by Gordon Ryan
Teresa rose from her seat and went to her father. She sat on the arm of his chair and wrapped her arms around his neck. “Thank you, Dad. Thank you for providing for us so well.”
“Just be happy, Tess. That’s all your mother and I want. Now, PJ,” Tom grew serious again, “John tells me that to make this station what it could be, you need to acquire the land across the mountain. He still holds an option to buy, and if you act quickly, you can make Shenandoah Station one of the biggest in New Zealand.”
“That’s what I think too, Dad.”
PJ and Tom both stood, son embracing father.
“Do well, PJ. If you find a good woman, like I did,” he said, pulling Katrina to him, “you’ll make it fine.”
The Tuesday following, on the dock in Lyttleton, the scene was one of sad parting as Tom, Katrina, and Tess prepared to leave New Zealand. PJ, John, and Emily, stood in a group as the time for boarding grew closer.
“And one other thing, PJ,” Katrina said.
“Yes, Mom?”
“Every baby!”
“Mom?” PJ said, confused for a moment. Then he began to laugh. “Right, Mom. You have my word. But don’t hold your breath. I’ve got a lot of work to do first.”
“I’m sure the work will get done, but I want to see every baby.”
“I promise, Mom. Dad, may I talk to you for a minute?” PJ said, taking hold of Tom’s elbow and stepping away from the group.
“What is it, PJ?”
“I may never have the opportunity again to say this to you, and I have to tell you how I feel. My mission has brought a lot of things into focus for me. Dad, Mormonism is true. When I left home, I didn’t know that the way I know it now. But, it’s true—everything—Joseph Smith, the Book of Mormon, the priesthood, the Restoration. The church provides a way for families—our family, Dad—to be together in the Celestial Kingdom. I want that for our family, and Mom wants it, too. But we can’t get there without you.”
Listening to this lecture and looking into PJ’s eyes, Tom suddenly had a moment where he wondered if he had ever really looked at his son. The features were all familiar, but in a way, it was a face he had never seen. The message also wasn’t one he wanted to hear. Being counseled by his son wasn’t something he was used to, and he was uncomfortable.
“PJ, I don’t think—”
“Dad, please, let me finish. I need to tell you. In her heart, Mom longs desperately for the blessings that are given in the temple. You must know that. I know how long this has been an issue for you, and how supportive you have always been of everything we’ve done in the church. But when I saw Mom in the temple when I was getting ready to go on my mission, well, ... it was very hard to watch her.”
Tom had always thought of his inability to accept the Mormon religion in terms of his own limitations. He knew of course that it was a huge issue for Katrina, but it struck him now in a way it never had before. PJ’s description of Katie being in the temple—alone—made him sad. He had failed her. It wasn’t something he could do anything about, but clearly, he had failed her. The realization hurt.
“Can you find it in your heart, Dad, to fill this one empty piece of Mom’s life? Of her eternal life?”
“PJ, I’ll tell you honestly, my private prayers have always been for the Lord to show me the way.”
PJ put his hands on his father’s shoulders and smiled at him. “Can’t you see what He’s already shown you—in your own family—in Tess, me, and even Tommy? Mom has loved you all these years and never asked you to choose.”
Tom nodded his head. “I promise you this, PJ. I will ask Him again, to show me the way. But, long ago, when I was about your age, my mother made me promise—”
“I know, Dad. Mom told us all years ago. But you have to follow your heart.”
Uncomfortable having this conversation and anxious to bring it to a close, Tom said, “I haven’t been a very demonstrative father, but I love you, PJ. Never forget that,” Tom smiled, trying to lighten the mood and moving to rejoin the others.
“Dad, if you can find it in your heart to say the same thing to Tommy, a great burden will be lifted from your shoulders. I give you my solemn witness on that.”
“Thank you, son. I guess it’s hard for a parent to take advice from his children, but I suppose that the Lord bestows wisdom in His own way, and not according to age. Well,” he said, looking toward the ship, “I guess it’s time to get your mother and sister on board.”
