by John Snyder
Love, Tom
Frankie worshiped his older brother. He missed the fun times they shared together, and he definitely yearned for Betty’s cooking, an out-and-out contrast to the Army’s C-rations, that was for sure. Folding the letter, he stuck it back in his shirt pocket. With a smile on his otherwise grim face, he began thinking of home and what he missed there, hoping Tom didn’t need another surgery. He’d been through far too much agony with his leg over the years.
Frankie barely remembered the accident, nor did he remember much about his mother. Aside from the few photographs he’d seen of her, he could hardly recall what she even looked like. Likewise, he had few childhood memories of his father, and most of them engrained in his mind from the nasty rages about his father he heard from his aunt, uncle, and other members of the family. According to them, his father was a wicked and selfish man. Frankie’s encounters with his father as an adult were few and far between. Their meetings were always interrupted by Tom yelling at his father to leave. Independent of the bad things he heard from family, and the few times they met, Frankie’s recollection of his father was a blank. He had always wanted a relationship with him, but establishing one was a daunting task.
As he sat in the foxhole on this dismal day, he wondered about Jacob, and what had become of him since they last talked. I would have liked to know him better, he thought. He even contemplated looking him up when he got back from the war.
Suddenly they were hit with mortar fire. He frantically took cover as another soldier dove into the foxhole beside him.
“Dang, McCallum! Where’d that come from?” shouted Private Ben Cummings.
All around them soldiers ran for cover as more rounds exploded nearby.
“Move forward, men!” his sergeant hollered.
Frankie looked around; no one was moving.
“I said move forward!”
Suddenly, all the men were mobile. As he ran, Frankie took refuge behind some trees, or under whatever would provide him safe cover from the mortar fire. They advanced about seven hundred yards, then they were ordered to “dig in.” The mortar rounds rang over their heads and exploded behind them. They stayed in their positions for about twenty minutes, but continued to get shelled.
“McCallum! Rogers! Sinclair! Go see if you can locate the mortars and radio back their positions,” barked the sergeant.
“Yes sir!”
The three left the safety of their platoon and went out on patrol in search of the mortar placements. After about an hour, they located some German mortars.
“This is Fox Trot calling Range Finder.”
“Ten-four.”
Frankie radioed back the Germans’ position, and it wasn’t a minute before American artillery fire began raining down on them. The shelling was short of its mark, closer to Frank and his buddies than the enemy. The patrol retreated a few hundred yards then radioed back.
“You need to fire further down range! You’re shelling us instead of the enemy!”
There was a barrage of more artillery fire. This time it hit its mark.
“Mission accomplished,” Frankie advised the platoon leader.
* * *
Tom McCallum just machined his last part of the day. While cleaning up his area, the shop owner, Robert Quizdale, walked up to him with a man Tom didn’t know.
“Hey, Tom?”
“Yes, Mr. Quizdale?”
“I’d like to introduce you to someone and talk with you for a moment.”
“What is it?”
“This is Ed Miller. Ed, this is Tom McCallum.”
The two shook hands.
“I was just telling Ed here that you are my best machinist.”
“Well, thank you, Mr. Quizdale.”
“You know I’m getting up in my years, and I’ve been looking for a buyer for my business. Ed is interested, so I thought he should meet you.”
“Oh, I knew you were thinking about selling the place someday, but I didn’t think you meant this soon.”
“Well, Ed has made me a generous offer and I’m thinking he would be a good person to pass the business on to.”
“Tom McCallum? You wouldn’t be related to Jacob McCallum, would you?” Ed asked.
“Me? Oh, no. I’ve never heard of Jacob McCallum. With the same last name, we may be related somewhere along the line.”
“I could have sworn he had a son named Tom, but I could be mistaken. Sad story about old Jacob.” Ed shook his head. “He really made a mess of his life…his family’s, too. Oh, well, I thought I’d ask anyway. If I bought the place, it would be for an investment. I’d need someone to run the business for me. Are you up for that?”
“Sure. Yeah. I’d be up for that.”
“Good. Robert has told me a lot of good things about you.”
Robert nodded his acknowledgment to Tom.
“We’ll talk more about this another time. It was nice meeting you, Tom,” Ed told him.
“It was nice to meet you, too.”
While walking home from work, Tom reflected upon the conversation. Although he was flattered by Robert Quizdale recommending him to Ed Miller as a person who could run the shop, reservations surfaced regarding the sale of the business, and Mr. Miller’s remarks about his father, and his questioning if Tom was Jacob’s son.
As Tom opened the front door to his house, little Michael ran up and hugged his leg.
“Hey there, little buddy,” Tom said as he picked up his son.
Betty greeted him with a kiss.
“You won’t believe what I found out today.”
“What’s that?”
“Mr. Quizdale is selling the business.”
“Really? How will that affect your job?”
“Well, Mr. Quizdale introduced me to the prospective buyer. Apparently, the guy is buying the business as an investment and he wants somebody to run it for him. Mr. Quizdale recommended me.”
“That’s wonderful!”
“I have some concerns, though.”
“Concerns?”
