The Callahans: The Complete Series

by Gordon Ryan

  Vandegrift nodded. “Passing acquaintance. I met him at the Pacific strategy conference in Hawaii last year. Good man by all accounts. But hasn’t he been in academic pursuits for some time?”

  “Yes, both at Sandhurst and Annapolis, but he served with distinction in France the last time. Actually chosen for a field commission, then the war ended. We sent him to Annapolis, then to obtain his doctorate. So, an educated Marine. I think he can do this job well. When you meet him, he’ll probably beat your ear for a field command, but keep him in this job for now, at least until we determine where and when we commence combat operations. At that point, it’s your decision.”

  “Aye, aye, General. Is that all, sir?”

  “Get this done, Archie. You’ll have to tread lightly and watch your back with MacArthur. Nimitz and Halsey will run interference as best they can, but if the Army catches wind that we plan any type of invasion with the idea to capture and hold, they’ll be up in arms.”

  Vandegrift stood in preparation to depart. “General, wouldn’t it be nice, just for once, if we could have a war and only have to fight the enemy?”

  Holcomb laughed out loud. “Semper Fi, Archie. I’ll get sealed orders by courier to Callahan and assign him to the 1st Division, reporting directly to you, but I think he’ll be in New Zealand before you get a chance to meet again. I’ll give him discretionary authority to make logistical arrangements for the division. Anything you want me to include in his orders?”

  “No, sir. I listened to his presentation in Hawaii. I think he has the big picture and in this instance, he’ll have to fly by the seat of his trousers. Give him his head, and if he screws it up, I’ll chop it off when I get to Wellington.”

  “In good Marine fashion, General.” Holcomb reached to shake the junior general’s hand. “We’re in it again, Archie. The world’s at war. And this time, we started the first round with nearly a knock-out punch from the opponent.”

  “General Holcomb, a well-trained Marine can attack his enemy’s vital parts even when the Marine is on his knees.”

  Marine Detachment Headquarters

  Commander-In-Chief Pacific Fleet

  Pearl Harbor, Hawaii

  January, 1942

  “Lieutenant Colonel Callahan reporting as ordered, sir.”

  Tommy stood at attention in front of the desk of Colonel Howard Tufts, commanding officer of the Marine detachment in Hawaii.

  “Stand at ease, Colonel. There’s a Marine lieutenant waiting for you in my adjutant’s office with sealed orders from the Commandant. My orders are to provide you with unlimited transportation authority, Priority Five, to travel to your destination, wherever that is, without delay. I have no knowledge of the nature of these orders. That will change my plans for your next assignment, Colonel. I had requested your assignment as my executive officer, but that will not take place.”

  “I understand, sir. Thank you for the consideration,” Tommy replied.

  “Lieutenant . . .” he hesitated, glancing once again at the paper in his hand, “Lieutenant Borello is waiting just down the hall. Good luck, Colonel Callahan. That will be all.”

  Tommy came to attention, did an about-face, and departed the office, walking several doors down the corridor in the rickety old building which had served for thirty years or more as the ‘temporary” office structure for the Marine Corps Detachment. He entered the adjutant’s office and Borello rose from his seat and came to attention, as did the sergeant behind the desk.

  “Good morning, Colonel.”

  “Good morning, Lieutenant, Sergeant. Mr. Borello, what brings you away from the academy?”

  “Sir, in light of the war, the Class of ’42 was graduated on December 19th and immediately placed in service. I received orders from the commandant’s office assigning me as your aide with instructions to personally courier these sealed orders for your eyes only.”

  “Do you know what’s in the orders, Lieutenant?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Stand at ease.” Tommy offered his hand. “Welcome to Hawaii, Lieutenant Borello. It’s different than New York, isn’t it?”

  “Sir, I only arrived late last evening, but yes, sir, it’s, uh—tropical, I think is the word.”

