by Gordon Ryan
“Good afternoon, Brigadier.”
“Ah, yes, Major Callahan, you’re early I see. We didn’t expect you for another week or so. Welcome to Sandhurst, and congratulations on your promotion. We were expecting a captain.”
“The commandant felt—”
“And rightfully so,” the brigadier said. “Major, allow me to introduce Winston Churchill. Mr. Churchill is one of Sandhurst’s illustrious alumni and will be our first guest speaker this coming term. Coincidental to your own instructional portfolio, he’ll be speaking on the economic turmoil in Europe, especially Germany and Chancellor Hitler’s proposed solutions.”
Tommy put forth his hand to greet Churchill.
“It’s my pleasure, sir. I’ve heard much about you.”
“Callahan? Which state are you from, Major?” Churchill asked.
“Utah, sir. But I’ve lived all over the world since leaving there just before the last war.”
“Your father wouldn’t also be named Thomas Callahan, would he?”
“He would, sir. And I’ve heard my mother speak of you fondly.”
A smile of recognition crossed Churchill’s face and he nodded. “A remarkable woman, Brigadier,” Churchill said, speaking to McIntyre. “Absolutely remarkable. And your parents are well?” he asked, looking back at Tommy.
“Quite well, sir.”
“That’s fine. Well, David,” Churchill said to McIntyre, “I’d best be on my way. I’ll be back on the eighteenth. It was good to meet you, Major Callahan. Please pass along my regards to your parents, and the best of good fortune to you here at the RMA.”
“Thank you, sir. I’ll inform my parents.”
Churchill left and Brigadier McIntyre led Tommy into his office, where they took seats facing one another.
“How are you finding England, Major?”
“A lovely country, Brigadier. Apart from my clumsiness,” he said, holding up his cast.
“Is that recent?”
“Yesterday, as I arrived in the village. I fell off the train, actually,” Tommy said, a sheepish smile on his face.
“And you were well taken care of, I presume?”
“Yes, sir. At Prince Albert Hospital.”
“Good, good,” the older man nodded. “I presume also, Major, that you are wondering why in the world an old British goat would seek an American marine instructor at Sandhurst,” he smiled.
“It had crossed my mind, sir.”
“Do you know General Archibald Vandegrift?”
“I’ve not had the pleasure of serving under the general, but I’ve met him in Washington, at marine headquarters.”
“He and I were comrades-in-arms in the Great War, so you see. Through him, I’ve kept track of your career. It was through Archie that I learned of your posting to Stanford, your doctoral studies in economics, and your assignment to marine headquarters.”
Tommy remained silent, but his face still reflected puzzlement. McIntyre watched him for a moment and then nodded.
“That still doesn’t answer the question, does it, Major? I don’t know that there is an answer, actually. I’ve lived for many years under the curse of my son’s belligerency. His conflict with you was not the first unpleasant incident ... or the last. But because you were the first person to really stand up to him and actually best him, I had hoped that perhaps he would take a lesson from the experience. Unfortunately, he didn’t.” McIntyre paused before adding, “He was killed some three years ago in a row in a pub in the east end of London. Shameful waste, that,” the old man said, shaking his head. “He was actually quite a brilliant, if arrogant, young man.”
“I’m very sorry, Brigadier. I’ve regretted that incident myself. It was not my finest hour,” Tommy said.
“Nevertheless, we’re here now, and we shall make the best of it, shan’t we?” McIntyre said, brightening a little.
“Indeed, sir. Though I’m not entirely sure what’s expected of me, I’m honored to be here. I’ve heard a lot about Sandhurst.”
“The history of the academy dates back to the 1700s. Actually, we have two colleges—the RMA at Woolwich, where we train engineers and artillery officers, and here at Sandhurst, where we produce the world’s finest infantry and cavalry officers—with the possible exception of the American Marines, of course,” he laughed.
“Thank you, sir,” Tommy said, waiting for the British officer to say more.
“Have you thought about your syllabus for the coming term?”
Tommy laughed out loud. “Nothing else, Brigadier, since receiving the assignment. I’m still stumped.”
“I’m sure it will come to you. Actually, this first term, your schedule will be light—only two classes, three times a week. Perhaps some of the other time you could sit in on a couple of other lectures and see how we do things here. I don’t mean to direct your instructional methods, but our lads are used to a different set of rules, I presume. However,” he said, using his arms to assist in rising from his chair, “the term doesn’t begin for nearly three weeks. Plenty of time to get ‘squared away’ I believe is the term General Vandegrift used. Marine jargon I would suspect,” he smiled. “Take some of that time to see the countryside, learn a bit about the mother country, so to speak.”
Following McIntyre’s lead, Tommy stood immediately.
“Actually, my ‘mother country,’ sir, is across the Irish Sea,” he laughed.
“We’ll have some Irish lads in the class for certain. Oh, one more thing, Major. How might your parents have met Winnie? Mr. Churchill, I mean?”
Tommy stroked his chin for a moment, delaying.
