by Gordon Ryan
The following morning, Tommy rose at dawn and dressed in his uniform. Leaving the hotel, he walked away from the village toward the cliffs overlooking the sea. Wartime Brighton bore no resemblance to the bustling, cheerful village he had once explored with Bess. Now it seemed almost deserted. Where bathers had once frolicked, barriers of concertina wire had been stretched along the beachfront, and the hillsides were pocked with dark brown depressions where hasty embankments had been thrown up against a pending invasion.
As Tommy walked farther, toward the high cliffs, he encountered a large latticework of metal stringers rising above the landscape, capped by several hundred crisscrossed cables and pipes. Tommy recognized the conglomeration as the newly installed long-range air-detection system that was being referred to as radar.
Avoiding the entanglements of wire on the beach, he climbed a green hill overlooking the harbor and sat on a small pile of flat stones. Obscured by the reflective , early-morning haze, the English Channel stretched before him. He sat there for more than an hour, staring at the ocean, occasionally catching sight of a patrol boat scouring the water for mines or imagined infiltrators. As the morning progressed, the haze gradually burned off, providing an unusually clear day with only a few high cirrus clouds brushing the sky.
The chirping of a flight of scissor-tailed swallows, flitting about in the low-growing brush, oblivious to the new starkness of their surroundings, reminded him of the happier time he had spent there with Bess several years earlier. They had tramped together in this very spot, but if he had supposed coming here would be a comfort to him, he was mistaken. Though the birds continued to sing, for him, the magic had gone out of the place.
Tommy gradually became aware of the distant droning of engines, and as the sound grew louder, he turned and looked up to see a squadron of British Spitfire fighter planes suddenly upon him. He came quickly to his feet as the sleek planes roared over his head. Flying at an elevation of only a few hundred feet, in an instant they had left the cliffs and beach behind and were out over the channel, flying in formation toward the Continent.
For the prior two weeks in September, German air raids had been continuous, peaking on September 15th with hundreds of bombers and fighters assembling over southern England to bring the RAF to its knees. The British were fighting for their lives, and these courageous, mostly very young, pilots and their comrades were all that stood between England and a German invasion. How few they were against the enormous odds.
Tommy watched as the planes grew smaller in the unusually bright blue English sky. Great Britain had already been at war for nearly a year, and it promised to be a long, difficult time that would require sacrifice from everyone. Every day, these brave young pilots went up, and every day, fewer of them came home.
It was clear to Tommy that in the not too distant future, America and her sons would join the fight. It would be a brutal, bloody conflict. Once again, mothers would weep for their sons, wives for their husbands, and in some cases, as Tommy had so painfully learned, husbands for their wives and children, who would be caught up in the maelstrom of inhumanity and violence.
Tommy shielded his eyes against the glare of the sun and watched as the squadron of fighter planes became a mere speck in the sky.
Then he straightened, put on his cap, and rendered the now-distant air warriors a loose, informal salute.
“Godspeed,” he said softly. “Godspeed to us all.”
Chapter Five
Franklin D. Roosevelt
President of the United States
The White House
Washington, D.C.
25 September 1940
My Dear Franklin,
Winston has certainly stirred up a hornet’s nest here since his elevation to Prime Minister. I have followed your directive and given him all the support the embassy staff can muster, but as I explained in my latest communication, I feel that it is imperative I return home as expeditiously as possible, in consonance of course, with your ability to find a suitable replacement. I fear we both have sons who will be required to carry the weight of this brutal war that will shortly be upon our nation. But then of course, my dearest friend, should it come to that, they are all your sons, aren’t they? God bless you in your decisions.
Sincerely,
Joe Kennedy
P.S. There is an exceptionally fine officer, Thomas Callahan, who is a Marine lieutenant colonel on my staff. He has recently suffered a terrible tragedy in that his wife, a fine young doctor herself, and their infant son, were killed by German bombs in Hitler's heinous onslaught against the civilian populace. Callahan has informed me that he intends to volunteer for the newly formed Marine Raider Battalion. (A favorite cause of yours, if I am informed correctly.) I heartily endorse his application and suggest that, given his experience in the Great War, he is just the kind of officer we need to bring the nation's sons home alive at the conclusion of this conflict. I respectfully request you give this officer what help you can. Thank you.
Chapter Six
“General, we’ve received a communiqué from Lieutenant Colonel Thomas Callahan, our military attaché at the embassy in London.”
“I know who Callahan is, Captain. Why are you bringing this to my attention?”
“Sir, you asked to be advised of all applications for the raider battalion, particularly field-grade officers.”
General Holcomb, Commandant of the Marine Corps, held out his hand for the document, then commenced to read it.
Thomas Holcomb, General
Commandant of the Marine Corps
Marine Corps Headquarters
Eighth & “I” Streets
Washington, D.C.
