Charles R. "Chuck" Dowling

In a frigid tent in North Korea in 1950, Forest "Starchy" Glenn, grizzled, crusty, bulldog, bantam rooster, Marine Colonel begins what he believes will be his last command. He does not know whether his premonition is based on his past history of "stepping on toes" or something more sinister. Acting on his feelings, he commissions Navy Chaplain Father Frank Canavan, combat decorated Priest, to read his journals and turn them into a memoir for him. Canavan agrees and the rest of the story is based on these journals and the Colonel's frequent and enlightening letters to his wife.

In the journals we meet "Buffalo" Joe Hunter from Montana, a literal, bear of a man and Eddie Herrera, a superb young athlete raised in an orphanage in southwest Texas. Vickie, a reformed prostitute, becomes Eddie's wife after a typical World War ll whirlwind romance and "Clyde" the widow of a Marine killed on Okinawa, becomes Joe's wife. We are also introduced to Carla, Vickie's "boss" when she was "in the trade" and a fun-loving squad of Marines who take the name of the "Animals", because they all are either hairy or dark skinned or both.

The journals begin in Shanghai in 1940. They bring us through World War ll, the post war years and the Korean War" We see Hunter grow into an excellent non-commissioned officer during the Pacific War battles and then become an Lieutenant in time for the Korean War. Through a series of letters to his wife and some other reminiscences we learn about the Colonel's illustrious but "bumpy" career. Most of the Colonel's troubles stem from his love for his men and his inability to suffer fools, even those superior to him in rank.

In September of 1950, the three combatants, together again, land at Inchon, in South Korea and fight their way across the war torn peninsular. This campaign ends with two spectacular battles in and around Seoul. Eddie is awarded a battlefield commission.

When the UN forces move into North Korea we meet two new enemies, the Chinese Communists and the brutal winter. While conquering the extreme cold, the Marines blast their way out of the trap the Communists set for them at the Chosin Reservoir and in a stupendous display of fighting abilities, destroy five of the Chinese divisions as they break out.

The story closes back in the United States when Father Canavan, recovering from wounds received in the final battles around Chosin, returns home to meet with the families of the gallant Marines. There are a few surprises in store for the heroic Navy Chaplain.

First to Fight provides a crackerjack story as well as a number of spectacular action scenes and many moving moments. The characters are unforgettable. As in the other novels in The Chosin Few series, readers will stand up and cheer in some places and break down and cry in others.

Colonel Forrest “Starchy” Glenn, a slim man with a bulldog face was hunched over his folding field desk, writing, or better, trying to write, in a black and white “composition” book. Other similar books were stacked in one of the small compartments in the upper part of the folded back section of the lid. Hissing away fitfully, a Coleman lantern provided a garish, undulating light that caused shadows to wobble and flutter. The small oil stove in the center of the dirt floor roared its defiance at the impossible conditions it was asked to overcome.

The Colonel bent and absorbed in his task, wore multiple layers of bulky clothes, including regulation underwear, long johns, sweaters, a field jacket, scarf, gloves, boots and winter pants. His hooded parka was laid it over his cot. It was warm enough in the tent to remove the arctic coat, but not warm enough to remove much else. As he wrote, he alternated between wearing his gloves and taking them off. It was difficult to write while wearing gloves. It was difficult to write while not wearing gloves.

Outside, wind whipped the sides of the Colonel’s tent viciously. The bottom edges, where snow had been piled and water poured, remained firm and frozen to the ground, but the walls continued to belly and snap like sails before a driving wind. At first, the slapping and rapid undulations, which had been constant since the sun had set, had been maddening. Now, hours later, it was only an irritant. Eventually it would become a monotonous rhythm and like the extreme cold, sensed only in the subconscious.

