Home is a Long Time Ago

by William F Lee

  Home

  is a

  Long Time

  Ago

  William F. Lee

  Home is a Long Time Ago

  Copyright © 2010, 2011, by William F. Lee.

  Cover Copyright © 2011 by Sunbury Press, Inc.

  NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information contact Sunbury Press, Inc., Subsidiary Rights Dept., 2200 Market St., Camp Hill, PA 17011 USA or legal@sunburypress.com.

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  FIRST SUNBURY PRESS EDITION

  Printed in the United States of America

  September 2011

  ISBN 9781934597743

  Published by:

  Sunbury Press

  Camp Hill, PA

  www.sunburypress.com

  Camp Hill, Pennsylvania USA

  Also by William F. Lee

  The Bottom of the List

  The Boys in Blue White Dress

  The Light Side of Damnation

  Once Upon a Nightmare

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I thank the genuinely accommodating folks at Sunbury Press for their promptness, cooperative spirit and expertise. In particular the owner and "do it all" and "make it happen", Lawrence Knorr. There is not enough I can say in the way of thanks to my Sunbury editor, Allyson Gard. Efficient and stern with wit and a sense of humor. The patience of Job, and I quote in part, "Your words have supported those who stumbled." This has been a most pleasant experience and will always be my first stop on any future journey.

  A special thanks to Mary Hughes who has assisted and supported me on each and every novelist journey. A life-long friend, figuratively at my elbow every day. She has provided technical assistance along with constant encouragement and helpful suggestions. A pal.

  Many thanks to two former "work-place" buddies who took the time from busy and exciting lives in retirement, and away from their families, to peruse "Home is a Long Time Ago" and offer their suggestions. Thank you, Fred Hansen, my EDS cohort, and thank you, Bob Reed, my Corps buddy.

  And as usual, a thank you to my compatriot members of The Lesser North Texas Writing Group for their valuable critique and insightful input. And of course a special thanks to the leader and benevolent dictator of the group, Carol Wood.

  I would have completed not a word; not a sentence or paragraph; and certainly not this or any novel without the love of my life and best pal, my wife, Jodi ... at my side each day. She is my breath; she is my heart; she is my very being ... and always on every journey with me. I loved her the moment I saw her on the beach at Laguna in April of '55. I love her this moment and every one in between.

  Last, and certainly not least, I thank the thousands of my readers for their support and excursions through my novels... and for their suggestions.

  PROLOGUE

  The ship's loudspeaker screeches to life with the sound of the Boatswain's pipe. Then a deep, gravelly voice barks, "Man the landing platform. MedEvac emergency inbound."

  Daylight seeps away as dark storm clouds close on the horizon quickly. The sea's chop has turned into angry waves. A distinct whomp-whomp-whomp-whomp can be heard above the stomping and shuffling feet of crew members and medics. Helicopter blades grip wind gusts and sea air as the pilot fights to put the UH-1 chopper down on the pitching deck of the hospital ship, the USS Sanctuary (AH-17). She's stationed off the coast in the northern portion of the I Corps area in South Vietnam. Close to the Demilitarized Zone (DMZ). The chopper carries two Marines. One didn't make the trip. The other, Major Sean Gallagher, is being feverishly worked on by a navy corpsman who is on his third tour and knows the major well. The major has been hit twice this time. Shrapnel. Tiny piece in the major's left cheek; two larger chunks in his left shoulder, which have shattered the collar bone; and AK-47 rounds, one in each thigh midway between the knee and hip, but fortunately not in the bone.