30 September 1940
Ref: USMC Requisition Notice—Raider Battalion
Sir:
In response to USMC Directive 40/1621, soliciting Marine officers of appropriate age and experience for voluntary hazardous duty consideration, the undersigned hereby submits application for immediate reassignment and subsequent transfer to the proposed 1st Marine Raider Battalion, now forming at Camp Pendleton, California.
Respectfully submitted,
Thomas M. Callahan, III
Lieutenant Colonel, USMC
Assistant Military Attaché
American Embassy, London
General Holcomb placed the letter down on his desk and looked up at his aide.
“When is Colonel Callahan due to rotate back to the states?” Holcomb asked.
“In three weeks, sir. He’s been assigned as Commanding Officer, Recruit Training at Parris Island.”
Holcomb thought for a moment, then spoke. “Has he been notified yet?”
“No, sir. His orders just came through, and when his application arrived, Colonel Hardaway thought you should see that first.”
“Cancel Parris Island and cut his transfer orders effective immediately, temporary duty at headquarters until further direction. Instruct Colonel Callahan to report to this office as soon as transportation will permit.”
“Yes, sir,” the captain replied, departing the room.
Office of the Commandant
Marine Corps Headquarters
Washington, D.C.
October, 1940
“Lieutenant Colonel Thomas Callahan, reporting as ordered, sir,” Tommy said, his voice firm, his posture rigid as he stood eighteen inches in front of General Holcomb’s desk.
“Stand as ease, Colonel,” Holcomb responded.
Tommy relaxed slightly, crossing his hands behind his back and allowing his eyes to look directly at the man seated across the desk. The older man, a forty-year Marine who had served in China and mastered the language, was a close, personal friend of President Franklin Roosevelt and had risen to the senior Marine Corps position over several generals who had outranked him. It didn’t endear him to the cadre of professional officers for whom seniority was sacrosanct.
“I’ll cut right to it, Colonel. Ambassador Kennedy wrote to the president, who telephoned me to su
ggest I give due consideration to your request for appointment to the raider battalion. Despite those senior endorsements, you’re not going there, Colonel Callahan.”
Tommy remained silent, standing only slightly less rigid than he had done while at attention.
“Are the Brits going to hold on to that island, Colonel?” Holcomb asked.
“It’s touch and go, General. Prime Minister Churchill has a tough task ahead and few were willing to prepare for it, despite his early warnings.”
“I asked if they were going to hold the home front.”
“Yes, sir. I believe they will. An invasion across the channel is not a simple as it once was.”
Holcomb nodded. “Yes, they’ll have to bring more than a few hundred horses this time, won’t they? Are their air defenses growing?”
“Yes, sir. I had several occasions to meet with Air Marshal Keith Park. He commands the southeastern sector of England, bearing the brunt of the German assault. They’re building aircraft at nearly forty fighters a day, double their production last year.”
“And the Germans are shooting them down nearly as quickly, if what I hear is correct. Colonel, I’ll give it to you straight. You’re too valuable to assign to the raider battalion. Don’t misunderstand. What the raiders will do is important, even critical perhaps. But it’s for show. We’ll be in this war within a year, certainly eighteen months, mark my words. The president knows it and is planning accordingly. I’m going to send you out to Hawaii. Archie Vandegrift is working with the Navy to formulate an invasion strategy for a Pacific war. The War Department is talking about sending the Marines to North Africa if we enter the war, but I disagree. I’ve read the paper you wrote in ’34, part of the Plan Orange for the defense of the Pacific. I think you were right, Colonel, as was Commandant Russell. We’re going to fight the Japanese in the west, not the Germans in Africa or Europe. This will quickly become a two-front war. I’ve also read your treatise on America’s economic assault on the Japanese regarding importation of oil. Again, I agree. From their perspective, they have no choice but to grab what oil they can from wherever they can find it. Their invasion of China is only a precursor to what they will do. So, I want you to go out to Hawaii, participate in the meetings and planning for eventualities in that region. They start late October. Then come back here, and I’m going to assign you to teach. . .” he paused, looking up at the young Colonel standing in front of his desk, “. . . temporarily teach at the Naval Academy as you did at Sandhurst, starting in January. We’ll be at war next year, Colonel, and then I’ve got other plans for you.”
“Sir, may I ask—”
“You may not. Plans change, Colonel.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” Tommy replied.
Holcomb’s voice grew softer and he rose from his chair, remaining behind his desk. “Son, I am truly sorry that this war has already cost you a wife and a son. Nothing I say can change that. I understand your desire to join the raiders, to get in the fight as quickly as you can. But the Corps is going to need your services in a more productive role.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Your family is in Salt Lake, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Take some time, visit with your family en route, and be in Hawaii at Naval headquarters by 25 October. Then be back at Annapolis by 10 January. Prepare a written report for me on the Hawaii strategy session. You’ll hear more from me after I’ve had a chance to review it.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” Tommy said, coming to attention.