Under the low hanging sky, soft, dry snow fell in “pillowy” clouds, and then, caught by the incessant wind, swirled and sneaked into any cracks or crevices left during the erection of the shelter. The remaining whirling, stinging crystals, denied their free flight by the presence of the tent and other impediments, formed into snowdrifts in a few places and left the hard ground bare in others.

Around the Colonel’s tent, arranged in what could be called squared off “streets”, were other, similarly wind whipped, canvas shelters. To one side, stood the more haphazardly laid out structures of the primitive mountain village. Parka clad Marines bustled back and forth between them, trying to move from one “heated” place to another as quickly as possible.

The Colonel put down his pencil for a moment, his brow puckered in concentration. He leaned back in his canvas chair, gathering his thoughts before he made his next entry. There was a rustle at the entrance flap. A voice called out, “Colonel…Colonel Glenn?”

“Yes, I’m here… Come in.” He closed the book and jumped up to untie the cords that held the flaps closed. Once the cords were loosed a bulky figure moved quickly into the tent along with a burst of cold air and a swirl of snow. They both rushed to close the flap and retie the strings.

“Sorry to bring the cold in like that Colonel…”

“Nonsense. Couldn’t be helped.” Said the senior officer in clipped phrases. They quickly resealed the portal. “I was the one who sent for you.” He reached out to help his visitor with his coat. “Let me have your parka. I think its warm enough in here to loosen up a little. Besides if you don’t, it will be that much colder when you have to go out again.”

“Thank you.” The husky man unbuttoned his coat with numbed fingers and handed it to his host. The slim colonel placed the parka next to his and pulled a camp chair over from behind the desk. “Have a seat Padre.” The new arrival took the canvas seat, turned it so he could face the Colonel and sat down. He noticed that the commanding officer’s quarters weren’t much better than his. He also had a cot, a small stove and a field desk. His floor was also dirt and his walls flapped too. Simple as it was, even having a tent was boon. He had been sleeping on the frozen ground, with nothing but a sleeping bag for the last few weeks.

The colonel drew his canvas chair to a place opposite his guest and then turned to his desk. He reached into a draw and pulled out a half-empty bottle of amber fluid. “Do Priests drink Father? This is some good scotch. I got it from that English Outfit that’s working with us.”

Father Canavan smiled at the short, wiry officer. “Some do Colonel, especially the Irish ones.” His words rolled out in soft brogue. “Nothing in the Bible or church teaching against drinking, only abuse. We Catholics use wine in our Mass. The Lord drank wine too, as I remember.”

The colonel smiled, a puckish, friendly smile, “I was raised a Presbyterian, but I don’t know much about my religion -- or any other religion for that matter, Padre. I don’t know whether we’re supposed to drink or not. Some of the Presbyterians I know do, some don’t.” He pulled two pale green Bakelite cups from the drawer and poured a “couple of fingers” of the single malt liquor into each. Father Canavan noted that the cups were standard mess hall issue. The Colonel handed one to the Priest and sat down.

“To the last leg of our journey.” He raised his drink.

“And may the Lord be with us on our way.” The Priest raised his.

The fluid burned their throats deliciously. Outside the wind howled, the tent slapped and the snow blew. Off in the distance the intermittent rumbling thump, thump of artillery reminded them that in addition to the immediate problem of the cold, they were still very much at war.

“Padre, I was out there on the road when I saw the first elements of the of those two trapped regiments come down that road from Yudam-ni. My heart did a little flip-flop. You people did a magnificent job up there.”

The Priest smiled. “It wasn’t any of my doing Sir. Those boys out there,” he waved his arms beyond the tent walls, “ those are the ones. They bought that victory. We have some wonderful men here Colonel, proud, boastful, profane to a fault, but still wonderful” He clucked, clucked a little to himself, recalling the salty language among other things. “I have never seen been around, people with the valor, courage and ability of these men.”

