“Hamilton, in Marin County.”
“Go and see your parents. Our first contingent will be entering Berlin on the Fourth of July. When you return to Germany it will be either to go back to Rombaden and finish your command or it will be to come to Berlin with us for as long as we need you.”
“The Fourth of July? But, sir, even with good connections I won’t have much more than forty-eight hours at home ... I’ve been gone almost four years ...”
“That’s it, Sean. Forty-eight hours.”
Chapter Thirty-seven
“HEY, MAJOR O’SULLIVAN, TAKE a look.” Sean responded to the prodding of the navigator of the “Vigilant Virgin,” a combat-weary B-24. He unraveled himself from a makeshift bunk in the bomb bay and slipped into the flight deck between the pilots. The aircraft commander pointed out of his window.
Below, the towers of the Golden Gate Bridge poked up through a pall of grayish clouds. Beyond the bridge, the gleaming plaster and hills of San Francisco searched for the ever-elusive sun.
“The Golden Gate in ’48, the broad line in ’49,” someone said over the intercom.
And then, there was no more talk. For this crew it was good-by Europe, hello Pacific, but the Vigilant Virgin would be gone forever. The proud possessor of seventy-five raids, including survival of the Ploesti air massacre, she would meet an untimely end and her crew would be retrained for the more powerful B-29s.
“Strap in for landing.”
The “follow me” jeep led the Vigilant Virgin into a hardstand. The alert crew signaled her to cut her engines and wheel chocks were set. Her men tumbled out of the open bomb bay, and Sean and three other hitchers thanked each of the crew for the ride. The ceremony was halted by a jeep pulling under the plane’s wings. A corporal from Base Operations emerged.
“Excuse me. Is Major Sean O’Sullivan here?”
“I’m O’Sullivan.”
The corporal came to a sloppy salute, which an Army man tolerated from the Air Corps. “Would you come with me, sir. Sergeant Schlosberg has some poop for you at the message center.”
The jeep U-turned and drove down the side of the runway as the rest of the bomber squadron was making long glides to the landing strip.
“Afternoon, sir,” Sergeant Schlosberg said. “How was the flight?”
“Good as any ride in an airplane can be.”
Schlosberg tolerated the nonflying mentality of a landlocked Army officer. “We’ve got a TWX on you about your return flight, sir. You can catch a Staff B-17 out of Mather to Washington, then ATC on the VIP flight to Orly. If you’ll check Base Operations in Paris they’ll get you in to Frankfurt or Wiesbaden with Theater Aircraft. Should put you back by July 3.”
“Mather, that’s up by Sacramento, isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir. We have a staff car to take you into Frisco now. If you’ll leave your address at the motor pool we’ll arrange to have you picked up and transported to Mather.”
“I appreciate that.”
The sergeant said it was nothing at all, having been fully awed by Sean’s Priority One status in his orders.
“Could I use your phone?”
“Help yourself.”
Sean indicated the call was private. The sergeant excused himself. Sean lifted the receiver.
“Hamilton operator.”
“This is Major O’Sullivan. I’ve just arrived with the 23d Bomber Squadron. I’m calling from Base Operations. Could you reach a number in San Francisco?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Get me Mission 0430.”
“One moment, sir.”
He heard the feedback of the dialing. The phone rang. Sean’s hand tightened on the receiver ... ring ... ring ... ring ... click!
“Hello.”
“Hello ... Momma ...”
Silence on the other end of the line.
“Momma ...”
“Oh God!”
“Momma, it’s Sean.”
“Oh God! Oh God! Oh God!”
“Momma ... don’t cry ... don’t cry ...”
“It’s Sean!”
“Son ... is it you, son!”
“Hello, Poppa.”
“Is it really you!”
“Yes ... yes ... it’s me. I’m sorry I couldn’t reach you sooner and let you know. I’ve just landed at Hamilton Field. I’ll be home in about an hour.”
“Are you all right, son?”
“I’m fine ... I’ll be right home.”
The road through Marin ran through brown hills. At the foot of the Waldo grade stood a new city of shacks near the frantic activity of the shipyards. Then up the hill and down into the tunnel and onto the Golden Gate Bridge. Over the bay, the city showed itself flirting through wisps of clouds streaming up the gate and the wind jarred the car about.
Now, past the toll gate into the city, they turned into Van Ness, which had been a gaudy auto row in peacetime ... on past the great brick structure of the New Saint Mary’s Church.
How small, how quiet everything looked. Houses, streets, all shrunk. But is not memory always larger than life?
Sean looked down the length of Market Street to the Ferry Building. A living sea of white-capped sailors told him there was still a war being fought. The rival Market Street and Municipal Street car lines staged one of their impromptu races on the four sets of tracks.
The light changed and they crossed into Mission Street, past the armory where Sean had held his first rifle.
“Drive down to Twenty-third Street, then make a right. My house is just before Guerrero.”
“Yes, sir.” The driver was given with a sudden feeling of equality. The major, obviously a VIP, lived in a neighborhood that wasn’t half as nice as his own in Cleveland.
Momma and Poppa stood on the rickety porch. Poppa was supported by a cane, which trembled in his palsied hand. The driver stopped, opened the door, saluted, and stood awkwardly as Sean’s mother ran to meet him and the old man hobbled down the three steps one at a time to join the circle of silent embracers.
At last when the tears were under control, Sean nodded to the driver that he was dismissed, and the three of them walked quietly toward the house.
In the grandeur of his office and quarters in Rombaden and Queen Mother’s Gate he had all but forgotten how very small and very tired the old house was. Large, overstuffed, mohair-covered furniture of a bygone age, the airless, lightless living room, drooping lace curtains, cracked window blinds. The ornate light fixture with crystal tear drops hung low in the center of the room over the round oak table, and Momma’s doilies covered every chair back and arm. The petit-point footstool before Poppa’s rocker ... all of it was the same, only more weary.
On the mantel, a bit removed from the cheap plaster statuette of the Virgin Mother, were photographs of the O’Sullivan brothers in uniform ... Private Liam ... Lieutenant Timothy ... and himself.
He saw the decay wrought from suffering borne by his parents. The last three years had aged them twenty. That big, raw-boned, broad-backed Irishman, Pat O’Sullivan, was a withered old shell.
“You look so tired,” Momma said.
“Just the plane ride, Momma. They don’t build those bombers for comfort.”
But it was more than that, Momma knew. All the youth had fled him.
“Now, before we get involved in Mother’s nonsense about how many meals you can eat and how many socks she can mend, tell us exactly how long you are able to stay?”
Poppa had intuition ... he knew. “I’m afraid only two days.”
“So soon!”
“I’m sorry, Momma. There will be a staff car picking me up day after tomorrow at ten in the morning.”
“But ... Sean ...”
“Now, Mother. We promised. None of that. This is an unexpected treat. We are grateful to have Sean for even this much.”