Tom took Katrina’s arm and began to nudge her toward the gangplank. She didn’t even make an effort to hide her tears as she hugged PJ, then John and Emily.
“The world’s growing smaller every day, Katie,” Tom said. “The trip is certainly long, but one day we’ll just jump on one of these new-fangled airplanes and soar through the islands to visit PJ and his Kiwi brood.” He shook John’s hand, hugged Emily again, and took PJ in his arms once more. “Remember where we are, should you need us, son.”
They stood on the deck, waving and watching the people grow smaller as the ship pulled away from the pier. The long white cloud had returned to New Zealand, covering the bay in Lyttleton, and the sun was shaded from their view.
“Tom, I don’t think I’ll pluck those silver hairs from your head anymore,” Katrina said.
“Excuse me?” he replied, looking down at her.
Katrina snuggled closer to her husband, looking up into his eyes as the ship slowly turned around in Lyttleton harbor. “They look more dignified on a grandfather, don’t you think?”
“It’s a little bit early, wouldn’t you say?” Tom said defiantly.
“PJ will find a good young woman soon. I know it in my heart. And we, Mr. Callahan, are moving into the next phase of life. It’s time you looked the part.”
“I see,” he laughed. “And you?”
“Oh, I’m far too young to be a grandmother, Mr. Callahan. But I’ll pretend.”
“No matter, Mrs. Callahan. You’ll always be, ‘Katie m’darlin’ to me.”
“I know that,” she said, her voice taking on a serious tone. “I’ve always known that. But I want something more. I want it to be Katie, me‘eternal darlin’,” she said, looking deeply into his eyes. “I’ve given you my youth, Thomas, and my love for twenty years—and four beautiful children. Now I’m asking for my due. I want a temple marriage. It’s that simple, Thomas. I want you reconciled with Tommy, and I want a temple marriage. And I tell you here and now, that if you can’t find it in your heart to listen to the Lord who’s been speaking to you in so many ways all these years, then I intend to come back here to New Zealand—this beautiful land—and live with PJ and my future grandchildren.”
Tom stood stunned, staring at his wife. “Katie, you’ve never demanded—”
“No, I haven’t. Perhaps I should have, many years ago. But I am now, Thomas, I am now,” she said, turning to wave at the pier once more as the great liner slowly turned into the Lyttleton Harbor channel.
April 25, 1918
Canterbury, New Zealand
Dear Mom and Dad,
You hadn’t been gone two weeks when I received a hearty “Yeah, brother,” from George Armitage. He had just taken a job in one of the factories on the North Island, and was thrilled at the prospect of venturing with me.
I believe I told you that when George was my companion and we first met Uncle John, I could see that Emily was interested in him. He is (in spite of being English), a very handsome lad. Within a couple of weeks of arriving back in Canterbury, he asked Uncle John for permission to marry Emily. She has accepted his proposal and has asked me to baptize her. They are to be married in Christchurch in September.
Emily is a fine young woman, very strong and resourceful. The death of her mother on top of the loss of her two brothers would have destroyed a lesser person. She is a Callahan, through and through (even though she’ll have to sign her name as Armitage from now on). She was ready to hear and understand our message, although I could see from the start that her
initial interest was not in the gospel but in George Armitage. Uncle John is staying until the wedding, and then he’ll depart for Ireland.
Please know that I love you both and that I pray for our family, especially Tommy, every day. I had a short letter from him about a week ago. He’s training with French army units at present but has not been in combat, thank the Lord. The Lord will protect him, Mom. Please don’t worry.
I know the gospel is true, and that the work I’ve been doing in New Zealand is His will. The church, as you saw, is very small here in the South Island, but with men like George Armitage, the Lord will work wonders. Thank you for the opportunity you’ve given me to serve Him.
