The Callahans: The Complete Series

by Gordon Ryan

  By May 1940, following the surrender and occupation of Norway, France, and Denmark, and with fear of a German invasion sweeping England, Chamberlain resigned, and Winston Churchill was asked by King George VI to form a new government. At sixty-five years of age, Winston Spencer Churchill became the Prime Minister of Great Britain at a time when the Empire was on the verge of ­collapse.

  To establish their military supremacy, in the spring of 1940, German aircraft began indiscriminately bombing resi­dential districts in London, and civilian deaths mounted daily. Tommy pleaded with Bess to take their son and relocate to Salt Lake City with his parents.

  “Tommy, we’ve talked about this before. I’m not leaving until you can come with us and we can be sealed in the Salt Lake Temple. We both know that’s impossible during this crisis.”

  “Bess, please, be reasonable. This war has taken a turn no one expected. If the RAF can’t keep German aircraft at bay, their army will be on the beaches by late summer, and England will be an occupied country. Then, as a New Zealand citizen, you won’t be able to get out, no matter how hard you try. Even the British are evacuating their children to Australia or Canada.”

  “What chance do you have for a reassignment?” she asked.

  He shook his head. “I can’t leave now, Bess; you know that. If I asked for a reassignment, it would be viewed negatively, possibly even considered cowardice. Despite what President Roosevelt says publicly, America will eventually be in this war. In the meantime, I’ve got to stay in place.”

  “And so will I,” Bess declared, stepping close to her husband and placing her hand on his cheek. “We’ll be all right, Tommy. The Lord will watch over us.”

  Tommy exhaled a long sigh and took his wife in his arms. “Why in the world I fell in love with a headstrong woman, I’ll never know.”

  “Because if I wasn’t headstrong, Colonel Callahan, you’d wish I were. Remember, my country is at war too, and most of the Kiwi men are already in North Africa, including two of my brothers and your nephew, Clinton. We’ll get through this, I just know it. At least you have a relatively safe assignment.”

  “I’m a Marine officer, Bess. I’m not supposed to seek a safe haven.”

  “But America’s not at war. At least, not yet.”

  “That won’t last long. Promise me you’ll at least take Benjie down to the air raid shelters when the siren sounds.”

  “Of course I will,” she said, again stroking his cheek in an attempt to ease his concern. “Now get back to the embassy. I know ­you’re not supposed to be here. We’ll be fine.”

  Three weeks passed, with Tommy spending nearly all of it on twenty-four-hour duty at the embassy. In early September, the German Luftwaffe changed their tactics from striking British airfields and began indiscriminate bombing of cities and towns, including London. Twice he had made it home, and on one occasion, he had been unable to find Bess in the confusion of yet another air raid. He’d left her a note, expressing his love and indicating that he hoped to get a forty-eight-hour pass over the weekend.

  On September 10, at about two in the afternoon, the embassy’s Marine duty officer entered the secure crypto area where Colonel Callahan was working and came to attention in front of Tommy’s desk.

  “What is it, Captain?” Tommy asked, looking up from a series of messages he was reading.

  “Colonel, the ambassador has asked if you would have a moment to meet in his office.”

  “Of course,” Tommy said, standing and grabbing his tunic. “Did he say what it was about?”

  “No, sir. Just that he needed to see you.”

  “Fine. Thank you, Captain.”

  In 1938, President Franklin Roosevelt had appointed Joseph Kennedy of Massachusetts as the American ambassador to the Court of St. James in London. Buttoning his tunic, Tommy entered the stairwell and climbed two floors to the ambassador’s level, where he knocked on the outer door.

  “Ah, Colonel Callahan, please come in,” Ambassador Kennedy said.

  Tommy entered the office, where the ambassador stood talking with a uniformed police constable and another man dressed in civilian clothing.

  “Colonel, this is Chief Inspector Mulligan and Constable Higgins.”