Colonel Glenn smiled. “That has been my experience too. In more than thirty years of soldiering, I have seen Marines come and Marines go, but they were always the best. He looked at the priest, his face beaming. “Even with that, the reports I get about your battles at Yudam-ni take uncommon valor to a new level.” His pale eyes were aglow. “Those two regiments, surrounded by five or six Chinese divisions … And you actually destroyed two or three of those divisions as you fought your way out. That’s like…five or six to one odds and you still prevailed. ”

The Priest nodded. He had marched into the trap at Yudam-ni with the Fifth Marines and he had marched out again, thankfully. “Like I said Colonel, They are, I think I heard one reporter say, ‘Magnificent Bastards’. His face reddened a little at the word, but there was a sparkle in his eye.

“I was reminded of the paintings you see of the Revolutionary War soldiers, like at Valley Forge, wounded, wrapped in bloody bandages, some on crutches, traipsing along in pain, enduring. And our boys, just like them only worse, some hanging over the transoms of trucks, too hurt to walk, but still singing. Singing the Marine’s Hymn, and those on the road, frost bitten feet, bandaged limbs, trying to march in step as they entered our camp. Lord did my heart go out to them.”

The Padre smiled. As he marched with them, he too, had marveled at their courage and will power.

Neither spoke for awhile, then the Colonel reached inside his shirt and took out a curved pipe. “Mind?”

“Not at all. I like the smell of pipe tobacco.”

Glenn picked up the soft leather tobacco pouch which had been laying on his desk and proceeded to fill his pipe. The shiny dark brown hide reflected many years of hard use. “Most people do. My wife used to say the smell is reassuring, something solid and real.”

Canavan Nodded. “ I have friends who smoke pipes. Somehow they seem to be the most stolid types.” He watched the Colonel as he puffed and “stoked”, attempting to get the tobacco glowing. The conversation thus far had been all small talk. The Priest wondered why he had been summoned.

Father Canavan noted to himself that the Colonel bore a striking resemblance to someone he knew, but he couldn’t put his finger on who it was. He was not a big man, slight would be a better word, but he appeared leather strap tough. His close cropped hair was iron gray. There was just the hint of a curl to it. He wore it parted in the middle. His face was pushed in, with slight jowls, almost like wattles. He had a thin, but bulldog-like look. From his reputation, he seemed to have a bulldog personality too. He doubted there was a Marine anywhere in the world that didn’t know about “Starchy” Glenn and his exploits as he fought his country’s battles over the last half century. To the troops, he was a God.

Canavan also noted that when he talked, the Colonel spoke in clipped sentences and phrases that made him appear hard and cold, but the Chaplain, looking in his gray-green eyes, suspected a warm, even sensitive man underneath.

Wreaths of smoke circled the Colonel’s head as he finally got the pipe going to his satisfaction. He took it from his mouth and smiled. The smile did it, the cocky, gnarly smile. Father Canavan knew whom he was trying to recall. He looked like James Cagney, the actor. Thinner, more wiry perhaps, but enough like him to be his brother.

“I’m curious Father…”

The Priest’s attention, which had been momentarily distracted by his thoughts, refocused on the colonel’s words.

“You’ve been with the Fifth Marines ever since Pusan. That’s five or six months. How did you end up with The First Marines at this point … not that I’m not happy to have you…?”

Canavan pushed his wool cap back a little on his head and scratched under it. It had taken him a while to understand the Marine’s unit designations and sometimes he still had to think about them before responding. He had been in the Fifth Marines, the Fifth Marine Regiment. Now he was in the First Marine regiment. They were both, along with the Seventh Marines, a part of the First Marine Division.

“I really don’t know. We have a new Supervisor of Chaplains, back in Tokyo, a Reverend Falshaw, uh…Colonel Falshaw. He sent out some new orders. I received mine when we came in to Hagaru. A few replacements came in. We were all shuffled around.” He looked at the Colonel and shrugged. “I’m happy to be here though. “I’ll do anything I can to help out.”

