The Callahans: The Complete Series

by Gordon Ryan

  “Oh, no.” Katrina laughed. “Some of those stories, Thomas, my dear, we’ve kept from the children for many years. Even at his current age, he’d best not hear them, don’t you think?”

  “Hmmmph! If you’d be so kind, Elizabeth,” Tom said, taking his new daughter-in-law by the arm, “there are people here who would spread malicious stories if I let them. Let’s just go off by ourselves and I’ll tell you the truth.”

  “I’m all yours, Dad,” she said, winking at Tommy as he left to speak with Churchill.

  In mid-September 1936, Tommy and Bess returned from their honeymoon on the Continent and moved into a small, thatched-roof cottage in Camberley. The new term at Sandhurst was about to begin, and Brigadier McIntyre had increased Tommy’s teaching load. Bess returned to Prince Albert Hospital to complete the six months remaining of her orthopedic residency.

  The second day of the term, Tommy arrived at their cottage to find Bess home early, preparing dinner. He came up from behind and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her into him and nuzzling her hair.

  “Do you know, Mrs. Callahan, I can’t think of when my life was more pleasant or when I was happier.”

  Bess turned from the sink and wrapped her arms around his neck. “I agree wholeheartedly, Major Callahan. What should we do about it?”

  “How would you like to go away for the weekend?” he asked. “Another honeymoon is in order, I think. It’s been three weeks since we got back. Don’t you think we owe it to ourselves?”

  “I’m on shift this weekend.”

  “Any chance you could swap with someone?”

  “Is it that important?” she asked, moving toward the table and laying the place settings.

  Tommy held up a small, hand-engraved invitation card, waggling it back and forth, teasing her. “This might convince you.”

  She took hold of his wrist and tilted her head slightly to read the card. “Chartwell? We’ve been invited to Chartwell for the weekend?” she exclaimed.

  “It would seem.” He smiled.

  “Why would Winston Churchill invite us to his estate?”

  “If I were to guess, I’d say he wants to speak with me about our trip through Germany. Remember when he pulled me aside at our wedding celebration? He asked me to keep my eyes open as we traveled through the Continent. And just last week when the term started, the brigadier told me that Churchill is building a private intelligence-gathering network.”

  “He doesn’t have a position in Chamberlain’s cabinet, does he?” Bess asked.

  “Not at the moment, but apparently he plans to.” Tommy smiled. “So, can you get relief for the weekend?”

  “I ­wouldn’t miss going to Chartwell for the world. Perhaps Dr. Henderson will stand in for me. He owes me several weekends, in fact. Now, how about some dinner?” She smiled up at him.

  “After I get a kiss.”

  “Brash Yank,” she teased, standing on her tiptoes to kiss him. “And as to another honeymoon at Chartwell, I suspect I’ll be lucky if I even see you after we arrive.”

  “Churchill ­couldn’t drag me away from you, and besides, I’ve got my own intelligence to gather,” he said, taking her in his arms and pulling her close.

  Chartwell Estate

  Westerham, Kent, England

  October, 1936

  Bess was right.

  After their arrival on Friday evening, a late dinner was had by all, and then while Clementine Churchill entertained the women in the drawing room, the men—eight military officers and senior government officials, plus Tommy and Churchill—sequestered themselves in the library.

  The only officer Tommy knew well was Brigadier McIntyre, although Churchill made it a point to personally welcome the young American as the group was assembling in the library.

  “I’m pleased you and your wife were able to attend, Major Callahan. I trust you’ll make yourself right at home.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Churchill,” Tommy said. “It was most kind of you to invite us, sir.”

  “Not at all. You’ll fit right in among this lot. Some of the ‘old breed’ are here as well,” he said with a chuckle, “but speak your mind nevertheless.

  Well, then, gentlemen, scotch or brandy are on the sideboard, cigars as well,” the portly politician announced.

  At sixty-two, Winston Churchill had not lost any of his fire for political battle. He continued his quest for a greater involvement in the British government. In doing so, he was not above opposing his own party leadership whenever he felt it in the best interest of England. In this he was seen as something of a maverick, and he had managed to irritate some high-ranking people in the government.