General Holcomb stepped around his desk and shook Tommy’s hand. “Good to see you, Lieutenant Colonel Callahan. And welcome back to the United States.”
Chapter Seven
Salt Lake City, Utah
October, 1940
“Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday, Dear Grandpa, happy birthday to you.”
Six children sang around the table in Valhalla, Tom and Katrina’s home on South Temple in Salt Lake City. Their home since Tom had it built for his new bride in 1896, with a brief period when they sold it while they served their church in Argentina, the home had been completely refurbished in 1936, with new plumbing, wiring, and even the installation of a telephone on each of the five levels.
Tommy’s sister, Tess, and her husband, Sebastian Cardenas, the son of Katrina’s first husband through a polygamous marriage, were also at the birthday celebrations. Through the twenties and early thirties, Tess had become a successful Broadway stage actress and then a Hollywood film star. Finally realizing that her success kept her from the fulfillment of children and family, she turned her back on fame and came home to Utah. Four children graced their household in the next six years.
“So, Pop,” Tommy said, “how many times has that song been sung for you?”
His mother gave him the evil eye and Tess giggled at her brother’s continued impudence.
“I have to admit, son, it’s been a few times now. But I expect a lot more . . . and I also suggest you remember your mother’s admonition about respecting your elders.”
“Yes, sir, Pop.” He laughed.
“When are you leaving, Tommy?” Seby asked.
“I’ll take the train to San Francisco on Saturday, then the new Pan Am Clipper to Hawaii.”
“Why don’t we all go, Dad?” Tess suggested. “It’s been what, nearly twenty years since we all gathered in Hawaii, back when Tommy was stationed there.”
Tom shook his head. “Not for me,” he replied. “Though I wouldn’t mind seeing your mother in her swimsuit again.”
“That will be quite enough, Thomas. The children don’t know about such things.”
“Is that right, Katie? Well, where did they get all these little darlin’s?” he asked, pulling the two youngest onto his lap.
“According to Mom, we bought them at the store.” Tess laughed.
“Well,” Tom said, lifting the two urchins off his lap, “I think I’ve had enough birthday cake and ice cream to last me until next year. Tommy, let’s you and Seby go up to the study. I’ve got a map and wanted to ask you a couple of questions.”
“Sure thing, Dad,” Tommy replied. “Tess, you up for a ride tomorrow?” he asked his sister. “I thought perhaps you and Seby and I could ride up South Mountain like the old days.”
“Sounds great. You want to come down and spend the night and we’ll get an early start?”
“You’re on. I’ll pack an overnight bag and be ready in about an hour?”
“Sure. Let me just help Mom in the kitchen and start rounding up the kids. You men go upstairs and keep out of our hair.”
Tom’s study was a picture of the old world, from the ornate maple desk that Lars Hansen, Katrina’s father, had given to Tom as a wedding present those many years ago, to the fine-grained paneling that framed the interior of his male domain. The walls had been turned into a veritable library, with hundreds of books on banking, mining, and Church history. As the three men entered the room and found seats, Tom in his soft, worn leather chair by the window, the atmosphere grew more somber.
“How many years have you found refuge in this room, Dad?” Tom asked. “I remember as a young boy how often Mom told me to leave you alone, that you were studying.”
“It didn’t stop you from barging in, did it?” the elderly man teased. “But nowadays, I do more napping in here than studying. I suppose this has become my cave over the years. In the beginning, we used to entertain in this room. Your mother sang for parties on occasion, the members of visiting opera companies put on several recitals here, and even Teddy Roosevelt had a couple of belts of whiskey in that very chair where you sit. Then he told us another of his bear stories and his plans to increase the national park refuge land.”
“If only the room could speak,” Tommy added.
“Some things are better left in the past. Now, to the present. Are we going to war, Tommy?”
That quickly the mood turned somber. “Much of the world has been at war for the past year, but yes,
we are, Dad. Not this year, probably, but certainly next. It’s not pretty, the way it’s being fought in Europe. The civilians are the ones taking it on the chin at the moment.”
The three men were silent for a long moment before Seby spoke in his soft, Spanish-accented voice. Born in Mazatlan, Mexico in 1896, Seby was the son of Teresa Cardenas, a woman of the Spanish aristocracy who had been deceived, as had Tom’s wife, Katrina, into marrying a Mormon who was excommunicated because he continued to practice polygamy after the Church outlawed the principle.
Seby’s mother had died at his birth, and his father, also Katrina’s husband at the time, had been killed by irate Mexican ranchers who attacked the polygamous colony. Seby’s mother had died during his birth in a ditch at the side of the road, escaping the battle. Katie had saved the infant, nursing him through the next several months as she hid out in the jungle.
Eighteen years later, after his grandfather, Don Sebastian Cardenas, had died, Seby came to the United States and re-entered Katrina’s life. Falling in love with Tess, named by Katie after Seby’s mother, solidified the relationship.
“Tommy, I am so deeply sorry for your loss.”
