by Gordon Ryan
Meeting with Seby had been another matter. Teresa had tried to find occasions to see him throughout the summer. When she learned that he was in the process of buying the Stromberg ranch in Draper, she was delighted. That meant that Seby would remain in Salt Lake. By the time fall term began at the university, she knew she needed to talk not only to her father, but to Seby. She couldn’t rest until she had made her apologies to both men. With regard to Seby, it wasn’t so much a matter of closing a door as it was opening one.
“You have spoken with your mother?” Seby asked.
“I was a fool, Seby. A young fool. Perhaps I still am, but I’m getting wiser all the time,” she said, trying to laugh.
Seby stood his ground quietly and Teresa wondered if he was going to do anything to make this easier for her. She knew she had one thing going for her. From the time she was a little girl, Teresa had been aware that she was beautiful. She had inherited that from her mother, along with the ability to be downright charming whenever that was needed to get her own way. Now that the initial embarrassment of making the first move was over, it was time to put her skills to work.
“Seby,” she said, laying her hand on his forearm, “I made a hasty judgment, and I offended you when you had no thought other than to accept my parent’s hospitality. It’s true that I was startled by the revelations that night, but you’re not to blame for any of that. I can see now that my mother drew upon her courage and her faith in order to save you both. She candidly admits that if it hadn’t been for the sense of responsibility she felt for you, as a young infant, she wouldn’t have survived the ordeal. Therefore,” she smiled brightly at him, squeezing his forearm and tilting her head coyly, “I have you to thank for me having such a wonderful mother.”
The speech came out fluidly and clearly—much more so than during her earlier attempts in front of the mirror. Her coy facial expressions, so calculated to convey her sincerity, came easily to her, the products of frequent practice and a determination to convince this young man that she had seen the light.
Seby listened to her speech patiently, then lifted her hand from his arm.
“I am happy for you, Señorita. You are fortunate to have such a mother. And I am most grateful that you have taken the time to tell me these things.”
“They are true, Seby,” she smiled. “I am truly sorry for any hurt I have caused you.”
“Si, Señorita,” he said, his face as yet unrevealing.
“Seby,” she pleaded, her voice shakier. “I really mean it.”
“I understand. I am certain that this meeting was not easy for you to have considered. Obviously you have given much thought to what might happen—to what you would say,” he smiled. “Your expression lacks only one thing.”
“Yes?” Teresa said, now cautious and instantly afraid of being rebuked.
“You are a beautiful young woman, Teresa. You have your father’s lustrous dark hair, and your mother’s brilliant green eyes, Señorita, but I think it will be some time yet before you acquire your mother’s depth. It is good that you have spoken to her and offered your apology. And I appreciate your coming to talk with me. Perhaps we will meet again some time.”
His abrupt dismissal shocked her. Control of the meeting had changed hands without Teresa realizing what had happened. In an instant, Seby had taken the situation in hand, leaving Teresa speechless. Stunned and embarrassed, she struggled to retain some semblance of pride.
“You don’t offer a person much latitude, Mr. Stromberg,” Teresa said, her voice now cold.
“Perhaps,” he nodded. “My grandfather often told me something you might consider: We have little control over how life treats us, Señorita, but we have complete control over how we respond and how we treat others. Fortunately, you have good parents, and, God willing, time may provide you the opportunity to meet their expectations—to develop, perhaps, your own expectations for yourself.”
“My, aren’t we the self-righteous one?” Teresa mocked.
Seby smiled. “I hope not, Señorita Callahan. And I wish you the very best. Good day,” he said, replacing his hat and turning to walk toward his car.
“Mr. Stromberg!” she called out after him.
Seby stopped and turned to face her.
Quickly subduing her anger, Teresa smiled politely. “Congratulations on the reunion with your great-grandfather. I wish you the very best with your cattle ranch. Perhaps we shall meet again,” she said, waving and turning to walk away.
