several cars.

  “What do you think, Lieutenant Callahan?” Seby shouted over the roar of the engine.

  Tommy continued to look out his window at the diminishing features on the ground, enthralled by the sensation of actually leaving the earth behind. Instantly, he remembered the small biplanes he’d seen over the trenches in France and the one occasion where a platoon under his command had come upon a crashed German Fokker tri-wing, its pilot burned beyond recognition.

  “Actually, it’s a bit frightening, but I think I’m in for an exciting three days, Seby. A very exciting three days,” he shouted.

  “It can get boring,” Seby replied. “I’m glad for the company.”

  “And I’m glad for the invitation,” Tommy nodded. “Very glad indeed,” he smiled.

  Chapter 4

  Upon his return to Salt Lake City from the East, Tom invited Robert Thurston to join him, Tommy, and Seby on their planned fishing trip. But instead of taking a two or three day horseback trip to some remote location, as they would have done when Tommy was a boy, Seby flew the party in his airplane to Cody, Wyoming, where Tom had made reservations for them at the Irma Hotel.

  Built in 1902 by Colonel William F. “Buffalo Bill” Cody, the Irma was a first-class hotel and a favorite destination for movie actors and other celebrities. Cody had died in 1917, but his reputation and the skill of the current staff of the Irma continued to attract wealthy clientele from all over the world. The hotel, situated on Sheridan Avenue, was the only landmark in Cody and was located in the heart of some of the West’s best trout fisheries. Tom and his party planned to take daily trips to the nearby rivers.

  Other guests at the hotel that week included celebrities Wiley Post and Will Rogers, who had arrived in Post’s airplane a day before Tom and his party. A newly married Oklahoma oil man and his somewhat younger-than-he second wife were also staying at the Irma, but as Rogers and Post enjoyed pointing out, the clean-shaven groom and his comely bride stayed mostly in their room—something the two men found immensely funny.

  Also staying at the Irma that week was a British military officer and his entourage, in Wyoming to hunt bear. Brigadier Sir David McIntyre of His Majesty’s 60th Regiment of Foot, his manservant, and the brigadier’s twenty-four-year-old son, plus several American friends had already been at the Irma for about a week when Tom arrived. T
he younger McIntyre had been boasting around the bar of his expert marksmanship—something the young man had not as yet demonstrated by bagging a bear, though he had reportedly had a couple of chances.

  Following a day of fishing and hunting, the hotel guests gathered each evening in the hotel dining room for dinner and afterward in the adjacent lobby or bar to relax and swap stories.

  On the third evening, Tom, Robert, Tommy, and Seby were seated in the lobby, visiting with Rogers and Post about the relative merits of the Gravel, Shoshone, and Clark Rivers as trout fisheries. Rogers changed topics from fishing to the vanishing wilderness in America. He and Tom had engaged in some friendly banter the night before—trading Paul Bunyan-type stories—and the two men, who were about the same age, had become comfortable with each other.

  “It’s true, Tom,” the cowboy humorist said. “Old Buffalo Bill is gone, and about all that’s left of the real West is coyote scat, and soon that’ll be gone too.”

  Post chimed in. “Will’s right. The only real remaining wilderness is in Alaska, and if we don’t get there soon, the Russians will have civilized all the Eskimos.” His comment was met with laughter, and as it died down, the conversation turned to world events. Post made a comment about the recent emancipation of the Irish Free State from the British Empire. When Tom’s mood became more serious, it was clear to everyone that Post had touched a nerve.

  “Why do you suppose it has been so hard to accept the fact that Ireland wanted to be independent?” Tom asked. “The Brits held them in bondage longer than they did the American colonies. And they still control the six northern counties. It’s like if America won her independence, but the king kept New England.”

  “True,” Rogers said, setting aside for the moment his characteristic down-home way of speaking. “For some reason, there’s always been a reluctance on the part of England to grant the Irish their freedom. They’ve had their share of oppression, that’s for sure.”

  “Bloody well deserved, I should think, what with their leaders killing each other on their way to the top,” a voice said from the entrance to the hotel bar.

  The group in the lobby turned their heads in that direction to see a young man, wearing a buckskin shirt, jodhpurs, and leather riding boots, walking somewhat unsteadily toward them. He carried a half-empty beer mug in one hand and a leather riding crop in the other.

  “The bloody Irish haven’t learned to govern their own appetites, much less their country,” the man continued. “And when de Valera had a bullet put through Collin’s brain—if the bloody mick had a brain—it was just one less Catholic upstart for His Majesty’s forces to deal with.”

  Robert shot Tom a look that warned “The man’s drunk,” and Tom nodded in reply.

  The six men seated in the lobby remained quiet, recognizing the potential for trouble should one of them confront the young man.

  Speaking more loudly, the man continued. “Are there no Irish among you, then, man enough to defend ‘the old sod’?” he challenged.

  “And who might you be, son?” Will Rogers asked.

  The red-faced man straightened himself as best he could and said, “I am Jonathon McIntyre, Esquire, son of Brigadier Sir David McIntyre of His Majesty’s Regiment of Foot. We have come to your country, sir, to bag a few bear as it were.” He blinked his eyes and added, “Certainly, if your loud-mouthed, half-blind President Roosevelt can do it, a proper English gentleman can do it better.”

  Fixing his blurry vision on Rogers, the young man said, “And who might I be addressing, sir?”

  “Well, son, I’m Will Rogers. I’m part Cherokee, part German, part likable, and part ornery, but don’t let any of that get in your way,” he smiled.