The colonel laughed. “The inexplicable personnel shuffle exists in the Chaplains Corps too, Huh?” He laughed again. “Thank you your offer, Father. I’m sure you will.”

Glenn puffed on his pipe a minute more. Smoke billowed again, and then dissipated quickly. “I understand you’ve been put in for a medal, by your last CO, something about a fire fight…”

The Priest’s face reddened. “That’s something I’m not too sure I’m proud of Colonel, the taking of life…”

“I understand it had to be done. You saved a number of lives doing it.”

“I tell myself that too, Sir, but it still makes me uneasy. I had to kill. A Priest killing someone…intentionally…” He shook his head slowly. “… To save others I guess.” There was anguish in his face. He looked at the colonel, pain and sadness on his face. “I’m forty years old. I never had to make those kinds of choices. But there it was. I never thought I would have to decide…I would be faced with that.”

He leaned forward, a little, his words thoughtful. “Priests are prepared for death Colonel, including their own. Some would even welcome a martyr’s death. It means instant salvation. They deal with death every day, in their parish back home, here in the military, in their own families. What they don’t expect is to be faced with is killing someone themselves. This is my problem.”

Glenn nodded. He noted that although he was a big man there was a vulnerability to him. The strain of what he had done was evident.

“There’s about ten or fifteen wounded men who have you to thank for their lives.” Glenn said softly.

“And three dead Chinese who have me to thank for their deaths.” Canavan said harshly. A very real pain flashed across his face.

“I’m sorry Father. I shouldn’t have brought it up…” Glenn shifted his look away from his guest. He had decided he really liked this Priest.

“No. No. It’s okay.” Canavan shook his head. “It’s done. I’m sorry I snapped back. It was all so difficult. I’ve asked the Lord for forgiveness. I just have to reconcile myself to it.”

While they had been talking, Glenn had also been studying his guest. The Priest reminded him of someone. He was tall, broad shouldered and a little stooped, His head was square with thick, short gray hair and his jaw was straight. His eyes were an icy blue. The Colonel saw steel in those eyes, but he saw love and kindness in the wrinkles around them. He could also see this man doing what his medal citation said he did…

… At great risk to his personal safety, He placed himself between a truckload of wounded Marines and a group of Chinese soldiers who were attacking the truck with grenades. He picked up a weapon that had fallen and fired into the charging enemy troops until they were all killed, thus saving the wounded Marines…

“Father, for my part I’m a warrior.” Glenn pushed back in his chair a little so he could see Canavan better. “I don’t like to kill, but I understand the need for people like me to do so and…” The Colonel’s eyes grew a little wistful. “I guess I’ve had some success over the years doing this thankless job.” He looked directly into the Priest’s eyes. “In you though, I see someone different. I see someone who is pledged to love, to forgive, to counsel, to save souls and … lives.” He continued to look at the Priest. “I also see someone who will lead people to a better life, to lead people to God.” He leaned back and paused for a moment. “I know I could never get into your head and understand all that, but I respect it. I respect your calling and I respect you. To me you are a hero.”

He leaned forward again. “I understand that to yourself, a man of God, you have doubts. You didn’t sign on to kill people. You signed on to save souls.” The Colonel paused. “You also protected some people though, didn’t you?”

Canavan continued to look down,

“Father you are still a hero”

“Thank you.” Father Canavan smiled weakly.

The colonel’s face brightened a little. “I was just wondering if one could look at it like a lesser of evils. What you did is like a surgeon who has had to cut off some perfectly good part of a human body in order to save the whole body…like in an amputation or cancer surgery.” The Priest looked up trying to grasp the concept. Glenn continued. “The Chinese Soldiers were the part of the body that had to be…uh…dealt with to save the rest. The part had to be sacrificed for the whole. It had to be done.”

“That’s a point I hadn’t thought about.” His faced turned introspective, his eyebrows knitted in thought. “Even the Church has justifications for war … for killing.” He seemed to be digesting the idea. “I’ll have to give it some thought. Thank you. It’s an insight I didn’t have.”