“It will be a pleasure, Señorita,” Seby called out, his smile returning. Already you are learning, little one, he thought as he got into his car.
Chapter 6
Finding a seat on the train was not as difficult as Tommy had anticipated. The initial contingent of recruits, including young Tommy Callahan, had boarded in Washington, D.C., picking up additional men at several stops on their trip south. He’d left a short note for Uncle Anders, after having decided against a face-to-face explanation of his plans.
April 27, 1917
Dear Uncle Andy,
I am most grateful for your hospitality and for your understanding of my problems with my father. Perhaps running away from my troubles in Salt Lake to attend college at Georgetown University wasn’t the bravest thing I’ve ever done, but I hope to rectify that.
The president has called for America’s youth to stand forth and save the world for democracy. You would understand that, Uncle Andy, because, although you have never discussed it with me, I know something of your bravery in Cuba so many years ago. Now, it is my turn and I must do this thing.
When you read this, I will be traveling south to the new Marine Corps training site in South Carolina. I ask you most sincerely, Uncle Andy, please do not use your congressional office to intervene or to have me recalled. There has already been enough family involvement in my life’s decisions. This time, I need to stand alone. I know you will understand.
Please give my love to Aunt Sarah and thank her for me for all her kindnesses during my stay in your home.
Sincerely, your nephew, Tommy
“But, Thomas, he’s barely seventeen.”
“Aye, Katie, but he’s made his choice. Now he’ll have to live with it.”
“Thomas ...” Katrina pleaded as they lay in their bed, the telegram from Anders having arrived earlier in the day, “ ... we’re at war. He may die as a result of this choice.”
“He’s a man now, Katie, or at least he’s trying to be. I’ll give him that.”
“Oh, Thomas, I’m frightened for him,” Katrina whimpered.
“Aye. You and a million other mothers, I’d say.”
Traveling with several hundred other young men scattered throughout the train, Tommy sat by the window, lulled into reflective thought by the clickity-clack of the train wheels. He watched the lush Virginia landscape roll by as the train approached North Carolina and thought of the beautiful Uintah Mountains and the fishing trips he had taken there with PJ and their father. After a time, he fell into a restless sleep, in which he was constantly disturbed by the rocking of the train and the movement and snoring of the other men, all headed for an uncertain future. Just before dawn, he awoke abruptly when a man fell against him while returning to his seat.
“Sorry,” the lad said.
“Not to worry,” Tommy yawned, stretching his arms above his head. “Where are we?” he asked, looking out the window at the early light filtering through the trees to the east.
“The conductor says we’re about thirty minutes out.”
Tommy nodded. “Is the, uh... ?” he indicated with his thumb.
“Yeah,” the man replied. “Back toward the end of the car, but there’s a line.”
Tommy smiled as he stood. “From what I hear, that will be the norm from now on.”
“Waiting in line will be the least of our worries, I think.”
Fifteen minutes later, Tommy returned to his seat to find the other man arranging his few possessions in a small suitcase. “Tommy Callah
an,” he said, sticking his hand out.
“Good to meet you, Tommy,” the young man replied, grasping his hand. “I’m Francis Borello. Just call me Frank. I’m from Staten Island, New York. And you?”
Tommy figured Frank to be about twenty-four—somewhat older than most of the recruits on the train.
“Well, lately, I’ve been living with my uncle in Washington, D.C. My family lives in Salt Lake City.”
“That would make you a Mormon, then,” Frank said.
Tommy looked out the window briefly. “Not so you’d notice,” he replied.
Frank nodded and looked around the train car, where most of the men were beginning to stir and assemble their possessions. “I guess we come from all over the country,” Frank said.
“Yep, and in about an hour, we’re gonna be Marines,” Tom smiled.