  “Colonel Callahan,” the inspector said, “your residence is located on Chidester Place in Kensington, is it not?”

  “It is,” Tommy replied, immediately wondering what this was all about.

  “And you live with your wife, uh,” he consulted his notes, “a Dr. Elizabeth Callahan?”

  Tommy looked at the ambassador for a moment, and then looked back toward the inspector.

  “Yes, and our son, Benjamin, an infant.”

  “Colonel, I’m sorry to inconvenience you, but I’m going to have to ask you to come with us, if you will.”

  “What’s the problem, Inspector?” Tommy asked, fear rising in him.

  “Tommy,” Ambassador Kennedy said, “there is no easy way to say this ... the, uh, the inspector came to inform me that a block of flats on Chidester Place, including your particular address, was the impact site for a cluster of bombs just after midnight. He, uh, the inspector, I mean,” Kennedy stammered, “needs to ask you to accompany him for identification purposes.”

  “Identification?” Tommy asked, his heart rate suddenly accelerating.

  Kennedy stepped closer and lowered his voice. “Tommy, the inspector has informed me that a woman they believe is your wife and a male infant were killed early this morning. I’m so sorry.”

  Tommy stood stunned for several moments, staring at Ambassador Kennedy.

  “We have transport, Colonel, if you’d be so kind as to accompany us,” Mulligan said.

  “I’ll ... I’ll, uh, meet you in the foyer, Inspector. If you’ll just excuse me for a moment,” Tommy said, turning and slowly walking out of the ambassador’s office.

  Ambassador Kennedy followed Tommy into the hallway, motioning for the Marine captain who stood at the end of the corridor.

  “Captain,” he said, as he watched Tommy retreat down the hallway, “go with Colonel Callahan and see if you can be of any assistance. He’s had some rather bad news, I’m afraid.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll remain with the colonel.”

  Other than the morning of the funeral service and the burial, it had been two weeks since Tommy had left the embassy. He immersed himself in work, but had difficulty concentrating. When he slept, it was only infrequently and fitfully on a cot in his office. Using the Marine ready room to shower and shave, he depended on the embassy housekeeper to wash and care for his uniforms. He recognized attempts by the ambassador’s wife, Rose Kennedy, and others to console him as heartfelt and sincere, but what could anyone say to alleviate such a loss or relieve the ache in his chest?

  His parents had responded to his telegram informing them of Bess and Benjamin’s deaths by declaring their intention to immediately fly to London on the Pan Am Clipper. But Tommy wired back that the funeral was to be held too quickly and that he would have no time following to spend with them. Besides, the emergency situation and the danger inherent with the bombings made their coming to England a risky thing. Acquiescing to Tommy’s arguments, they had reluctantly cancelled their bookings.

  When Ambassador Kennedy appeared in his office one morning, an unusual occurrence, Tommy rose to stand behind his desk.

  “Just an informal call, Colonel,” the older man said. “Please be seated,” he said, patting the air with his hand and taking a chair across the desk from Tommy. “To be quite candid, Colonel Callahan, I’m here at the direction of Mrs. Kennedy.”

  “Sir?”

  “You know women, Colonel,” he said, trying to smile and shaking his head gently. “They always think they know best in matters of the heart ... including a broken heart,” he added softly.

  “Mrs. Kennedy has been very kind.”

  “Yes, well, that’s her way,” the ambassador said.

  Waiting for Kennedy to continue, Tommy sat quietly.


  “Actually, Colonel, I do have something of importance I would like you to do for me.”

  “Yes, sir,” Tommy responded.

  “It will entail your leaving this, uh, your quarters, as it were,” he said, looking around the office that Tommy had turned into a bed-sitter.

  Tommy remained silent.

  “I think you know that Mrs. Kennedy and I will be departing England shortly, and I’d like to obtain a first-hand report of morale in fighter command before I go. In RAF High Wycombe, specifically. President Roosevelt will surely ask my opinion of the current situation, and ...”

