Eleanor Roosevelt and Tommy must have felt the same, because I could see both had made an effort with their hair, and was that rouge on Eleanor Roosevelt’s cheeks? Her blue velvet gown was perfectly pleasant, and Tommy had added a long skirt to her jacket.
“Shall we go?” Mrs. Nicholson said. As we marched down the stairs, I heard the Notre Dame victory march in my head. Maybe we would win overall.
Major Duggan, Mike, Jerry, and Denis were waiting for us at the bottom of the stairs. “We usually don’t invite the Navy to our Birthday Balls, especially flyboys, but we’re making an exception tonight,” Duggan said. “You all look very beautiful. May I escort you into the ball, Mrs. Nicholson?” he said.
“Mike,” I said under my breath and looked over at Eleanor Roosevelt. He understood and offered her his arm.
“Come on, Denis,” I said. So he and I, Jerry and Tommy walked behind the other two couples as if we were on our way to a grand cotillion. We passed through the dining room and down a long hallway where double doors opened out into the ballroom.
“Oh,” Mrs. Nicholson said. “Oh. Oh.” We stood in the entrance. “How did you transform this dusty wreck into a…”
“A movie set?” I said, because I did feel as if we were all about to step into a film. The Marines had strung colored lights along the walls and across the ceiling where mirrored balls hung to reflect the light, making patterns on the floor. And it was warm. How had they managed? And then I noticed the electric heaters. What a crowd. Were all five hundred Marines attending? A mass of khaki filled the ballroom and the tent beyond. Girls in party dresses were interspersed among the men.
“You ladies look so wonderful I wish we could have worn our dress blues in your honor, but in theater even at the ball, this is as formal as we get,” Duggan said.
Captain Ludke and Captain Kennedy and Sergeant Major Kent had joined us. “Most enlisted Marines don’t have money to spend on fancy dress,” the sergeant major said.
“Well their dates are making up for it,” I said, as we moved through the dancers toward a table set up for us at the side of the room.
“I’ve learned that Irish women have a lot of style,” Kennedy said. “My fiancée is from Dublin. She’s coming tonight.”
“And of course our Derry girls are famous for their good looks and high spirits,” Mrs. Nicholson said.
A band was set up at the other end of the room. About fifteen players, all Marines. I saw a lot of horns.
“The band leader was with Fred Waring,” Major Duggan said as the men pulled out our chairs and we sat down at the long table. Red and gold chrysanthemums decorated the center of our table and the small tables along the edge of the dance floor celebrating the Marine Corps’ colors and their unexpected flower arranging skills. Lots of couples were dancing and there was a crush of Marines around the many bars.
“A happy bunch,” I said to George Ludke, who was across from me.
“Oh yes,” he said. “We all know how lucky we are to be here instead of on some God-forsaken island in the Pacific crouched down in a trench hoping the next Jap bombardment won’t wipe us out.”
“Now, Captain,” Major Duggan began, “not a night for such talk.”
“But I can’t help thinking of all those fellows in those jungles. Imagine how they’re celebrating the Marine Corps’ birthday.”
“They’ll find a way, Captain,” the sergeant major said. “Believe me, they’ll find a way.”
“It’s all so random,” Ludke said. He looked at me. “When we got on that boat, the Santa Rosa, none of us knew where we were going, but we assumed it was somewhere in the Pacific. There were no Marines in the European theater. The Army didn’t want us. They still hadn’t gotten over the publicity we’d gotten in the last war. All those stories about how the Germans were afraid of us and called us Devil Dogs. In April, when we left, our fellows were being destroyed. Bataan, Corregidor, casualty rates of fifty percent. Not to mention getting jungle rot and…” He stopped and then went on. “Look, we knew what we’d signed up for. We chose to be Marines but then we landed here. It was as if we’d come to Camelot. Green fields, friendly people, great pubs, and nobody shooting at us. Luck.”
“Our turn will come, George,” Duggan said. “You can be sure of that, but for now why don’t you take Mrs. Nicholson out on the floor? And you can tell her how much you appreciate the good night sleep you’re getting.” Ludke laughed and Mrs. Nicholson said thank you very much and stood up.