The colonel nodded and then laughed. “I think we need to get off this cerebral stuff before we become maudlin.” He reached for the bottle of Scotch. “Another?”

Father Canavan looked at his cup, drank the swallow that was left and then held it out. “Thank you Colonel. It’s good whiskey.”

The senior officer stood and poured them each another “couple of fingers”, then sat down. “Father…uh, can I call you by your name. Saying Father over and over…”

He nodded. “My Christian name is Frank, Colonel. That’s fine with me. In our church the word Father is used for many reasons, but with the rest of the world, well…something less formal is usually the best way. That’s why the troops use ‘Padre’, I would suppose. I wish you would use Frank, Colonel.”

“Thank you… Frank. I feel more familiar this way.”

They sipped the whiskey for a moment.

Glenn then continued. “I understand you lost a brother early in the war.”

The Priest looked up sharply. The colonel knew everything. Tears formed in the cleric’s’ eyes. “Yes…He was a missionary here. He was killed when the Communists first invaded.” His voice caught a little. He had not had very priestly thoughts when he first viewed the body, shot in the back of the head, hands tied behind.

“I’m sorry for you. War is never good for anyone, but you seem to have been dealt more than your share of sorrow.”

They sipped quietly again for a while, each absorbed momentarily by his own thoughts. Wind blew, canvas flapped, cannons rumbled, cold bit at various parts of their bodies.

After a full minute of quiet, the colonel, who was “stoking” his pipe again, using the matchbook cover to create a good draw, ventured, “I’ve known many Chaplains in my time, Frank, but I’ve always been most impressed with the Catholic Chaplains.” He looked at his guest intently. “In combat, you get the true measure of a man. Every Catholic Chaplain I’ve seen has been a real trooper. They live right on the ground with the troops, taking the same risks, eating the same food, sleeping in the same mud. They’ve risked their lives to save people They’ve protected people.”

The Priest nodded, not sure where this was going.

“I can’t say the same for all of my Protestant brothers. There have been many good ones, of course, but many seem to find their flock among the rear echelon ‘pogues’, out of the line of fire, so to speak.”

“Well,” Canavan was a little shocked by the Colonel’s directness. He felt a need to mitigate the statements, “I’m sure there are good Chaplains, as you say, in all religions, and lets just say, not so good ones also, but…”

The colonel looked directly at him. “Frank, I speak plainly. Lord knows I’ve gotten in trouble often enough for doing so, but I will not change. I call them as I see them. And when I say this I mean it. I have never seen a bad Catholic Chaplain. Thirty years and never a bad one, and…” he raised his cup. “ By all reports, you appear to be one of the best. I salute you.”

Father Canavan mumbled his thanks, his face reddening once more.

Again, they were quiet for awhile. The colonel kept his eyes on the Priest this time, trying to identify where he had seen Father Canavan -- or his double -- before.

For his part, the Priest still wondered about the reason for this meeting, but he had decided to let the Colonel bring it up. After a few more quiet moments though, since nothing was forthcoming, he asked, “Sir, how are we doing in this war? Down with the troops we don’t get much information. I know we seem to have held our own in Yudam-ni, but I think we lost a lot of men and I guess none of us are too sure what’s going on.”

“Padre…uh Frank, I’m not so sure I know either. I think we got hung out to dry though, The First Marine Division, I mean.”

The Priest’s face registered surprise.

“Didn’t think you’d hear that did you, especially from a senior Officer.” The colonel had a satiric curl to his lip.

Canavan was shaking his head. He hadn’t thought he would hear that from him. The colonel laughed. “I’m a little different than most, but I’ve already told you that. Gets me in trouble some times.” He looked seriously at the burly Chaplain. “I go with my instincts. As far as the important things are concerned, they’ve never failed me, in the jungles, the islands, the mountains or whatever. Sometimes my instincts embarrass people, but they’ve done well by me. They’ve saved my life at times and they’ve helped me get the job done at other times. Politics be damned. Politics haven’t helped me once.”