“Oh, no, Tommy. Not yet,” Frank laughed. “There’s a long road before they’ll let us call ourselves Marines.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, my dad was a Marine in the Philippines during the Spanish-American War. He warned me what to expect. They’re gonna chop us up first, Tommy. Dad said we’d be like a piece of clay and that they’re gonna mold us just how they want us. And then maybe, just maybe, they’ll let us call ourselves Marines.”
“What’s the big deal? We’ll put on the uniform and be Private Callahan and Private Borello.”
Frank shook his head then bent to slide his suitcase back under the seat. He looked out the window for a moment before answering. “My dad won a couple of medals in the Philippines and turned them into a pretty good job when he came home. He’s kind of anxious, if you know what I mean, that I should be a good Marine.”
They were sitting facing each other as the train began to slow, preparing to enter the station. Tommy leaned forward and slapped Frank on the knee. “We’ll both be good Marines, Frank. Maybe we’ve each got something to prove.”
Most of the men were standing, clutching their bags before the train had come to a complete stop. Waiting to receive them on the train platform as the car rolled to a halt were about a dozen men in uniform, wearing their campaign hats slanted down over their eyes with the leather strap fastened tightly below the crown on the back of their heads. The bottoms of their uniform trousers were wrapped with leggings, and they all wore a white, web belt with small cartridge packets attached on each side and in the rear. They were not smiling. Before any of the young recruits could get off the train, one of the uniformed men came aboard. He had three stripes on his sleeve, and he banged what appeared to be a police baton on the back of the first seat he came to.
“All right!” he bellowed, in a deep gravelly voice. “My name is Sergeant Ryker. This is the Marine Corps Training Center, Parris Island. You will keep your mouth shut. You will exit this train in an orderly fashion. And you will board my trucks quietly and quickly. And you will NOT, I repeat, you will NOT refer to yourselves as United States Marines. I am a Marine. You, on the other hand, are a disgusting pile of mush-for-brains, gutter dwellers until I say otherwise. Is . . . that . . . clear?”
A couple of men nodded their heads or mumbled their acknowledgment.
“You will respond,” he bellowed again, “‘Sir, yes, sir!’ Now, I said, IS THAT CLEAR?”
About half the men weakly voiced, “Sir, yes, sir.”
“I can’t hear you, ladies,” the uniformed man said. “Is— that—CLEAR?”
“SIR, YES, SIR!” they shouted in response.
“Now, get off this train and get on my trucks. And your mouth will . . . be . . . shut!”
Frank shouted “Sir, yes, sir” and gave Tommy a quick grin. “That is a Marine,” he whispered as he quickly moved past Tommy toward the back of the car.
The ride to the training facility took about forty minutes and immediately upon their arrival the two hundred or so men were herded off the trucks amid constant shouting and shoving from other Marine noncommissioned officers wearing uniforms similar to Sergeant Ryker’s. The recruits entered a cavernous building where about a dozen other Marines were standing.
Yellow footprints were painted on the concrete floor, and the first men through the door were roughly grabbed and shoved toward the first several pair of footprints. The others quickly got the idea and began to line up on the foot-prints, which resulted in a four-deep formation of men on one side of the room. On the floor in front of each pair of painted footprints, lay what looked like a pair of folded, white hospital pajamas.
“You maggots will strip your cheap civilian clothing, now! You will put on your military clothing issue, and you will return to the position of attention. Now, do it!”
In seconds the two hundred men were disrobing and climbing into the sameness of the white, cotton garments. Within three minutes all of the recruits were outfitted in a one-size-fits-all uniform, some of the smaller men holding up their pants by bunching them at the waist. One of the men raised his hand and called out. “My pants don’t fit.”
Instantly, three of the sergeants were standing inches from the man’s face, one to his front and one on either side, glowering at him. The sergeant in front leaned into the man, his lips scant inches from the man’s eyes.
“You—will—keep—your—mouth—SHUT! Is that clear?” he said, spittle flecking off his lips onto the man’s face.
“Sir, yes, sir,” the man responded meekly.