Uncle John was right—sheep are the dumbest creatures on earth. He told me that sheep only know two things: where not to go and how not to get back. I love you both.
Yours, sheepishly,
PJ
Chapter 11
Three months spent in the French countryside and two training exercises later, the 6th Marines had experienced the rigors of trench living and night-fire hostile engagements. Even without enemy fire to consider, the conditions were appalling, and many of the newly arrived Marines had succumbed to dysentery, chills, and fever. As was the case so many years earlier in Cuba, some died as a result of illness, never having seen the enemy in combat. While not spoken of directly, the Marines quickly became aware of the cost of the war in terms of French, British, and German troops killed over the previous three and a half years. The living reminders, those who had spent months and in some cases, years, at the front, were wretched creatures. Their hollow eyes, loss of spirit, and often uncontrolled shaking, was the evidence that the war had indeed taken an immense human toll.
The newspapers had begun to refer to the huge numbers of the eighteen to twenty-eight-year-old men who had died the “Lost Generation.” Each side tried to downplay the number of their dead, but most governments agreed that well over five million men had died in the barbaric stalemate. Like most soldiers, the members of 6th Marines gave little thought to the prospect of personally adding to that toll, but to those in command, who knew their turn was coming, it seemed inevitable that some or many Americans would be added to the rosters of the dead.
On Sunday, May 30, Corporals Callahan and Borello were conducting a cursory inspection of platoon weapons when a French lorry sloshed along a rutted, muddy path being used for a road and came to a stop. A bedraggled French officer stepped out, wading through the mud toward the command tent.
“That’s not encouraging,” Frank said, nodding toward the officer.
“Ummm,” Tommy replied, thrusting the weapon he was inspecting back toward the private. “Clean it again, Bartoskiwitz,” he growled.
For six weeks, 9th Company, 6th Marines, had been bivouacked in a field, fifteen miles from the battlefield. Noncommissioned officers had rotated through “no-man’s-land,” observing French troops and conditions along the line. But Colonel Catlin had yet to fully commit the 6th to any direct action, and General “Blackjack” Pershing, Commander of United States forces, had struggled to integrate the 4th Marine Brigade into the Army 2nd Division. Each unit was reluctant to serve under opposite service officers, and so whenever a French or British officer showed, it was rumored to indicate that the Marines were going to be separated from exclusively U.S. command and seconded to foreign command.
Indeed, French General Jean Degoutte, commander of the French XXI Corps, had sought deployment of the Marine Brigade to his control, but General Pershing, who had served as a young lieutenant under Teddy Roosevelt in Cuba, had held firm that U.S. troops would only fight as a unit, and only under American command.
Twenty minutes after the French officer arrived, he left the command tent, returned to his lorry, and departed. Gunnery Sergeant Holloman, now serving as Company Sergeant-Major, was close behind him, and as he passed the First Platoon area, Tommy moved to cross his path.
“Liberty in Paris this week, Gunny?” he laughed.
“Saddle ’em up, Corporal. We’re pulling out in two hours.”
“Where to, Gunny?”
“South. Toward Paris,” he said. “But don’t shine your boots yet, Corporal. We’re gonna join the French Sixth Army. Some place called Chateau-Thierry.”
“Where’s that?”
“I dunno. And I don’t care. Get ’em ready, Corporal,” he said, continuing on past the First toward Corporal Borello’s Second Platoon.
“Aye, aye, Gunny.”
Before noon, the bulk of the 6th Marines were riding south in a long convoy of French lorries, confusion their constant companion. Road signs, language barriers, and even resentment over their presence dogged the Marines as scuttlebutt ran rampant that they were finally on their way to their first engagement. By dusk, they had received deployment orders, in reserve of the French forces at the front lines. Within forty-eight hours, most of the United States 2nd Division was deployed along the Paris-Metz highway, preparing to support the French Sixth Army, now engaged in a locked battle with the Germans who were advancing toward Paris. Refugees were streaming along the highway, intermingled with French army troops from scattered units, all trying desperately to outrun the advancing Germans. So many people moving toward Paris added to the confusion of American and French reserve forces, who were advancing in the opposite direction to meet the assault.