He leaned back. “Let me give you a little history of our situation here. You know how this all started. The North Koreans attacked South Korean on June 25 th. That was last spring. This being 1950, only 5 years from the end of World War II, we weren’t ready. And we were more concerned about the Russians and Europe than little old Korea. In any event, when we decided to respond to the invasion the only troops we had available on short notice were poorly trained occupation troops from Japan. The Commies rolled right over them.

“We finally got beefed up enough to stop them at Pusan. I know you remember that, you were with the Fifth Marines when they fought there. They called our troops, “The Fire Brigade.” Well we stopped them, but we were kinda stuck in a box. The reporters called it the Pusan Perimeter.

Then MacArthur came up with that brilliant idea about an invasion behind the enemy lines then. The First Marine Division, and the Army’s Seventh Division, landed at Inchon. I know you were in that too. So was I. A couple of weeks later we took Seoul and the North Korean drive collapsed. It took us just a little more than three months to push the Commies back into North Korea. That was October first.

“Except for the fact that initially we were not prepared for this kind of unilateral action by the Commies, after we finally got going, we really did quite well. Then the screw-ups started.

“The question that jumped forward was, do we invade North Korea and punish them or should we be satisfied with just having put things back the way they were before North Korea attacked? Obviously we chose to invade.

Canavan knew most of this, but it was interesting to hear the story put so succinctly.

“So MacArthur kinda got his way and we invaded North Korea. He had to take ‘weaseling’ steps because there were a lot of people who wanted us to only fight a limited war.”

Starchy stopped for a moment. His disgusted look betrayed his feelings.

“What the hell is a limited war? What does a limited war mean to the Marine or the Soldier with the rifle? Are the bullets softer, the grenades gentler? Do we shoot only to wound?

The American fighting man will risk his life for his country, but we owe him a valid reason to do so. We owe that to his wife or children, his sweetheart. We owe that to his mother and father and brothers and sisters.” He stopped speaking. His eyes were fierce. Obviously strong feelings simmered below the leathery surface. He looked off into the distance, seeing something other than the flapping tent walls. Then he continued. “MacArthur and his cronies finally ‘weaseled’ us into what we’ve got now.”

He had stood while he was talking. Now he sat back down. “The Chinese jumped in with some warnings, but we didn’t read them right. Their armies hit us pretty hard a couple of times, with large numbers of troops. The Eighth Army got shoved back pretty good in the west. They lost a lot of men and equipment. They didn’t hurt us, the Marines, here in the east though. The Seventh Marines knocked out more than 2000 of them at Sudong, but the evidence was there to see. The Chinese had thousands of troops in North Korea. That’s when the high mucky-mucks in Tokyo stuck their head in the sand.”

The colonel put his pipe down. It had gone out as he spoke. “You see the problem was that if MacArthur’s people admitted that there were large numbers of Chinese here, we would have to pull back. That’s the way his orders were written. Needless to say, he and his lackeys totally denied their existence and pushed forward, keeping our head in a sack.

“At the end of November, the Chinese came back and this time they slaughtered the Eighth Army in the west, north of Pyongyang, and trapped us all along this twisting, winding mountain road in the east.”

He paused a moment, then looked directly at the priest. “And perhaps the worst thing of all, as far as we, the Marines, are concerned, we should not have even been in Yudam-ni. We didn’t have to fight that battle. We were supposed to link up with the Eighth Army, but they were stopped by the Chinese long before we were supposed to move to Yudam-ni. Nobody told us. We should have gone no further than here, in Hagaru. We just kept going and unknowingly moved nearly 10,000 men into the jaws of the dragon.

As best we can tell, the Chinese had 120,000 troops in this area, 50,000 or 60,000 of them at Yudam-ni. How you people got out of there, and did so much damage to them, I don’t know. It should go down as one of the greatest feats of military history.”