  Amidst some good-natured bantering and laughter, the men filled their glasses, and cigar smoke began to cloud the room. But as the gentlemen took their seats, there ensued a few moments of silence, and all eyes turned to their host. Looking like the bulldog he was often compared to by political cartoonists, Churchill stood beside a large globe of the world positioned some feet from the elevated writing table on which he often prepared his speeches, following his habit of writing while standing, as opposed to being seated behind a desk.

  “Gentlemen, I’ve made no secret of my feelings about what I perceive to be the growing military and political threat on the Continent. But tonight, I have asked you all here to discuss—nay, analyze—the information that has been forthcoming as each of you, through your own channels, has gathered information of import. Admiral Benchley, as senior officer present, perhaps you would be so kind as to enlighten my guests regarding your recent visit to the Bremerhaven Naval Base.”

  “I’m pleased to say, Winston, that the German Admiralty kept me wined and dined and fully feted during my entire stay ... but far away from the shipyards. It was the most social military visit I can recall.” He laughed, holding up his brandy snifter.

  Churchill frowned, his pugnacious face wrinkling at the effort. “You mean to tell us that you were unable to obtain any strategic knowledge of the Hun’s naval capacity, other than our current intelligence?”

  Benchley swirled his brandy slowly, took a sip, and raised his glass slightly in the gesture of a small toast.

  “My dear Churchill, it’s always been my belief that those of you who obtained your military education at Sandhurst,” he said, pausing and smiling at McIntyre, “with all possible respect to you, Brigadier, have always underestimated the value of a good military aide. A junior aide to be specific. While Admirals Raeder and Doenitz were holding my hand and assuring the blindfold was securely in place, Lieutenant Commander Curtis spent three days among his peers in the, shall we say, less-formal establishments to be found along the waterfront in Bremerhaven, near the Krupp Shipyard. The first evening, when he discovered himself—quite to his chagrin, mind you—” he smiled conspiratorially, “without quarters for the evening, the noted German hospitality was immediately forthcoming, and he was secreted aboard the Stuttgart, a German ship-of-the-line, for the evening, and afforded quarters suitable to his station—without official sanction, I might add.”

  Winston also smiled. “He got inside, you say? Jolly good for him.”

  “He did, indeed,” Admiral Benchley replied. “And before the captain of the Stuttgart became aware of his presence and summarily, but quite politely, mind you, had him escorted off the station, Curtis counted fourteen new keels underway, three of them capital ships-of-the-line.”

  For nearly three hours, the conversation continued, each participant contributing what he had learned in one way or another about the current state of affairs in Germany and Italy. During all of this, Tommy sat silently in a corner of the room, fascinated to watch the way Winston Churchill led the discussion, orchestrating it much as a conductor might direct a symphony. Just as Tommy was beginning to feel relaxed, his role being limited to that of an observer, Churchill looked his way.

  “Gentlemen, we have another foreigner in our midst this evening,” Churchill said, smiling and nodding at Tommy. “A junior aide
, as you mentioned, Admiral Benchley, is often very valuable indeed—in this case, Major Thomas Callahan, of Irish-American extraction via his father’s birth. I will not regale you with an episode I was privileged to witness some seventeen years ago regarding his mother’s tenacity, but suffice it to say, gentlemen, that were she to don the uniform, Herr Hitler would think twice about his plans for the future.

  “As to Major Callahan, he comes to us from the United States Marine Corps, seconded to Brigadier McIntyre’s faculty at Sandhurst, where, I am told, he has performed admirably. He is a graduate of the United States Naval Academy, is possessed of a doctorate in world economics from the illustrious Stanford University, comes from a successful banking family in America, served three years in Washington on the war plans staff, and, as young as he appears,” Churchill smiled again at Tommy, “I am reliably told that at eighteen years of age, he held his own as a sergeant with the 6th Marines at Chateau-Thierry during our last bout with the Hun. Have I missed anything, Major?”