  Tommy turned to the master sergeant seated behind a desk piled high with papers. “Sergeant, is there a room where I can review these papers in seclusion?”

  “Sir, Major Altman is gone for the rest of the day. You could use his office, if that would be convenient.”

  “That will do fine, Sergeant. Lieutenant, wait here while I review these orders. Do you have quarters?”

  “Not yet, sir. I slept in the arrival lounge last night.”

  “Sergeant, can you arrange for the lieutenant to be assigned quarters until I determine our destination?”

  “Yes, sir. Right away, Colonel.”

  Tommy stepped into the major’s office, took a seat in front of the desk, and opened the sealed orders addressed to Lieutenant Colonel Thomas Callahan III. Addressee Only—Confidential was stamped on the front of the manila envelope. The first paragraph of the three page directive was all he needed to read.

  “Proceed immediately by fastest transportation to Wellington, New Zealand, in compliance with instructions to be followed within these orders. Second Lieutenant Francis Borello is assigned as your aide for the duration of this assignment.”

  Before perusing the remainder of the order, several pages in all, Tommy exited the office and stood in front of the sergeant’s desk again. As the older man hung up the telephone, he came to his feet. “May I be of further assistance, Colonel?

  “Yes, Sergeant. Please see that both Lieutenant Borello and I have travel orders prepared immediately, destination to be determined, and signed by Colonel Tufts. He is aware of the requirement. Then inform the travel office that two Marines will require both short-term billeting and transport on the first available aircraft headed south or west, Priority Five. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Lieutenant, where’s your gear?”

  “Just down the hall, sir.”

  “Retrieve it. You’re not going to enjoy Hawaii after all. Not on this trip. I’m going to read the rest of this order, then we’ll go to transportation and see what our time frame will be.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  “And Lieutenant Borello, congratulations on your graduation. It’s good to have you on my one man staff.”

  “Thank you, sir. I’m pleased to be under your command.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Government House

  Wellington, New Zealand

  January, 1942

  Peter James Callahan, PJ to his family, had been in New Zealand since 1916. The oldest son of Thomas and Katrina Callahan, he was born in Salt Lake City in 1897, followed by the twins, Thomas and Teresa in 1899 & 1900, (born forty minutes apart, but in two centuries) and then the youngest, Benjamin, in 1906. Always the studious, well-behaved child, PJ quickly took second place to Tommy—at least, from the older brother’s perspective. When their father, who had not been on the European trip nor the Titanic, blamed young Tommy, aged twelve, whom he had placed “in charge” of the family, for the loss of Benjamin, PJ saw a way to move closer to his father. In a sub-conscious way, PJ stepped up to take Tommy’s place and, in his late teens, began to rebel.

  To give his oldest son some understanding of their Irish heritage, Thomas sent PJ to Ireland to visit with his family and younger brothers, two of whom were not much older than PJ, who was their nephew. The year was 1916. PJ got caught up in the Irish rebellion, was detained by British authorities, faced a long prison term, and Thomas had to go to Ireland to free his son.

  Upon returning to Utah, Katrina pled with her husband to help PJ, who was in danger of becoming an angry young man without purpose in life. Through the intervention and assistance of their church leader, PJ was called to be a missionary in New Zealand, where he met his father’s oldest brother, John Callahan, who had left Irel
and several years before Thomas had gone to America.

  In a circuitous world where irony ruled more often than not, PJ had closed the loop and in the process, discovered his destiny. With financial assistance from a trust fund his father had established for the children when they were very young, PJ purchased Uncle John’s sheep station plus several thousand additional acres, and married a local Maori girl.

  Initially seen as a “bloody Yank” who didn’t know a sheep from a cow, by 1925, he was an accepted member of the community, a director on the New Zealand Wool Board, and involved in local Labour party politics. In 1932, he was elected to the Canterbury Plains Regional Council and in ’36, stood for Parliament, succeeding to represent Canterbury. Along the way, he and his wife, Kiri, had four children.