  The chopper slams down on the heaving deck, shudders, then settles, rotor blades turning, ready for the return trip. USS Sanctuary crew members sprint to the MedEvac Huey amid the growling chopper's engine, howling wind, and the whomp from the blades. Adding to this is the booming voice over the loudspeaker snapping orders, and above it all, the shouting of the stretcher bearers. It looks confusing; however it is as well orchestrated as a symphony: off load the major onto a stretcher; another crew gently, with graveside reverence, removes the dead Marine and places him on a stretcher as well. They won't have to race. As the other team hurries the major to surgery, the chopper corpsman releases the major's hand, and shouts "You're goin' to make it, Ice Man. You're goin' to make it." The corpsman gave the nickname to the major when he was a captain, company commander in both of their first tours in Vietnam because Sean Padraig Gallagher was like "Ice" in fire fights; cool, and like the great arctic floes, relentless. In addition and extraordinarily apt, Gallagher's eyes are steel-like icy-blue. His look when giving orders, or when necessary, are hard, glacial. However, when speaking of his men, or when undertaking the difficult task of writing a letter to parents or a wife, the ice melts and his eyes take on a warm, malleable, subdued hue. Anyway, the name stuck, and the corpsman, has been with the Ice Man on three tours. This time with the Vietnamese Marines. The major was an Adviser with one of the two VNMC brigades. He'd been hit on a Fire Support Base the brigade was operating from and facing heavy concentrations of NVA forces. Enemy heavy artillery, mortar and small arms fire brought airborne resupply and medical evacuation operations to a near standstill. And, they also took down the Ice Man.

  * * *

  After a three hour surgery, the Ice Man wakes up, still in Post Op. The Surgeon, a Navy Lieutenant, leans over him, staring. The Ice Man half smiles through the facial bandages and says, "Hey Doc, how long before I can get back?"

  "Back. Back where?"

  "To my unit." He paws at his bandages. "Shoot. How come my left eye isn't blinking?"

  "You're not going back, Major. You're going stateside, CONUS. In a week, possibly less. The eye, well there is some nerve damage but I think it will be okay. We'll see."

  The Ice Man tries to sit up. Can't. Grimaces. A nurse standing bedside gently pushes him down, "Easy does it, Major."

  He spits out, "Who says I'm not goin' back?"

  The doctor lets out a long breath, shakes his head. "Well, for one, me. I say. You're going to Balboa Naval Hospital in San Diego for further treatment and therapy, for your shoulder. And, the Marine Corps says you're going home. Your medical records show you were wounded twice in Korea years ago; and that you have been wounded twice before here in Vietnam. Now, two more times. Anymore and you'll be a sieve."

  "Doc, I've --"

  "You're going home, Major Gallagher. Now get some rest. You're about to be moved into a ward. Try to be nice to the help, and don't badger them about this issue." He stops, looks down at a page in a small notebook he's carrying, then says, "Headquarters wants us to verify that you list no next of kin and that any notification, and so forth, should go to a..." he doctor checks his notes, "a Ponzio Vaccaro in... Harvey Cedars, New Jersey. Is that correct?"

  "Yeah, but don't go botherin' him over this, and anyway--"

 
; "Have to Major." He turns to go.

  "Hey, Doc."

  Stopping, the doctor turns around. "What now, Major?"

  "Thanks."

  The Doc takes in a deep breath. Exhales slowly. Smiles. "No, thank you, Marine."

  "Through many dangers, toils and snares

  I have already come."

  John Newton

  CHAPTER 1

  Where do I begin this story? With him, the Major, Sean Padraig Gallagher? Or with her, Grace Holli O'Riley. . .Amazing Grace . . . now using Callahan as her last name? With the interloper, Rachael Jezebel Waters? With the Callahan boy? Or me, Ponzio Vaccaro, old Pete, the fisherman? Who knows for sure where it began? Or when? Or why? I mean, does it matter? It started. More important, so has God's plan; a long time ago.

  I say it was all fate. . .God's will. . .or the stars . . . or the alignment of the planets . . .fortune's wheel . . . or maybe just like the Major said as a boy when his parents died in an automobile accident. Eyes steely blue and cold as ice he said, "It's all a crap shoot, Mister Pete. The dice roll, and it comes up your number. Sometimes you roll; sometimes someone else rolls the dice." I say, "Whatever. The story starts, and it might as well be with me."

  My background, not important maybe, but it won't hurt none you should know. I was born as Ponzio Vaccaro in 1910. In this country. My parents were too. We spoke Italian at home so sometimes I forget and a few words leap off my tongue. And, I guess I should apologize for a stitch of a "Baa-ston" accent that should have worn off by now, but it hasn't. Long time ago my family come from Camogei, Italy to Gloucester, Massachusetts, to fish. I'm named for Saint Peter, the Saint of Fishermen. Many of my people came to Gloucester in the 1800's. I moved here to Harvey Cedars, New Jersey, in 1930 when my parents died. I sold my father's boat, came here, bought a better boat, and started my own fishin' business. Just small. As a rule pleasure, but sometimes I go commercial, to keep food on the table and gas in my boat.