  Tommy tried to be respectful, but his face betrayed his thoughts, and Kennedy just shook his head again. “You’re not buying any of this, are you, son?”

  “Sir, I know you and Mrs. Kennedy mean well, but I’m doing okay, really.”

  “That’s just it, Colonel. You’re not doing okay, at all. I want you out of here for a few days at least,” the ambassador said with sudden firmness. “Now I can send you on a fool’s errand and have you gather useless information, or you can just jump in that little roadster of yours and drive to a place of your choosing. One way or another, you will leave London. What’s it to be, Colonel?”

  Tommy sat for a moment, then looked directly at the ambassador, slowly nodding his head.

  “Please thank Mrs. Kennedy and your housekeeper, Mrs. Winston, for their kindness. I’ve been rather reclusive, I know. And thank you, sir, for your thoughtful offer. I’ll leave tomorrow morning, if that suits.”

  “That’s fine, Colonel,” Kennedy said, standing and stepping toward the desk. “Can I be of any assistance, with reservations or accommodations?”

  “No, sir, thank you. I believe I’ll just head down to the coast.”

  “Tomorrow’s Thursday. I don’t want to see you back here before Monday morning. Is that clear, Colonel Callahan?”

  “It is, sir,” Tommy responded, also standing and accepting Ambassador Kennedy’s handshake.

  Kennedy stepped toward the door but before leaving, turned to face Tommy.

  “You’ve just been through the toughest thing a man can endure, Colonel. In this abominable war Mr. Hitler has started, I think there will be a great deal more of it before we can bring it under control. Our own sons will likely be involved. Perhaps that’s what Mrs. Kennedy sees in you—a reflection of the future and the pain they—we—might be called upon to bear.”

  As correct as Kennedy had been, he’d only know the half of it. Tommy had not slept, fitful cat naps supplanting the body restoration that comes from deep sleep. His nights had turned to demons, fears, emotions of all origin flitting through his mind and body. He knew he needed more than a three day rest and re-cooperation at some resort community. That would only serve to confirm Bess’ absence. In the private recesses of his private thoughts he wanted to join Bess. To hold her, to comfort her, to plead with her to forgive him for not being there to protect her. And to see his son again. Only through the war could he see merit in his choices. Only through death would any of his desires be possible.

  Brighton, East Sussex, England

  September, 1940

  Not consciously certain of his destination, Tommy drove into the countryside of Kent, heading southeast from London. Within twenty minutes, he found himself behind a convoy of British military vehicles traveling only twenty to twenty-five miles per hour. Unable to legally overtake the outrider motorcycles, he followed the line of trucks for some forty miles before he was able to circle through a few roundabouts in a small village and leapfrog the convoy. Immediately, he found himself behind yet another cluster of military lorries heading southeast.

  By dusk, he was on the outskirts of Brighton, a destination that he had discovered some miles back was at the end of this particular road. Remembering the last time he had crossed the same terrain, he experienced a renewed ache in his chest. The trip had taken over seven hours this time—courtesy of his military escort—considerably more than the three-hour trip when he had first brought Bess here on the holiday they had shared.

  As he drove through the narrow, winding streets, the windows on each of the buildings were shuttered for the evening and the street lamps were unlit. Stopping in front of the Fluted Unicorn, he parked his car and climbed stiffly out of the driver’s seat. Then he walked into the darkened lobby and to the reception desk.

  “Any chance for a room for a few days?” he asked the clerk.

  “Your choice, sir. We’ve few guests in these troubled times.”

  “Something upstairs, then. Facing the ocean.”

  “How many nights, sir?”

  “Uh, three. Through Saturday, please.”

  “Right. Sign here, please, sir,” the man said, turning a large registration book toward Tommy. “Number seventeen, top of the stairs. A good view of the ocean, sir, but nothing to see this evening, I’d say, and even in the daylight, it is, uh, different.”

  “That’s fine. Thank you. I’ll just get my luggage.”