Now Major Duggan turned to Mrs. Roosevelt. “May I have the pleasure, ma’am?” And they joined the dancers.
“What about it, Aunt Nonie?” Mike said to me. When was the last time I’d danced? I wondered as we walked onto the floor. Somebody’s wedding, I guess. Not Mike’s though. No time for music there. A young woman was up at the bandstand.
“And now the US Marine Corps Band is proud to introduce Derry’s own Maureen O’Reilly.”
A beauty with long dark hair, big smile.
“We’ll meet again,” she began singing. “Who knows where, who knows when.” A kind of hush as the couples moved slowly together. Who does know, I thought.
Mike and I could only take small steps in the dense crowd, but we did well enough, I thought, until the band started a jitterbug.
“I can’t, Mike,” I said. “Though if it was a Charleston I’d give it a try.”
A circle had formed around one of the couples. The fellow was short and compact and moved in a crouch across the floor toward his partner, then jumped up, took her hand and twirled her four or five times. She was wearing the uniform of a Wren. Wren, Women’s Royal Naval Service. I could see she was having a hard time keeping up with him, especially when everyone in the circle started clapping, which made him move even faster, practically slinging her from one side to the other. She stopped and laughed.
“I can’t,” she said.
“I can,” said another young woman who took her place. The Wren stood next to me taking in air, holding her chest.
“Ralph’s a demon,” she said. “He never stops.”
“I’m Nora Kelly,” I said.
“I’m Sally Jenkins,” she replied.
“This is my nephew Mike,” I said. “Lieutenant Kelly.”
Mike nodded but he didn’t smile. “Good evening, Lieutenant,” she said.
“Is that private a friend of yours?”
“I hope so,” she said, as we watched the young Marine and his new partner dancing with great energy. “As you can see I have competition. Ralph’s not ready to settle down with one girl.”
“Probably just as well,” Mike said.
“Mike, please,” I said.
“I think he’s referring to the difference in rank between Ralph and me. Officers and enlisted men are not supposed to, what’s your word? Fraternize.” Mike didn’t answer.
The music stopped and the young Marine came over to us. “You wore me out,” Sally said.
I thought of what George Ludke had said. Half these boys would be dead now if that troop ship had gone in the other direction. No wonder Ralph jitterbugged with such ferocity.
“They all look like babies,” I said to Major Duggan when we went back to the table.
“They are,” he said. “Eighteen, nineteen.”
And then I thought I was starting to hallucinate, because I heard bagpipes. Not one bagpipe, not some ceremonial call to attention, but a battalion of bagpipes, a swirl of high-pitched sound accompanied by pounding drums. Thunder and lightning marching into the ballroom.
“What is this?” I said to Duggan.
“The Marine Corps Pipes and Drums,” he said to me and laughed. He leaned over and shouted into my ear. “I was with the Lord Mayor of Derry two months ago and I guess I was going on about my Marines because he interrupted me and said, ‘You say your Marines can do anything, well they can’t play the bagpipes.’ I found an instructor, asked for volunteers, rounded up some pipes and drums which I paid for myself, and now we have the Marine Corps
Pipes and Drums.”
There must have been thirty men coming toward us. The pipe major carried a tall silver mace. As they got closer I saw it was Sergeant Major Kent who was leading them. I grabbed my camera. First I got a shot of Eleanor Roosevelt. The expression on her face. No matter where she’s been, I thought, or what she’s done, she’s never seen anything quite like this. I recognized the tune, “The Minstrel Boy to the War Has Gone.” I crouched down and photographed the sergeant major from below and then did quick portraits of the individual pipers.
Major Duggan escorted Eleanor Roosevelt as they followed the pipers to the bandstand. I put a new roll of film in my Seneca and headed after them.
There were rituals at the Marine Corps Birthday Ball, Major Duggan had explained to me. The youngest and the oldest Marines were called on to ceremoniously cut the cake with a sword. Ralph was the youngest and Major Duggan the oldest. He’d told me he’d been in the Marine Corps Reserve since 1925 and had had to use all his clout to be sent overseas at his age.