  In 1939, New Zealand joined with Britain in the war against Germany and events moved quickly. Clinton Callahan, PJ’s oldest son and a recent University of Canterbury graduate, left with New Zealand forces for Egypt as a lieutenant of artillery. PJ himself, at forty-three, considered a commission in the Army, but was convinced by his Labour Party colleagues (and strong support from his wife to remain in place,) that a political leadership change was coming, and that he could do more for the war effort from Parliament.

  Then, after a long illness, Prime Minister Michael Savage died, and Peter Fraser, whom PJ Callahan admired and supported, became Prime Minister. Fraser, in turn, appointed PJ as Minister of Public Works in March, 1940. By late 1941, America had entered the war, and New Zealand was about to play a pivotal role in the defense of the South Pacific.

  “Minister, there’s an American officer out here to see you.”

  The young woman spoke into a small, metal box positioned to the right corner of her desk.

  In a moment, a tall, slightly balding man in his mid-forties appeared in the doorway to his office. It took just a moment for him to recognize his visitor, at which time his face beamed and he quickly stepped forward, embracing the man in a bear hug accompanied by back slapping and a hearty squeeze.

  “How in the world . . . Tommy, how did you get here?”

  That answer alone would have taken a half hour. Frank Borello and Tommy had left Hawaii in a PBY, a large seaplane with enormous range. The trip to New Zealand took five days flying ten or twelve hours at a time with overnight stops at Johnston Island, Canton Island, Suva, the capital city of Fiji, and Noumea, the capital city of French Caledonia.

  On Canton Island, Tommy met naval Lieutenant Bulkeley, the PT boat commander who had recently brought General MacArthur out of the Philippines following President Roosevelt’s direction that he set up command headquarters in Australia. That story alone took most of the night.

  Frantic war preparations were on-going at each location as the occupants of the aircraft observed their surroundings. Not all locations were friendly, with the East Indian staff in Fiji being quite surly and the Free French in Caledonia having only recently succumbed to the military presence, without the need for force, of the U.S Army Americal Division, stationed temporarily on this South Pacific island. Each location had their own nationalistic agenda based upon their pre-war European affiliation, but each was loosely aligned with the Allied effort in this new expansion of the war in the Pacific.

  Tommy grinned at his brother. “So, you ask, how did I get here? Well, Minister Callahan, in America, we have this new invention called the aeroplane. It actually lifts off the ground and flies like a bird, but it’s big enough to put people inside. It’s marvelous.”

  “Tommy, Tommy,” PJ repeated. It’s so good to see you.” The minister looked briefly at the startled young woman seated to his left. “Agnes, this is Colonel Thomas Callahan, my baby brother. He’s played soldier most of his life and it looks like he’s still at it.”

  “Lovely to meet you, sir,” the young girl said, a smile returning to her face.

  “Come in, Tommy. Let’s have a seat and catch up. Agnes, give Alistair a bell and cancel my lunch appointment, please. Tell him something’s come up. I’ll be gone the rest of the day. My brother would get lost if I didn’t take his hand and lead him around.”

  “Yes, sir,” she replied, giggling at the foolishness.

  Tommy entered the office, and PJ closed the door and took a seat across from his brother.

  “Now, what really brings you to Wellington, my dear brother?”

  “I’m the first of thousands of Marines who have discovered the joys of a South Pacific retreat. I’m here to find housing, food, training facilities, and entertainment. The 1st Marine Division is headed this way, and heaven help New Zealand when they arrive.”

  “I’ve heard a bit about that. And you’re the advance man.”

  “I am. Is there room at the inn?” Tommy smiled.

  “We’re going to fight back, aren’t we?”

  “The Marines have landed. We’re going to kick the Japs’ ass back to Tokyo. Count on it.”

  PJ nodded acknowledgement. “We have some limited experience at that game ourselves, Colonel Callahan, if you recall. The Yanks are a bit late to this war, to my way of thinking.”