  “I’ll have the boy—”

  “Don’t bother. I’ve only got one bag. Thanks again,” Tommy said, retracing his steps through the front door and retrieving his luggage from the car.

  In his room, with the darkened curtains adjusted to prevent the light escaping from his bedside lamp, Tommy stripped his uniform to his trousers and lay on the bed, his hands folded on his stomach. After some minutes, he reached down to his bag and withdrew the letter he had received from his mother the day before his departure from London. Whereas mail between America and the British Isles was often weeks or even months in coming, the benefit of being part of the Embassy staff assured him that private mail would be included in the diplomatic pouch. It only took his mother’s letter six days to arrive. He lay back on the bed, unfolded the letter, and read it again, slowly, pausing occasionally to consider her thoughts.

  September 12, 1940

  My dearest Tommy,

  Your father and I were devastated to receive your telegram about your terrible loss. I was for coming to you immediately, despite your plea for us to remain in Utah. It was your father who thought your advice was best and that you needed to consider this yourself and find a way to accept what has happened. I must admit, privately of course, that he is usually wiser in these things than I am. The mother in me simply wants to hold you and love you, my darling.

  When your telegram arrived, I felt as if my heart had broken, quite literally. Your father was in Denver on business, and I immediately drove to Draper to see Teresa. After telephoning your father, Tess and I cried through the night, aching for your grief.

  I have never told you this, Tommy, but on many occasions I have remembered the morning when my lifeboat pulled alongside the Carpathia and I heard your small voice calling me from her decks as you stood with the other survivors of the Titanic. Never has my heart been so filled with joy. Throughout that long, agonizing night, I had imagined that both of my sons, as well as my parents, had perished in the sinking of that great ocean liner. Our grief at Benjamin’s loss was great, but I have often thought how unbearable it would have been to have lost all of you. I had ­actually considered slipping over the side of the lifeboat in the quiet of the night and joining you. It was Teresa and her belief that you were alive that kept me from the dreadful act.

  And now you, Tommy, must understand that Bess and your Benjamin await you in our Father’s house. I know that is true, Tommy. I know it with all my heart. With your permission, your father and I will accomplish the necessary work in the temple as quickly as possible.

  I know that such knowledge does not fill your arms, or warm your heart, or greet you with a tender kiss. I know it does not replace the little hand of a son who sees in his father a hero of giant proportion. And I know that your heart aches for the ­tenderness you shared with your beloved Bess. But you will hold her again, Tommy. As God is my witness, you will hold her again, and your father and I will be reunited with your brother Benjamin.

  We are often reminded
by our Church leaders of the sacrifice made by our Father in giving up His Son. Perhaps it is only when we have truly felt the pain of such loss in our own lives that we can understand the depth of His love and the true meaning of the plan of salvation. He does love us, Tommy, as you love Bess and your tiny son. Live well for them, Tommy. Don’t let your grief overwhelm you and cause a loss of the testimony and caring Bess helped to restore to your life. Turn to your Heavenly Father, my son, and cry unto Him.

  I love you as only a mother can, my dearest Tommy. May God wrap you in His arms until I can hold you again in mine.

  All our love,

  Mom

  The truth be known, it was his mother’s letter than had finally drawn Tommy from his slow descent into hell. The loss of his wife and son had left him empty, fearful, and uncertain about his right to continue living. His mother’s letter provided a different perspective, one of loving, but stern advice: turn to God, Tommy, she had said. Let Him comfort you.

  Over the years God had never been Tommy’s first source of refuge and He was not now. He had proven himself, yet again, to be heartless, unconcerned about His children, careless in who lived and died. Who deserved to live or die. Tommy saw that his own death would have been understandable. He wore the uniform. His allied country was at war. He lived in the war zone. He was prepared for death. But not Bess’. Not Benji. Katrina’s letter and her heartfelt outpouring of love might keep him alive, but it would not let him live.