“Sir, as I understand the story, my mother met with Mr. Churchill and Prime Minister Lloyd-George some years ago.”
“And your father was with them?”
“No, sir. They met to talk about my father.”
It was McIntyre’s turn to look puzzled.
“Sir,” Tommy began, taking a deep breath, “it’s not an admirable family story. When you met my father in Wyoming in 1923, it had been about three years since his release from Portlaoise Prison in Ireland.”
“I thought he was from America.”
“He is, sir, but he was born in Ireland and became involved in providing arms and ammunition to the IRA before the Free State was formed. He was captured and sentenced to fifteen years in prison. My mother met with the prime minister and Mr. Churchill to demand his release.”
“Demand?” McIntyre said.
Tommy smiled. “All I know, sir, is that my father served slightly less than a year and was out of prison within six weeks after my mother’s visit. Mr. Churchill’s comments this morning have convinced me that my mother did, in fact, demand my father’s release. Successfully, it would seem.”
McIntyre’s eyebrows rose. “As Winnie said, she must indeed be a remarkable woman.”
“She is that, sir. If that will be all, Brigadier?”
“Yes, of course. We’ll convene a staff meeting of instructors on the fourteenth. Corporal Hendriks will provide you with all the information you need, and your batman, Corporal Townsend—don’t hesitate to ask his assistance. He’ll become invaluable to you.”
“I’m not used to having a batman, sir. It’s not standard Marine Corps issue,” Tommy laughed.
“Well, then, enjoy it, son. A fine old British custom. Good to see you again. You have an excellent career ahead of you, it would seem. And regarding your syllabus, take a hint from Winnie—study a bit of Hitler’s work in Germany. The economic conditions there are providing fertile ground for his ideas, and Winnie is convinced the Germans are moving toward a war footing. Chancellor Hitler is taking advantage of the political and economic situation to further his military objectives, and the German people are seemingly buying the whole lot. It’s a situation that will bear some watching.”
Tommy returned to his quarters and found that Corporal Townsend had arrived. The sandy-haired, slightly built young man was unpacking Tommy’s luggage, which had arrive
d that morning from Southampton. He quickly came to attention as Tommy entered the room.
“A good morning to you, sir,” Townsend said.
“And to you, Corporal. I’m Thomas Callahan; good to meet you,” Tommy said, extending his hand. “I guess we’ll be working together.”
“As you wish, sir,” Townsend replied, tentatively accepting Tommy’s hand. “I took the liberty of unpacking your things. Will you be maintaining your quarters here on the grounds or would you prefer I seek accommodations elsewhere in the community?”
“I think here will do fine for the present, Corporal.”
“Right. Is there anything I can do for you, Major Callahan, to help you settle in?”
Tommy thought for a moment, considering the two-plus weeks he had free until the term commenced and thinking about Bess’s comment about her having five days off.
“Corp, what do you know about obtaining accommodations for a brief holiday in Brighton?” he smiled.
“Leave it to me, sir. When, and for how long?”
“Monday through Friday of next week. Two, separate rooms, Corporal.”
“I understand, sir.”
“And first-class accommodations, if you please,” Tommy added.
“A lady is it then, sir?” Townsend asked.
“A recuperative trip to the English seashore with my doctor,” Tommy replied, holding up his cast and smiling broadly.
Monday morning at seven o’clock, Tommy drove his new MG Roadster, British racing green in color, to the apartment building where he had left Bess Rossiter the previous Wednesday. As Corporal Hendriks had said, Corporal Townsend was indeed very resourceful. He had immediately proven himself invaluable by obtaining, on short notice, two adjoining rooms at the Fluted Unicorn, a small seaside bed-and-breakfast establishment in Brighton. Then Tommy had penned a note to Bess and asked Corporal Townsend to deliver it to Prince Albert Hospital. Bess telephoned her reply the following day, accepting Tommy’s invitation. After writing the note and sending it off, Tommy had wondered at his boldness. When Doctor Rossiter called to say she thought the idea was smashing, he breathed a sigh of relief. The idea of spending nearly a week with her was very intriguing.
He had barely parked the car and stepped out onto the street when she appeared in the front door, briskly coming down the several steps, carrying a single, smallish bag.
“Five days, one bag? You are an unusual woman,” he teased.
“I’m counting on sunshine,” she said, crossing her fingers.
He opened the door, and she entered the low, open-topped sports car, doing so gracefully by sitting sideways on the passenger seat and simply pivoting her legs into the car. After putting her bag into the boot, Tommy squeezed himself into the driver’s seat.
“This may take some getting used to,” he said. “I feel like you should be driving from over there. I suppose most Americans have the same reaction. My father said he had a hard time adjusting to driving on the left-hand side of the road in New Zealand, and those roundabouts you insert at each road crossing were nearly the death of him. He said you could spend an hour driving round and round the circle, looking for a way out.”
Tommy started the engine and slowly pulled onto the road, looking both ways twice at the joining of Bess’s small street with the main thoroughfare. He shifted gingerly, using only his fingers and thumb, which Bess had left as mobile as she could when casting his wrist.