“My father. The man knew my father and he wanted to know if I was his son.”
“What did you tell him?”
“I told him I’d never heard of Jacob McCallum.”
“Tom, you didn’t.”
“If he finds out I’m his son, he may not hire me. He knows my father’s reputation. My father will haunt me from his grave.”
Chapter Ten
After three more solid days of rain, the clouds parted and sunshine spilled over the bombed-out landscape. Frankie’s platoon patrolled the area, sneaking through the forest in search of the enemy.
“Take five, men,” the sergeant ordered, to the delight of the soldiers.
Leaning back against the trunk of a tree, Frankie kicked off his boots to give his feet a much-needed break.
“Ah, that feels so good,” he said to his friend, PFC Marty Forman.
“Yeah, my feet are killing me, too,” Marty responded.
“I can’t wait for a couple of days of R and R.”
“That would be nice right about now.”
“How are things back home?” Frankie asked.
“Okay. But I sure do miss Ruth Ellen and my baby girl. I just got a letter from her and she sent me this picture of Sarah. Here, take a look.”
Marty reached into his shirt pocket and showed Frankie a picture of his daughter.
“Wow, she sure is beautiful. Must take after her mother. Thank God she doesn’t look like you,” Frankie teased. “It won’t be long before some guy will be knocking on the door and stealing her away from you.”
“Hopefully I have a few years before that happens.”
“Yeah, but time flies. And by the way, I pity the poor guy that comes knocking at your door to take your daughter on her first date.”
“He better come armed,” Marty joked. “Have you heard from your brother and sister?”
“Yeah, I got a letter from each of them just a few days ago. They’re doing fine.”
> Frankie laid his head back and closed his eyes.
“I think I’m gonna try to get a few minutes of shut-eye.”
The sun felt warm against Frankie’s face. He dozed off rather quickly before being abruptly awakened by gunfire. Surrounded by German soldiers, Frankie grabbed his gun and took cover, returning fire. Overrun by the enemy, the sergeant radioed for backup. The firefight lasted about thirty minutes before a platoon of American soldiers flanked the Germans, delivering heavy casualties. Those left standing were taken prisoner.
* * *
The next day, Frankie’s platoon snuck through the forest, trying to find a German artillery operation. It seemed like an easy enough mission, but they hadn’t seen a German all day.
The sergeant commanded them to take a break. Frankie shed his helmet and took a seat on the ground next to Marty, where they resumed yesterday’s conversation. Unexpectedly, a German sniper’s rifle discharged. The bullet passed through Frankie’s head and he slumped to the ground. The men scurried for cover and began firing in the direction of the sniper, who managed to slip away. Marty leaned over and covered Frankie’s body, which lay motionless on the ground, blood gushing from the wound.
“Frankie! Frankie!”
Other soldiers pulled Marty off Frankie’s body. One of the soldiers said gently, “He’s gone, Marty. He’s gone.”
* * *
About a week later, Tom and Betty were enjoying the quiet of their evening when there was a knock at the door.
“I’ll get it,” Tom said.
“Who could it be at this time of night?” Betty asked.
“I have a telegram for a Mr. Tom McCallum.”
“That’s me.”
The gentleman handed Tom a piece of paper. Then he turned and walked away.
Tom opened the envelope.
We regret to inform you that Private First Class Frank McCallum was fatally wounded while on patrol in Germany in service to his country and the United States Army. Details to follow in letter.
Tom dropped the telegram, standing there, stunned.
Betty walked up behind him. “Who was it?”
She saw the tears streaming from Tom’s eyes as he trembled. Without saying a word, he went straight to their bedroom. Betty bent over and picked up the piece of paper, which was lying on the floor. She read it and screamed, “Not Frankie. No!”
Immediately, she ran into the bedroom, where Tom sat on the edge of the bed, his head cradled in his hands, weeping. She knelt before him and they clung to each other.
Finally, Tom spoke. “He really never even had a chance to experience life.”
“He was so young, so innocent,” Betty murmured.
“I just knew this was going to happen. I prayed so hard that it wouldn’t.”
Betty looked up at Tom, searching for any appropriate words. Thinking of none, she held him close. He gently moved Betty’s arms away, got up off the bed, and walked over to the window, where he peered out into the night. She came up behind him and wrapped both of her arms around his waist.
“Oh, Tom…I’m so sorry.”
He turned to face her, his face wrinkled in pain as he tried to speak. She gently put her finger to his quivering lips. He kissed her hand and they embraced again, holding each other while they both stood, sobbing.
“I can’t bear to tell our little Michael…and Emma. What am I going to say?”
“I know it’s going to be difficult, but you must be strong.”
“I’ll send Emma a telegram first thing in the morning. We’ll need to make arrangements as soon as we learn the details.”
Tom and Betty spent the night talking about it, and at times finding solace in their fond memories of family time with Frankie. They even managed a laugh or two as they recounted stories about his life. Hours of grief, several pots of coffee, and many tears later, they fell asleep together on the living room sofa, Betty’s head resting on Tom’s chest.