  Tommy shifted his position, suddenly uncomfortable, totally unprepared for Churchill’s comments and uncertain how to reply.

  “I’m sure you understand, Major Callahan, that as you are unknown to most of the officers present, I thought it appropriate to introduce you properly, and, ah, yes, there is one further item,” Churchill went on. “It should come as no surprise, Major Callahan, but your President Roosevelt and I have become, shall we say, supportive of one another’s objectives. The president was kind enough to have your Marine commandant provide a dossier on those American military personnel currently stationed in England. You come highly recommended, Major, including Brigadier McIntyre’s strongest endorsement. Nonetheless, I sincerely apologize for any embarrassment I have brought to your threshold this evening. There is, however, one other thing. The commandant of the Marine Corps has authorized me to announce the promotion of Major Thomas Callahan to the rank of lieutenant colonel, effective immediately, and to advise that your follow-on assignment has been approved to become the assistant military attaché to the American embassy at the Court of St. James. It would seem, Colonel Callahan, that you and your lovely New Zealand bride will continue to enjoy His Majesty’s hospitality for some time. Gentlemen, I think a toast is in order concerning Colonel Callahan’s promotion, what say?”

  As the officers present rose to the occasion, Tommy struggled to remain composed, surprised beyond measure at this latest promotion announcement. It had only been several years since the commandant had presented him with his gold oak leaves commemorating his majority. Now he was being advanced to lieutenant colonel in a Marine Corps which was notorious for slow advancement. His personal embarrassment, which he now sought to overcome, was based upon the knowledge that it was his political assignment, not his performance in command of Marines, that had brought the honor. It would not have been his choice of recognition. In the Great War, his promotion from corporal to sergeant, even his unknown recommendation for field commissioning, had come as a direct result of command of men in combat. Honorable. Perhaps even deserved. But certainly not because he stood shoulder to shoulder with world leaders and military commanders. Yet here he was, about to be feted by the crème of British political and military society.

  Brigadier McIntyre was the first to stand and raise his glass, followed by each of the officers gathered in Winston Churchill’s library at Chartwell that evening.

  “Now, with the social graces completed,” Churchill went on, “what do you make of this evening’s intelligence, Colonel?” he said, addressing Tommy. “Bear in mind that what is said in this room is strictly unofficial, and although we have combined here tonight some of the best analytical military minds in Great Britain, we are gathered informally. That said, what did you observe on your trip to the Continent?”

  “Mr. Churchill, I feel it would be presumptuous of me—”

  “Colonel, speak your mind,” Churchill directed, his face suddenly serious.

  With a quick glance toward Brigadier McIntyre, Tommy nodded. “Yes, sir. Gentlemen, during the several weeks I toured the Continent, I observed a great deal of random military movement and facility construction. Given the German people’s unrest and Hitler’s growing consolidation of political power, along with the movement of the German mark in comparison to British pound and the US dollar, it seems evident to me that Mr. Hitler is preparing his country—that is, his people and his military—for war.”

  Churchill puffed on his cigar and glared around the room at the assembled senior officers, many of whom had scoffed at his commentary about a pending war.

  “There you have it, gentlemen, from the most junior officer present. Is anyone in disagreement with Colonel Callahan’s hypothesis?”

  “Winnie,” Admiral Benchley began, “Chamberlain assured us only last month that—”

  “Poppycock, Admiral,” Churchill interrupted. “We are going to war, and sooner than any of us expects. And if the Navy is not ready, it shall be a long and very costly war. Mark my words.”

  Silence followed Churchill’s remarks, and Admiral Benchley stood to refurbish his brandy glass.

  The meeting broke up about 2:00 a.m., and Churchill said his farewell to several officers who were not staying the evening at Chartwell while seeing them to the door. Tommy remained in the library, conversing with Brigadier McIntyre, until Churchill returned.

  “Well spoken, Colonel,” Churchill said as he entered the room.

  “I think it’s not what they wanted to hear, sir.”