“A lovely motorcar,” Bess said, wrapping a scarf around her hair. “Did you borrow it from someone at the academy?”
“Nope. My batman - I don’t think I like that term - has proven very helpful, in all respects. He and I took the train into London and bought it on Saturday.”
“He sounds very helpful, and rich, too,” she smiled.
Before he realized Bess was making a joke, Tommy almost said he had used his own money, but catching himself, he said instead, “Oh, yes, very rich, indeed.”
Bess laughed and said, “When he brought me your note, he said you seemed like a right enough bloke, to use his words.”
“Were you surprised?” Tommy asked, glancing at her as the roadster gathered speed and Tommy shifted into high.
“Quite.”
“Perhaps I should have asked, were you pleased?”
Bess smiled back at him, the wind blowing wisps of hair from beneath the scarf.
“I’m here, Major.”
“So you are. Five whole days ... in the sun, as you predicted.”
“We can always hope.”
The good news was that it didn’t rain until late afternoon, after they had arrived at the Fluted Unicorn. Tommy sensed that Bess was a bit apprehensive about the arrangements, but she seemed to relax when what Tommy had promised in his note proved true—that they would each have their own room.
Her room overlooked the ocean and had a small fireplace along one wall. Tommy’s, across the hall rather than adjoining, had a wonderful view of the English countryside and the small village of Brighton—a resort that had been a traditional holiday spot ever since the Prince of Wales, who later became King George IV, had visited it over a century earlier.
After settling into their rooms and borrowing a large umbrella that the innkeeper referred to as a brolly, the couple walked two blocks to a tavern called the Pig’s Snout. Tommy made a remark about the unappetizing name, but Bess said that her associates had assured her it was not to be missed. And this time, she said, roast beef and not lamb was the main fare.
Unlike the Star and Garter, the Pig’s Snout was full of people, and several young girls scurried about tending to the needs of their customers. Tommy and Bess ordered the roast, boiled potatoes, and creamed cabbage, recommended by their waitress.
“Would you care to choose from our wine list, sir?” the girl asked.
“Bess,” Tommy said, “no work tomorrow. Have you a favorite dinner wine?”
“I think I’ll just have cider again, thank you,” she replied to the waitress.
Tommy looked at her for a moment and nodded to the waitress, holding up two fingers.
“I’m sorry, Tommy, I didn’t mean to imply that you shouldn’t have a glass of wine,” Bess said.
“It’s all right. Actually, I rarely have wine and even then, only with dinner. Cider is fine. So,” he smiled brightly, “here we are, and you’ve got five full days with no patients, no thirty-six-hour shifts, and I have almost three weeks until the next term starts.”
“Since you mentioned it, how did it go at the academy?”
“Great. They’ve done their best to make me feel welcome. I met Winston Churchill the first day.”
“Really?” she said. “What’s he like?”
“Friendly enough, I guess. We spoke for only a few minutes. He’s an old associate of Brigadier McIntyre’s. He said they were fellow lieutenant colonels in France during the Great War.”
Tommy consciously decided not to tell Bess that Churchill had also met his mother some years ago, feeling that it would invoke the expected question, “Why?”
The proximity of other people and bustling waitresses combined to keep the dinner conversation light. On the walk back to the hotel, in an attempt to stay dry beneath the single brolly, Bess tucked her arm into Tommy’s, and they walked close together.
“Before we left for dinner, the hotel clerk told me that there was a picture show in town. It’s either the hotel lobby or the film,” Bess said, squeezing Tommy’s arm.
“The film it is,” he said. “Where is it playing?”
“Two blocks past the hotel, the man said. Can’t miss it.”
“Let’s do it,” he said, enjoying Dr. Rossiter’s proximity as they walked through the steady rainfall.
A small cluster of people stood outside the theater, huddled beneath the small marquee that read A Gathering Storm. Tommy was surprised to see the title but managed to keep his face calm.
“That’s ten years old. Are you sure you want to see that old film, Bess?” Tommy asked.
“I’ve never seen it,” she replied. “Have you?”
“I’m not sure,” Tommy lied, knowing full well it was his sister, Teresa’s, first starring role in Hollywood.
“It’s still the only alternative to the hotel lobby and a couple of old gents with cigars,” she laughed.
“Right,” Tommy said, stepping to the box office and purchasing two tickets.
They found seats several rows from the back, and, in a few minutes, the newsreel came on showing hundreds of workers in Germany rioting outside a closed steel factory. Other story clips from England filled the remainder of the news, and then the film began. When the name Teresa Callahan appeared on the screen, Bess leaned closer to Tommy and said, “I’m meeting Callahans everywhere, it seems.” Tommy just smiled and nodded.
When they emerged from the theater nearly two hours later, the rain had stopped, and they strolled along a rain-wet pathway leading to the ocean wall that fronted a portion of Brighton.
“I felt so sorry for Abigail,” Bess said. “All she wanted to do was keep her promise to her father. And look at all she lost.”