A giant birthday cake was carried out and set on a small table in front of us. No wonder so many Catholics serve in the Marine Corps. Something liturgical about the cutting of the cake with the crowd silent and the Marines standing at attention. Major Duggan raised his sword and very deliberately sliced into the cake. He pulled the sword out and handed it to Ralph. Very solemn. I noticed the blade of the sword was smeared with icing. Turn your swords into plowshares or pastry knives. If only, I thought as I photographed the proceedings.
Major Duggan introduced Eleanor Roosevelt. “I am beyond delighted to introduce our guest of honor, Eleanor Roosevelt, the First Lady of the United States, representing our commander-in-chief, at this one hundred and seventy-first Marine Corps Birthday Ball.”
The solemnity lifted as the Marines applauded. A few of them whistled and then they all barked out “Oorah,” which startled Eleanor Roosevelt but she recovered. Her high-pitched voice and that oh-so-cultured accent should have been off-putting, but she was so completely herself in that old-fashioned blue velvet dress with the ever-present fur piece nestled around her shoulders that they couldn’t but embrace her. She was very familiar to them. She represented home. She began by talking about her son who was a Marine in the Pacific, and she assured them that every one of their mothers prayed for them every day as she did for her sons. I thought of the women at the Our Lady of Sorrows novena, wouldn’t they like to see swords become cake cutters? She kept her remarks short and ended with a promise.
“Your commander-in-chief and the entire country stand with you. Together we will defeat the evil unleashed on our world. Good will always triumph and no matter how dark the times. Remember it is better to light a candle than curse the darkness, and you”—she gestured toward the revolving mirrored balls—“have created rainbows.” That got a laugh, more applause. She smiled and waved at the crowd.
“Well said,” I called up to her and snapped more photographs. She nodded. She was more like her husband than I’d thought, getting energy from the crowd. Not the shy woman I thought her to be. There was evil stalking the world. Thank God we have a strong commander-in-chief. Not much opposition to him these days. The Roosevelt-haters had gone quiet. I suddenly had a flash of memory. Miami. “Move closer.” Oh dear God what might have been.
Major Duggan led Eleanor Roosevelt back to the table and turned to me. “We’re supposed to have a closing prayer but Father Matthew hasn’t appeared yet. I hope he didn’t go off the road on his bicycle.” Then the sergeant major nudged Duggan and pointed. Father Matthew was hurrying toward us. As he got closer I saw there was mud on the bottom of his cassock. An accident? Major Duggan took him right to the bandstand.
“I hope we can quiet them down one more time,” Duggan said to him. He pointed at the bugler who sounded a call that brought the crowd to attention.
“I’m sorry to interrupt,” Father Matthew said, “and I really regret missing your party.”
“We’re just getting started, Padre,” someone shouted out.
“Alright then,” he said. “Major Duggan has asked me to deliver a final benediction. I’m bringing you St. Patrick’s prayer—a good one for warriors, because it really is based on an invocation the old Irish used before they went into battle. It’s called the Lorica of St. Patrick, which means the breastplate or shield. It’s a reference to the Irish god Lugh, a blacksmith who forged his own weapons. The prayer’s also known as the Deer’s Cry, Fáed Fíada, which refers to a mist of invisibility that can conceal a warrior from his or her enemies. The women of the Celts fought too! Patrick took this invocation and, as he did with the entire old Celtic religion, overlaid it with Christianity. Didn’t destroy the so-called pagan beliefs, he adapted them. So now as I say this prayer for you, I’m asking all of Ireland’s powerful spirits to surround you.
“May you bind to yourselves the power of Heaven, the light of the sun, the brightness of the moon, the splendor of fire, the flashing of lightning, and the depth of the sea.” Father Matthew’s voice had taken on an incantatory quality. And almost unconsciously the crowd was moving to the rhythm of his speech. Swaying slightly at each line, and then one of the Marines stamped his foot.