After his mini-tirade, the colonel was silent for awhile. The war continued in the distance. The intense cold continued to bite

“To answer your original question Father…” He smiled. “We’re winning ... at Least here in the east. We’re strung out on a mountain road that winds up from sea level for sixty or seventy miles, through passes almost a mile high. The temperature hasn’t been above zero for two weeks. We’re fighting somewhere on that road or the towns that dot it, continually. The Chinese have surrounded us with ten divisions. But with it all we are winning. We have unit integrity again and we’re Marines. We’re getting ready to get out.”

The colonel slumped a little in his seat and faced the Priest. He looked tired now. The sounds and rumble of war continued to intrude on their consciousness. Except for the wind and the roaring Coleman lantern, it was quiet in the tent again. He looked at the Priest thoughtfully for a moment, then he turned and lifted some papers on his desk and picked up a book which had been hidden by them. He swung around and showed the book to Father Canavan. “Do you recognize this, Father?”

The Priest, at first surprised and then confused, nodded. He recognized the book very well. He had written it himself … a few years ago. Where in the world did the Colonel get that book?

The colonel smiled his gnarly smile. “Read this years ago. My wife gave it to me for a Christmas present one year. I find it inspirational. Never thought I would meet, no less serve with, the author.”

The colonel continued to surprise Canavan. The book was about people the Chaplain had met while serving in the Navy. There were humorous characters, interesting profiles and inspirational people. Each vignette also taught a lesson. Clergymen often store information like this for homilies or sermons. Father Canavan had put his into a book as well.

“You write very well, Frank. I learned a great deal from you.”

“Thank you, Sir. I don’t know what to say…I’m pleased you liked it…I…The people in the book are the real story. I just put down what I saw.”

“You’re too modest Frank. It’s really well done. Did you do the drawings yourself?” Many of the pages in the book had pen and ink sketches, illustrating the anecdotes, or picturing some of the principals.”

“Well … yes. I like to doodle. Sometimes they actually look like what I am trying to draw.”

Glenn smiled at the humorous attempt. “They’re quite good Father. They catch the essence of the person or the story. I was impressed.”

In any event…” He turned back to his desk and took down some of the composition books that were in the upper slots. He seemed a little sheepish. “I have a request of you.”

“Certainly Colonel anything…”

“Frank.” He looked at the Priest seriously, “This is not an order. It is a personal request. You can turn this down. If you do, it’s over. Nothing more will be said about it. I’m asking this as a favor not as a directive from your Commanding Officer. This has nothing to do with that. I really want to make that clear. I just need your help with a personal task.”

“Colonel, anything you want…”

“Frank…Father…Funny.” Glenn laughed. “Somehow I’m finding it easier to call you Father now…” He wondered at his own ambivalence. “Father, keep in mind this is personal.”

He held up one of the black and white theme books, “I have been keeping a journal of sorts for many years, in these books. You can see some of them are old.”

Canavan noticed defaced covers, stained bindings even some repaired spines.

“I’ve worked with a lot of people over the years. Some of them are right here in Korea. I learned their stories and I put them down. I also kept notes on the big picture where I could. Sometimes, the writings are just observations. Sometimes, I’m like a reporter. It’s just a hodge-podge really and I don’t write well, but I think there is a legacy here. They all show what my mind-set was. These are very raw. I think they are honest though. I say it like I see it.”

Canavan didn’t doubt that for a minute.

“The books start with my time in China, and then the war years, and then they come forward to the present. I wish I had started earlier, but I guess I was too busy being a soldier and too caught up in life then to think about making a record.”

The clergyman was intrigued, not sure what the actual request was going to be.