  McIntyre blinked a few times, then turned his attention to Tom.

  “And you, sir, did I hear you speak fondly of the bloody Irish?”

  Tom glanced at Robert, who shook his head slightly, again warning Tom not to take the bait. Then Tom looked up at McIntyre.

  “Actually, Mr. McIntyre, I am rather fond of the Irish, and on occasion, I’ve even met a few Englishmen I’ve liked. Just a few, mind you.”

  Robert Thurston sighed and shook his head, smiling sadly.

  “Was that an insult, sir?” McIntyre asked.

  “Not unless you take it that way, son.” Tom replied, remaining seated. “Why don’t you just go on up to your room and sleep it off. I think you’ve had enough for one evening.”

  Tom was looking at Robert again, a smile similar to Robert’s on his face, when McIntyre’s riding crop grazed Tom’s face and landed sharply on his shoulder. Tom immediately came to his feet. He grabbed the crop out of McIntyre’s hand and flung it across the lobby. The Englishman flinched and backed away. Then, with surprising quickness, given his state of inebriation, McIntyre produced a hunting knife from a sheath on his belt and stepped forward, slashing at Tom. Tom saw the knife, but too late to avoid it, and the blade sliced into the flesh of his upper left arm. McIntyre then drew the knife back, preparing for another lunge.

  In an instant, Tommy was out of his chair and moving toward his father’s assailant. When McIntyre swiped at Tommy, the young Marine avoided the knife thrust and in a swift movement stepped behind the Englishman and drove his boot hard into the back of McIntyre’s left knee. McIntyre’s leg collapsed, and he pitched forward, crashing face forward onto a low, wooden table in front of a couch, with Tommy instantly on his back. Stunned, the Englishman didn’t resist as Tommy bent the man’s arm behind him and wrenched the knife from his grasp, then held the point of it against the side of McIntyre’s throat. In seconds, before anyone else could react, Tommy had disarmed the man and now held him helpless.

  “Stop!” a man’s voice called from across the room. “Please, sir,” the man said as he hurried forward. “I beg your indulgence. Do not injure Master McIntyre. I will assume responsibility for him.”

  “Who the hell are you?” Tommy shouted, glancing up from the man he had pinned to see who had intervened.

  “Please, sir, I beg of you. My name is Albert. I am Sir David’s manservant. This young man is the brigadier’s son.”

  “Did you see what this drunken fool just did?” Tommy demanded, looking toward his father, whose wound was being attended to by Robert and Seby, who were trying to stop the bleeding with a table napkin.

  “I did, sir. I saw the whole incident. I implore you not to call the authorities. Sir David will resolve the matter to your satisfaction straight away, tomorrow, when he returns from Cheyenne.”

  “Get off me, you bloody mick,” McIntyre cried.

  Looking down at his captive, Tommy shifted his weight to put more pressure on his opponent’s back and pressed the knife point more firmly against the man’s neck. McIntyre cried out in pain and fear.

  “I suggest you shut up, Mr. Esquire,” Tommy said, speaking deliberately and holding his mouth just inches from the Englishman’s ear.

  “Sir,” Albert pleaded, “if you will release Master Jonathon, I will warrant his behavior and see that his father is notified of this unfortunate incident.”

  Hearing the fracas, a large group of men had gathered, and Tommy looked up at his father for guidance. Tom nodded his assent, and Post said, “Let him up, Tommy, we’ll help Albert if necessary.” As Tommy released his foe, Tom allowed Seby and Robert to lead him away to look for medical aid.

  Tommy stared Jonathon McIntyre in the face, the desire to punish the man who had attacked his father not yet fully under control.

  “Count your blessings, Englishman. I’d just as soon shove this pig sticker through the back of your neck, but we are trying to be civilized here in the colonies.”

  Stepping to the rock fireplace, Tommy inserted the knife blade into a space between two stones and snapped it off, then tossed the handle into the fire. Then, sneering at the man, Tommy turned on his heel and left the lobby, following his father.

  Tom’s arm required twelve stitches, administered by the only doctor in Cody, and the fours
ome didn’t return to the Irma until just before midnight. Tommy shared a two-bed room with Seby, and Tom and Robert shared similar accommodations. On their initial arrival at the hotel, they had bantered back and forth with the requisite jokes about old men needing to room together so they could snore in private, and Tom rebutting his son’s taunting with stories about Tommy’s being afraid of the dark. As they settled into their beds following the altercation, Tommy tossed and turned a bit until, finally, from across the room, Seby said, “It could have been much more serious, I suppose.”

  “Yeah, I keep thinking that too. If his jab had been a few inches over, he’d have stabbed Pop in the chest.”

  “I’ve never seen anyone move as fast as you did, Tommy. You might have saved your father’s life. It looked like he was going to stab him again.”

  Tommy didn’t respond immediately. “I could have killed him, Seby,” he finally said. “I wanted to.”

  “I think everyone could see that, but they all understood why.”

  “That doesn’t make it any easier to consider. I might have taken another life.”

  “It was war back then, Tommy,” Seby said.

  “I know. But the memories are still there. They come when I least expect it.”

  The two men lay silent, and slowly, as the hour lengthened, they finally drifted off to sleep.

  The following afternoon, returning from yet another day on the river where Robert had bested them all with a seventeen-inch rainbow trout—a contest Tom had exempted himself from due to his bandaged arm—the group was surprised to find Jonathon McIntyre waiting for them in the graveled car park behind the Irma. Tom took stride beside his son as they approached the young man. Seby also moved a bit more quickly to stand between Tommy and Jonathon McIntyre.