“God’s power to guide you, God’s might to uphold you, God’s strength to shelter you, God’s host to secure you.” More of the fellows joined in the stomping, so a loud boom boom punctuated each line. Father Matthew raised his voice, harmonizing with the thumping.
“Against all those who seek to harm you, every merciless power, against poison, burning, drowning and a death wound.”
Boom, boom, boom.
“Christ be with you, Christ before you, Christ behind you, Christ above you, Christ at your left, Christ at your right.” The stamping had become continuous. The words were riding on top of the sound as if the Marines were accompanying the prayer. Father Matthew shouted out the last lines.
“I bind you today to the Eternal Trinity, I bind you to the Creator of the Universe, amen.”
Has any prayer ever gotten that Marine “Oorah” salute before? It took another bugle call to calm the troops down. The band started the dance music again. But those warriors had been as well and truly blessed in Doire as the ancient Celts had been in the nearby oak groves for thousands of years.
The Druids had sent men—and women, too—into battle with similar words.
“Well done, Father,” I said, as he sat down with us at the table. Eleanor Roosevelt leaned over Major Duggan, and Tommy to say to him, “Unusual, but effective.” And the two began talking.
I noticed a second priest who must have accompanied Father Matthew, moving toward our table. He sat down in the empty chair next to me. “Welcome, Nora Kelly,” he said.
“Oh, dear God,” I said. “Seán MacBride.” Maud Gonne’s son.
I’d known him as a boy and had seen him again in 1920 when he’d come to the Irish Race Convention in Paris as de Valera’s secretary. Thousands of delegates had attended from all over the world. Each one with roots in Ireland.
The star of the show was the Duke of Tetuan, whose O’Donnell ancestor had been awarded a title by the king of Spain. Seán had used my apartment for the meeting between the duke and de Valera, where the Spaniard had assured Dev that the de Valeras were nobles of Spain, too. The Duke had no concrete evidence, but both Seán and de Valera were delighted with the information. Though why two revolutionaries would celebrate an aristocratic connection, I’m not sure. De Valera had never known his father, so why not surround himself with a bit of romance?
Now, here was Seán, who must be about forty—and a priest?
He crouched down next to me.
“Seán,” I said. “Have you become a monk?”
“Only for the evening. I thought it would be safer to cross the border on the back of Father Matthew’s bicycle. The Marines on guard probably have a dossier on me. They’re very nervous about the IRA. Though we’ve got enough on our plates without trying to blow up US Navy ships.”
&nb
sp; “But why are you here?”
“The chief wants to meet with Mrs. Roosevelt,” he said.
“De Valera’s coming to Derry?”
“Impossible. She’ll have to be brought to him,” he said.
“But, why?” I said.
“He wants to explain our neutrality,” Seán said. “But don’t tell her. We’ll figure a way to get her across the border. If she knew in advance, she’d tell the American and British officials and that would be that.”
“But I can’t deceive the First Lady,” I said. “Besides, she wants to meet Dev. She said…”
“Well, she won’t if the Brits find out,” Seán said. “Do it our way. You owe it to your country—both your countries. Major Duggan is friendly with a general in the Irish Army and has visited him at his home in Galway. The general has offered to host the meeting, and Duggan is on board. He understands that Ireland has no choice but to remain neutral.”
“I don’t know,” I said. The Brits would be apoplectic if Mrs. Roosevelt met Dev secretly. I remembered those colonels.
“But, Seán,” I said, “even if I wanted to help, how are we going to get her to Galway?”
“The best way is to go through Omagh and cross the border into Monaghan. It’s not guarded the way the one between Derry and Donegal is. There’s only one unit stationed there. A colored group. Not combat troops.”
“Colored,” I said.
“Yes,” he said. “They just arrived a couple of weeks ago. The camp’s outside a little place called Carrickmore. Five of our volunteers live there and I hear the colored fellows got quite a welcome. Boom times for the town. Sitting rooms turned into pubs and a big shed has become a dance hall. The one motorcar is a taxi. The people there are making money hand over fist and the kids are drowning in sweets.”
Irish Above All Page 41