“My time in the Corps will be coming to an end soon. This may be my last command. I don’t know if I’ll make General or not. I’ve stepped on a few toes here and there…” He smiled at some private memories. “But I’m in my fifties now and although the Corps has a number of fifty-year old generals, there are not too many fifty-year old colonels. So this may be it for me. In addition, the more you go into combat, even as a senior officer, the more chance there is that you might not make it back.”

He took out a handkerchief and blew into it. Canavan wasn’t sure if the necessity to blow was caused by the cold or by emotion.

“In any event, it’s time to do something about the journals. I’d like someone to read them, to edit them and to rewrite them in proper English and so on. I’d like you to do it, Father, if you would like to.” He stared at the Priest with an open, puppy dog look. “I can’t pay you or anything… I can give you credit…”

“Not necessary Colonel. I’d love to do it. I’m honored. But am I the best man? Perhaps an editor...or a publisher…”

“Father, I read your book.” He looked directly into Canavan’s eyes. “I know about your career, I’ve met you…I’m impressed with you. This discussion has confirmed my opinion. I…I…just don’t want anybody else.”

Father Canavan was stopped. He was flattered and intrigued. How could he refuse? He looked at the Colonel and nodded. “Yes Colonel. I’ll do it. I hope I live up to your expectations.”

Glenn smiled broadly. “I see no problems with that.” He seemed to be relieved to have gotten this behind him. “Take all the time you need. I know you have other duties, duties much more important than this, so please keep this in that perspective. Work on it when you can. It’s low priority for you.”

Colonel Glenn gathered up his books -- they made an armful -- and went to hand them to the priest, then stopped.

“Do you have room for all of them in your gear or do you want to take just a few now?”

The priest looked at the books. “Maybe I should take just a few at this point, just the oldest ones. The rest will probably be safer with your gear.”

“Good thinking.” The colonel spread them out on the cot and selected five of them and gave them to the Priest. He put the rest back in his desk. “These are the first ones, going back to China.”

Canavan noticed they were among the most battered. He reached down and picked up his parka He shoved the books inside his field jacket and then donned the calf length coat. “I don’t have anything pressing right now. I’ll get started right away. If I have any questions…”

“My door…uh tent flap” he smiled at his own humor, “Is always open.”

They shook hands. Father Canavan stepped back into the brutal night and then he was gone. The Colonel returned to his desk and sat down. He picked up his cup. There was still some whiskey on the bottom. He drank it slowly, thinking.

It was at that moment that the Colonel remembered whom the Priest reminded him of. He had a mental picture of Canavan in a more appropriate Priest’s attire, black suit, roman collar, and black fedora hat. He was Father Flanagan from the movie Boys Town. He looked like Spencer Tracey.

Back in his tent, Father Canavan struggled with his lantern and was finally able to get it going. He tried to coax a little more heat out of his tiny oil heater, but, at least immediately, he wasn’t too successful so he continued to wear his parka. Perhaps later it would build up enough to improve things a little. He sat down at his desk and picked up one of the composition books. He fished deep inside his clothing for his reading glasses, wishing he had a little more of the Colonel’s whiskey. He managed to find his spectacles and to balance them on to his nose. The metal was cold, even coming from near his body.

The book’s mottled surface was worn almost white in a few places. Someone had taped the back cover to the front cover. The pages were water stained here and there, and yellowed.

He closed his eyes and reflected a moment. With all that was going on, he wondered why the urgency to edit the journals now. Why had the Colonel thought about doing this at this time? Why not when they finished here, when things quieted down?

He supposed it was because he, Father Canavan, was in his unit now and he saw an opportunity. The war might be over soon. They were about to embark on the last leg of their breakout. The needs of the regiment may change. The colonel might have to retire. He himself may be some other place in a few weeks. He reasoned a little further. The colonel had read his book about his life’s experiences, so he knew the priest had some writing ability and an affinity for a memoir. The Priest shrugged. Why not take the whole matter at face value. Sometimes he analyzed things too much.

He tugged his coat around him a little tighter, opened the book and began to read...