The sergeant turned to one of the other sergeants standing immediately next to the small recruit. “I think we’ve found our first house-mouse.”
The other man nodded. “Always one or two in every platoon.”
The sergeant standing in front turned his gaze back to the young recruit. He stood even closer, until his nose nearly touched the man’s nose. “Do you want to be my house-mouse, maggot?” the sergeant whispered.
“I don’t know what you mean, sir?”
“YOU? Do I look like a ewe, maggot.”
“Sir?”
“I said, do I look like a ewe? A ewe is a female sheep, boot. Do I look like a sheep?”
“Sir, no, sir,” the terrified youngster mumbled.
“When I speak beyond the comprehension of your pea-sized brain, the response will be, ‘Sir, the recruit does not understand the drill instructor, sir.’ Now, get this pathetic scum out of my sight,” the sergeant bellowed. The sergeant took one pace backward and turned to walk along the front line of recruits, stopping in the middle of the room.
“I am Senior Drill Instructor, Staff Sergeant Holloman. I will be your mother. I will be your father. I will be your priest, and I will be your favorite schoolteacher all rolled into one. I will tuck you in at night like good little boys. I will ever-so-gently roust you out in the morning. And I will put you back on that train and send you home to Momma the minute you fail me. IS THAT CLEAR?”
“Sir, yes, sir,” the assembled men voiced in unison.
Sergeant Holloman cocked his ear toward the frightened young men. “I can’t hear you, ladies.”
“SIR, YES, SIR,” they shouted even louder.
“Hopeless! Absolutely hopeless,” he said as he shook his head. Addressing the other sergeants in the room, he continued to shake his head. “If we get even ten Marines out of this worthless pile of garbage, I’ll be amazed. The recruiters scraped the bottom of the barrel to find this putrid lot.”
He stood silently in front of the men for a few moments, surveying the room. Finally he came to a position of attention and barked his orders.
“Platoon leaders! Move ’em out!”
Four sergeants moved to the front, each standing forward of a portion of the body of men. One of the sergeants stepped between two rows of recruits who were lined up four deep, back to front, with about fifty men across each file. He raised his arm and motioned down the four-deep row.
“From here over,” he shouted, “First Platoon, riiiiight face!”
About half of the men he had indicated turned to face the right, and slowly the others caught on and als
o turned. The sergeant then moved to the front of the first file, walking backwards to continue facing the troops. “By columns of one, Forwaaaaard, Harch!” When no one moved, he grabbed the first man in line and dragged him forward. Then the others stumbled to stay in line as the first platoon moved out, one file at a time. Guided through the far entrance by another sergeant, approximately fifty men departed the building before a second sergeant stepped in between the next two groups of men.
“Second Platoon,” he barked. “Riiiiight face!” This time, a greater number of men understood the order and immediately turned to their right, shuffling off in single file as the following command to march was given. When the second body of men arrived at the next building, they lined up behind the first platoon and waited. Each man was forced to stand close enough for his chest to touch the back of the man in front.
Tommy and Frank had fallen in with the group that became the Third Platoon, and as their turn came to enter the next building, dressed in their white pajamas, they saw the next communal ritual. Eight barbers stood behind a long, wooden bench, their electric shears humming continuously. On the floor were mounds of multicolored hair shorn from the First and Second Platoons.
In less than forty-five minutes, the two hundred men in 42nd Company, Second Recruit Battalion, had been unceremoniously stripped of their clothing and shorn of their hair. As they exited the shearing pen, another recruit, picked at random from the First Platoon, stood with a bottle of iodine and a cotton applicator. Each recruit was instructed to bow his head, and a number was painted on the top of his now nearly bald scalp. By noon, the men in 42nd Company had completed their in-processing, having acquired haircuts, medical exams, vaccinations, and initial uniform issue. Reassembled in the original hall on the same yellow footprints, the beleaguered recruits were once again addressed by Sergeant Holloman.