  “I understand that, Minister, but we’re here now and willing to go to work.”

  “First things first,” PJ said. “We need to have a bite of lunch, then I’m going to surprise Kiri.”

  “Is she here with you?”

  “Yes, we have a small apartment here in Wellington. I spend several months a year here, so we always come together. George Armitage still runs the sheep station with our younger boys, his and mine. My oldest, Clinton, is with the Army in Egypt, as you probably know.”

  “He’s well?”

  “The last we heard, he was. Letters come every month or two. But we also check with his girlfriend. She hears more often than we do. Shall we go eat?”

  “Feed me, Minister Callahan, and then be prepared to feed twelve to fifteen thousand hungry Marines. And they do eat, I can assure you.”

  “That’s good, Tommy. I hope they like lamb.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Marine Corps Base, Quantico

  Quantico, Virginia

  February, 1942

  Officer Candidate Michael Cardenas excelled at every aspect of military training. Small-unit tactics, weapons, physical agility, night navigation, map reading, even leadership in situations where older candidates were under his command. For six weeks, he had been pushed, prodded, even trampled on during the relentless process of preparing a Marine officer to lead a forty-man platoon. His weekly fitness reports were first rate. His instructors consistently marked him at the top of his class. He was, to quote the sergeant major commanding the training company, a natural-born leader.

  “Son, you’re going to be up there alone. You’ll have no command responsibilities. You’ll waste the God-given talent your parents and grandparents passed on to you. You were meant to command men, not machines. Stay in the Corps. Forget this flying crap. With your record, in no time you’ll be commanding a company of Marines . . . with the assistance of a good sergeant major, of course,” he added.

  Michael stood at attention in front of the sergeant major’s desk, unmoved and non-responsive to the entreaty. He had quickly learned to not speak unless asked a direct question. That question followed.

  “So, Mr. Cardenas, are you ready to apply for the infantry?”

  “Sir,” Michael bellowed, his voice tight, low, and confident, “the officer candidate continues to desire to fly Marine Corps aircraft, specifically the F4F Wildcat fighter, sir.”

  “Get the hell out of my office,” the sergeant major boomed back, a smile breaking out on his face.

  “Sir, yes, sir,” Michael replied, did an about-face, and departed the Quonset hut, a tube-shaped cylindrical building which could be quickly constructed to house people or equipment.

  “It’s a waste of a good Marine, if you ask me,” the sergeant major called out to the candidate’s back as he stepped through the doorway.

  The truth be known, Officer Candidate Michael
Cardenas’ graduation orders were already in Sergeant Major Osterman’s desk. Graduate Officer Candidate School, March, 1942, then on to advanced flight training at Naval Air Station, Corpus Christi, Texas, followed by land-based carrier training at the same facility. Successful completion of that phase of training, by no means a certainty, would be followed by actual carrier assignment to be determined at the time of graduation.

  As a qualified pilot prior to enlistment, the Marine Corps intended to place the prospective Lieutenant Cardenas in the second phase of flight training, cutting his instructional time by a third. They would teach him to fly “the Marine way,” but he would not have to undergo the rigorous process of ground school and humiliation that accompanied those who had never even been up in an aircraft. Everything going well, Second Lieutenant Michael Cardenas would be a qualified Marine Corps pilot by the end of July, 1942.

  In his eight-man Quonset hut that evening, in the few non-organized minutes before lights out, he penned a letter to his favorite uncle.

  Dear Uncle Tommy:

  I now understand your love for the Corps. I have been in officer training for six weeks with four remaining and have loved every minute of it. The sergeant major continues to try to convince me to apply for the infantry, but flying is my first love. Thank you for helping me with Mom and Grandma. I understand their fear and I am sorry they have to be afraid. I don’t know where this letter will find you, or if it will, but I’ll send it to Marine headquarters and hopefully they can forward it to your current assignment. God bless you, Uncle Tommy, and keep you safe.