  I knew Sean's father better than his mom. His poppa had a barber shop here in town, then a butcher shop. He'd sometimes buy fish from me to sell in his meat store. Particularly on Friday's. The Catholics in Harvey Cedars always ate fish on Friday . . . called them mackerel snappers back then, but of course they didn't actually eat mackerel, ate mostly blues and weak fish. I'd always give him a good fillet of flounder with some crab meat to use as stuffing. Many times he'd throw in a piece or two of meat, typically lamb 'cause he knew it was my favorite.

  Anyway, back to the story. Good person, old man Gallagher. The family lived in a small beach cottage, just off North Long Beach Boulevard . . . east side, the ocean side. Sean was born four years after I moved here. When he was fourteen he started helping me on my boat on weekends and summers. Before that he came to watch me working on my boat and would fish from my dock. You know, looking back, I don't think that boy spent a penny of his wages. He always gave some to his mama and saved the rest. Only boy of his age I knew that had a bank account. But, on with the story.

  In the summer of 1950 his parents went to visit friends one weekend and were killed in an auto accident. A drunk driver hit them; ran a stop sign in Plainfield. The boy buried his folks. I became his guardian. I went and stood with him that day. His eyes were misty for sure. Then, just hours later his eyes were hard and steely when he sold the store. He kept the cottage and came to live with me on my boat so he could finish his last year of high school. When he finished school, he joined the Marine Corps, telling me, "I want to go fight for my country." The Korean War was going on then. When he left he thanked me for all I did. Gave me a bear hug. Hung on to me for several minutes. Near squeezed the breath out of me. Told me to rent his father's cottage, and keep ten percent for myself each month and put the rest in his bank savings account here in town along with his parents' insurance money and the accident claim settlement already there. That was a lot of money. Old man Barto, the banker, set everything up and George, my real estate friend, rented the place to a lady named Anna Bertonelli. A short, pretty woman with a lot of grit and about my age. Didn't mean anything then. It does now.

  Sean came back to see me before he left to go overseas to Korea. Had grown up. No longer a boy. Body strong, hard. Six feet, two or three. All muscle, big, weighed maybe two-hundred and twenty pounds. His blond curly hair thicker and cut shorter. His face leaner, no more boyish look. His steely blue eyes always hard on people until he smiled . . . ah, then they warmed up. Those were the eyes I saw when he left after a tight hug and pats on my back with both hands.

  He wrote me a letter once from California just before he got on a ship bound for Korea. Told me he had met an Irish gal named Grace but that he didn't want to keep up the relationship since he was going overseas and might not come back. But he also said that I would have liked her. He went on to say, if I don't make it, meaning himself, you keep everything. Old man Barto has the letter. And then that was that, he left for Korea. This was in the fall of 1952.

  I got two letters from the government telling me that Sean was wounded but would be okay. Two times! He sent me the Purple Heart medals and another one, a Silver Star for things he did there. Mamma mia, no wonder he got hurt. Then when he came back, he stayed in California. Didn't come home.

  He never came home again. Wrote me letters. Two, three, maybe a few more. In the last one he said make sure old man Barto still had his letter. Then later, the government sent me letters notifying me he was wounded in Vietnam. He was there twice, and I got four wounded-in-action notifications and more medals from him . . . a Navy Cross and Bronze Star. And two Cross of Gallantry's from the government of Vietnam. Mamma mia, what he did. God must like him and keeps him alive for some reason. Before that, sometime, he hadn't told me, he'd been made an officer so by that time he was a Captain.

  Now I get another letter, and he's a Major, another notification from Uncle Sam and more medals from him. I put these with the other ones. I'd show people like George and old man Barto, and sometimes guys on my boat. But this time his letter said he's retiring from the Marine Corps and comin' home. To me. And went on to say, we will start a new business together. Imagine that. We see each other only once in twenty years and he's comin' back to me.