On June 2, the main German thrust began and French forces quickly began to crumble, retreating through the advancing Marines and the remainder of the U.S. Army, 2nd Division, ordered to stand in support of the retreating French troops. The 4th Marine Brigade assumed its position, holding a line north of the Paris-Metz highway. One French company grade officer passed by Tommy’s company commander, suggesting in the exchange that the Marines pull out with the French.
Tommy stood nearby and watched as Captain Williams stood up in his open vehicle, surveying the mass of French troops and refugees streaming back past the Marines. The captain spit on the ground and replied to the exhausted French officer, “Retreat, hell! We just got here.”
Within a matter of hours, the 6th Marines, assigned in reserve to support the French Sixth Army, found themselves instead the troops in the foremost front line, awaiting the onslaught of the German Army. Well directed by their officers and noncomms, the Marines dug in, positioned their weapons and prepared for their first major engagement. It was not long in coming.
Long-range marksmanship and automatic weapons positioned to ensure overlapping fields of fire rapidly turned the tide of the attack in favor of the U.S. forces. Stunned by unexpected resistance, the German advance first stumbled then ground to a halt. For two days a stalemate ensued, with Marines repulsing any forward movement by the German forces. Finally, French General Degoutte, seizing on the initiative of the moment, ordered the 2nd U.S. Division, including the 6th Marines, supported by the French 167th Division, to attack the German emplacements. The battle of Belleau Wood had begun.
For most of the month of June 1918, Marines and American Army troops fought for pieces of ground that changed hands several times during the course of action. The first casualty in Tommy’s platoon occurred the first time they went “over the top,” out of the trenches, to begin an assault across open ground. The private ahead of Tommy climbed the ladder to the top of the trench, but before cresting the top rung, he took a direct hit in the forehead and fell back against Tommy, knocking him off the ladder. Gunny Holloman pulled the private’s body aside and for a brief moment, without words, stared Corporal Callahan in the face and then gestured his head in an “up we go” motion toward the ladder. Tommy hesitated for only a split second as Holloman made for the ladder.
By the end of the day, seven First Platoon Marines had been killed, including the Platoon Sergeant. That evening Gunny Holloman was making his rounds and stopped at Tommy’s corner of the trench, where a right angle led back toward the command area. He flopped down on the ground, his back against the mud wall, and took a long pull from his canteen. Both men w
ere silent for a few minutes.
“How’d you know I’d follow you up the ladder, Gunny?” Tommy finally asked.
Holloman shook his head slowly. “I didn’t, kid. Each man decides that for himself.”
“But—”
“Listen, kid,” Holloman voiced softly, trying not to draw others into the conversation. “If I’d been alone in the trench, maybe I wouldn’t have gone either. We don’t do it for ourselves. You followed me up that ladder because I needed you, and you knew it. Without you, I might have died. Without me, you might have died. That’s why we do it, kid. For each other. There’s no glory in it. Look at this place,” he said, gesturing up and down the trench at the Marines who were sitting, standing, and in some cases lying in various stages of exhaustion in the mud. “Is there anything here worth dying for,” he paused, “except each other?”
Tommy remained quiet. Holloman stood. “If it’s any consolation, kid,” he smiled, “I knew you’d come. You’re a Marine!”
Tommy looked up at Holloman and gave a small grin. “It’s a long way from the parade ground at Parris Island.”
“No, it’s not, kid,” he said, his face serious. “This is PI. You are PI,” he added, rapping his knuckles on Tommy’s steel helmet. “Well, I’d better get over to the Second Platoon. Borello lost four today, including his lieutenant. Oh, and by the way,” he said, crouching to avoid showing above the top of the lower areas of the trench, “the captain said to tell you you’re the new platoon sergeant.”