  “­You’re right about that, but what they want to hear matters little now. How familiar are you with William’s Crossing?” Churchill asked, completely catching Tommy by surprise.

  “I guess ­you’re referring to William the Conqueror’s invasion of England in 1066,” Tommy said, “but I don’t know what ­you’re driving at.”

  “As I read your dossier, you participated in the Marine Corps’ beach assault landing exercises some years ago. Is that correct?”

  “Yes, sir, in Hawaii in ’26 and ’27. They didn’t work out very well.”

  “But the Corps learned from them?”

  “We did, sir.”

  “Good. I’ve asked the brigadier to schedule a senior-level staff seminar next month on amphibious landing techniques ... using your expertise, of course, combined with our chaps’. Before this is over, I’m quite certain ­we’re going to have to reverse William’s route and land a major force on the Continent, contending—as William did not have to do—with the enemy’s airpower.” Churchill was silent for several long moments, and Tommy and Brigadier McIntyre sat quietly as well. Finally, the old gentleman spoke again. “Well, David, I think that should be quite enough for one evening, ­wouldn’t you say?”

  “Indeed, Winnie,” McIntyre said, standing and stretching. “Thank you for a very informative evening.”

  Leaving Churchill alone in the library to finish his third cigar and a final brandy, the Brigadier and Tommy said goodnight to their host.

  “Well done this evening, Tommy,” the old brigadier said as they exited the room.

  “Nothing like any Marine briefing sessions I’ve ever attended, I can assure you, Brigadier.”

  “As I told you, Winnie has formed a shadow government of his own, in preparation, mind you, for his anticipated return to power. And don’t count him out.”

  “I ­wouldn’t think of it. Goodnight, sir.”

  “Goodnight to you, Colonel, and congratulations again on your well-deserved promotion.”

  Tommy climbed the stairs and slipped as quietly as he could into their assigned bed-sitter. Undressing silently in the dark, he was surprised when Bess switched on a bedside table lamp.

  “So, my husband has returned from the halls of power,” she said, smiling at him. “Whew, and smelling of cigar smoke, I might add. Any startling developments?”

  “Not much,” Tommy said, sitting on the edge of the bed and removing his shoes. “Mr. Churchill told us all ­we’re going to war, but othe
rwise, it was just a pleasant evening,” he said casually.

  “To war!”

  “Not tomorrow, but not long, either. Oh, and I’ve been promoted to lieutenant colonel, and we’ve been reassigned. ­We’re moving to London, where I’ve been posted to the embassy staff.”

  Bess sat upright in the bed. “Just a pleasant evening, you say? You’ve been promoted, transferred, and ­we’re going to war. The next time we attend a ‘pleasant evening out,’ would you consider giving me advance notice if anything of real import is likely to happen?”

  “You’d be the first to know, sweetheart,” he said, slipping between the sheets and rolling over to snuggle his wife.

  “I doubt it, Colonel Callahan. I sincerely doubt it.”

  Chapter Four

  Kensington, London, England

  August, 1940

  In the fall of 1938, Dr. Elizabeth Rossiter Callahan completed her orthopedic residency at Prince Albert Hospital and accepted a surgical staff position at the Royal London Hospital. Lieutenant Colonel Thomas Callahan assumed his duties as assistant military attaché at the American Embassy, London, leaving the Sandhurst faculty after three years. Tommy and Bess thoroughly enjoyed their working environment and the social whirl of London.

  Then things changed—rapidly.

  In late August 1939, their son, Benjamin Arthur Callahan, was born in London. On September 1, the German Army invaded Poland, and on September 3, Great Britain and the Commonwealth countries, including Bess’s homeland of New Zealand, declared war on Germany.

  While Bess was still in the hospital following Benji’s birth, Tommy was manning his duty station at the embassy nearly twenty-four hours a day as political and military message traffic increased dramatically. Within a week, Prime Minister Neville Chamberlain named Churchill First Lord of the Admiralty, a position Churchill had held during the Great War. In September 1939, Sandhurst closed its doors, and the faculty and current students entered active duty service.