The morning sun crept through the living room window and finally into Tom’s weary eyes, slowly awakening him. He lay still, mindful of Betty still soundly sleeping, her body pressing tightly against his. He wished it had all been a terrible dream, but he quickly came to the realization that it wasn’t. Careful not to awaken Betty, he gently moved her head, placing it on the soft pillow at the end of the sofa.
Walking straight to the coffeepot, Tom prepared some fresh coffee. The sound of it percolating and the scent of the steaming grinds stirred Betty awake. She rose slowly from the sofa and joined Tom in the kitchen, sitting next to him at the table. Taking a sip of coffee, Tom said sadly, “I still can’t believe it.” It just seemed so unreal, so raw. He thought, agonizingly, about the daunting tasks before him, telling Emma and Michael, making funeral arrangements, and doing all the things that went into dealing with a death in the family. They discussed it all with dread and sorrow.
Tom didn’t even bother to change clothes, or comb his hair, before leaving for the Western Union office. He was numb, except for the aching feeling that weighed heavily in his heart. After carefully considering the words he would send in the telegram to Emma, he handed the note to the telegraph operator, who read it then looked up at Tom with sympathy.
On the way home, he stopped by work to tell his boss he wouldn’t be coming to work that day. Robert was more than understanding, telling him to take the rest of the week off, with pay.
Later that afternoon, there was a knock at Emma’s door. A cheerful gentleman greeted her, obviously unaware of the heartbreaking news contained in the envelope he held in his hand. He tipped his hat and bid her a good day. She closed the door and leaned against it as she tore open the envelope. The words stung her heart. She walked over to the table, where she sat down and read it again, now fully comprehending what it said. Crumpling it up into a ball, she pounded her fist on the table before laying her head down and wailing.
Weeks passed before Tom heard any more news from the Department of War. Frankie’s body made its journey back to Chicago and Tom made the final preparations for his funeral. Tom and Emma decided to bury Frankie next to their mother.
The rains poured from the heavens that day. A small gathering of family and friends huddled together under umbrellas at the gravesite. A contingency of soldiers gave Frankie his final salute. Seven of them stood in line at attention, then in unison, they raised their rifles and fired three times into the sky. The flag was removed from his coffin, folded with precision, and handed to Tom and Emma. They all stayed until the attendants lowered Frankie’s casket into his grave. His mother’s gravesite overflowed with flowers for the somber occasion, adding the only color on this otherwise drab day.
Chapter Eleven
After walking the streets, Jacob calmed down to the point where he began thinking rationally again. He contemplated returning to the mission, but feared Howard would shun him. Instead, he sank down onto a bench to rest a spell while he pondered what to do. Overcome with a nagging feeling he should return to the mission, he rose and began walking in that direction. On his way, he thought about his budding relationship with God, and his journey toward forgiveness. For this, he desperately needed Howard’s assistance.
The following morning Jacob felt much better after enjoying a good night’s sleep. There were no nightmares, not even any pleasant dreams. Seeking out Howard, he found him walking down the hall.
“I didn’t think I would ever see you again,” Howard said.
“I was sure you wouldn’t. But after hours of prayer I decided to come back. Can you ever forgive me?”
“I have nothing for which to forgive you. What you told me is in your past. I want to help you with the present and the future.”
Jacob began to speak, then hesitated.
“What is it, Jacob?”
“Last night made me come to the realization that I need to find Tom and Frankie. I’m ready to ask them for their forgiveness. Will you come with me for support?”
“Today?”
“Right now, while
I have the courage. Besides, it’s Saturday and Tom should be home.”
“Sure I will. But where will you begin looking for them? Chicago’s a big place.”
“When I searched for them, I met a woman who lives at their last address. She said the landlord might have Tom’s forwarding address. The landlord wasn’t home when I tried to speak with him.”
“Let me grab my jacket and we’ll go.”
Howard and Jacob set out to talk with the landlord in hopes he could give Jacob the information that would lead them to Tom and Frankie. When they arrived at the landlord’s home, an elderly woman was sweeping the front porch. Jacob stopped at the bottom of the steps and called out to her.
“Excuse me. I’m looking for a Mr. Schmidt.”
“I’m Mrs. Schmidt. How can I help you?”
“I’m trying to locate my son, who used to live down the street at 1641. The woman who lives there now said your husband may have my son’s address.”
She invited them inside, introducing them to her husband. Mr. Schmidt was tall and skinny with a head of thick, uncombed hair. He wore blue suspenders to hold up his baggy pants.
“Thomas McCallum?” the man asked to be sure.
“Yes,” Jacob replied.
“How long ago would it have been?”
“About two years ago, maybe?” Jacob wasn’t quite sure.
The man licked his thumb and began leafing through a thick pile of papers he pulled from a file.
“Thomas McCallum…let’s see.”
Jacob and Howard anxiously looked over his shoulder. The man tugged on his suspenders, then slipped his glasses down on his nose.
“Ah. Here we go. Thomas McCallum. Actually, he moved not far from here, just a few blocks up on Wabash.”
Scribbling the address on a piece of paper, he handed it to Jacob.
“Thank you, sir.”
“I hope this helps you,” the man replied.