  My Maria, my wife, she died in the big storm here nearly ten years ago, in 1962. It was called the Storm of the Century. It took my Maria and my boat, and destroyed most of Harvey Cedars. I got a new boat, found another Maria in Anna, and this town is comin' back. And that brings me to the story about Grace. Yep, Amazin' Grace.

  Grace Holli Callahan. That's her name now. It was Grace O'Riley. But she goes by Holli, not by Grace, and signs her name G. Holli Callahan. I knew her uncle, George, for a long time. He found Anna and she has rented the Gallagher cottage all these years. Anyway, Grace came here to live with George in February 1953. She was pregnant and said her husband had died in the Korean War. Added he was a jet pilot flying F9F Panthers, like Ted Williams of my "BoSox" did; only her husband was in the Navy, not the Marines, and aboard a carrier. So she said. Anyway, George and I were close friends, like brothers. He told me all this and much more . . . more than he should have. And that she had no one else and he wanted me to know so if something happened to him, I could watch over her. I told him, "Sure. Absolutely. I give my word." And he said never to tell anyone. Promise? I promised. So now I have what amounts to be two children and a grandson. Based on what George told me and what I've seen, I know she's the Irish girl from California that Sean knew. And when I see her son, pow! . . . ahhh, I knew it for sure. He's the spittin' image of young Sean. The hair, the eyes, his size, but especially the eyes. He's seventeen now, and he too works on my boat. He too loves the water, the sea. And he too loves the military. He goes away to school each year at Valley Forge Military Academy in Philly.

  So, Grace is now G. Holli Callahan. She changed her name, made up a husband so her son would have a father, or did. Being a bastard child or illegitimate can leave a stigma, at least in those days. Instead, he has a hero for a father and an am
azing woman for a mother. She raised him well, and she works hard and is mucho successful. Her uncle George, my good friend died, also in the big storm. They never found his body. Must have been swept away like my Maria. He had no family so Grace, or Holli, inherited his home and his real estate business where she worked. Good business now that the town is starting to boom again. After the big storm she purchased as many lots and parcels of land as she could. Has sold a lot of real estate since, and started and owns an antique shop in town. Lottsa money now. And she is some kind of beautiful. Tall and a lot of woman. I mean . . . wooo . . . built like my Maria. . . and lovely. Pretty auburn hair and grayish eyes. Sometimes sad, seemingly looking far off. Anyway, I promised her uncle I would watch over her and would keep my, and his, secret. So she's G. Holli Callahan. But in my heart, I know she is Sean's Grace. He doesn't know she's here nor does he know about the boy. He's never mentioned her since his letter so many years ago. I know. I know. Can't be sure, but, I am. God has a plan and he's let me in on it.

  So . . . there you have it. There's more I could say. About Sean. And will by damn. Worked hard on my boat. Great athlete in school. The old coach still remembers him and the principal too. I always tell them of his exploits and show them his medals and write-ups. They're retired now; still live here and often walk along the dock where my boat is . . . Sometimes I give them something from my catch . . . possibly sole, or a blue, or a stripper.

  Well, that's it for now. He's comin' home. . .it's been a long time.

  I can hardly wait.

  * * *

  June gloom covers the city but here in the hills above San Diego the fog has long burned off and the sun has already warmed the morning at Balboa Naval Hospital. Major Sean Padraig Gallagher is officially retired. Not much choice. Major General Findlay, an old friend whom he served under a few times, came to the hospital to do the honors. It's over. Sean Gallagher is going home, after twenty years of service. Good service; hard service; two wars; a scarred body, reasonably whole but with plenty of stitches holding it together. The only scar visible this morning is the one on his left cheek. It's still an ugly pink but in time it will fade and be hardly noticeable. He has all his parents' insurance payout and the accident settlement. He sold all his IBM stock he'd been purchasing since 1958 with hazardous duty pay he'd been drawing and one third of his base pay every month since he was commissioned a Second Lieutenant in '58. He called old man Barto's son who is running the bank now for his dad and had him sell two of the lots Sean owned. He kept the house for now and the other two lots. He had saved all his net rental income. He and Pete are going to buy a boat, a yacht, and turn it into a luxury fishing boat, and buy or build a restaurant. Live a busy but simple life in good ol' Harvey Cedars. Going back to his best friend, the old man, Pete. And going back to his home of a long time ago. A long, hard time ago.