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.

It was Cold . . . frighteningly Cold. Cold with a capitol C.

During the day the temperature hadn’t been above zero for two weeks. And at night it plunged even lower.

Hot coffee in a tin canteen cup became a solid chunk within seconds. Fingers left exposed for just minutes could break into pieces. Radio batteries died. Engines wouldn’t start. Weapons malfunctioned. Blood plasma and medicines froze. And the wind blew incessantly.

Cold with a capitol C.

The date was December 3, 1950. The place was North Korea.

Colonel Forrest “Starchy” Glenn, a slim man with a bulldog face, sat 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 writing desk lid. Hissing away fitfully, a Coleman lantern provided a garish, undulating light that caused shadows to wobble and flutter. The small pressure-driven 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 lay over his cot.

As he wrote, he alternated between wearing his gloves and removing them. 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 over a log to make a seal, remained firm and frozen to the ground, but the walls continued to belly and snap like sails before a driving gale. The slapping and rapid undulations, which had been constant since the sun had set, had been maddening. But now, hours later, it was only an irritant. Eventually it would become a monotonous rhythm and, like the extreme cold, seared in the subconscious.

Under the low hanging sky, soft dry snow fell in feathery clouds, and then, caught by the ubiquitous 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 rocky impediments, formed into snowdrifts in some places and left the hard ground bare in others.

The colonel put down his pencil for a moment, his brow puckered in thought. He leaned back in his canvas chair, gathering his words before he made his next entry.

There was a rustle at the tent’s entrance flap.

“Colonel . . . Colonel Glenn?”

“Yes . . . Father Canavan. I’m here . . . come in.” He closed the book and jumped up to untie the portal cords. Once 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, his words clipped and firm. “I was the one who sent for you.” He reached out to his visitor. “Let me have your parka. I think its warm enough in here to loosen up a little. If you don’t, it’ll be that much colder when you leave. I don’t wear mine inside.”

“Thank you.” The husky Priest unbuttoned his coat with gloved but 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 dirt and his walls flapped. Simple as it was, even having a tent was a boon. He had been sleeping on the frozen ground with nothing but an inadequate sleeping bag for the last few weeks. His bones still ached.

The colonel drew his canvas chair to a place facing his guest and then turned to his desk. He reached into a drawer and pulled out a half-empty bottle of amber fluid. “Do Priests drink, Father? A gift from that English outfit attached to us, the commandoes.”

Father Canavan smiled at the short, wiry officer. “Some do, Colonel, especially the Irish ones.” His words rolled out in a soft brogue. “Nothing in the Bible or church teaching against drinking, only abuse. We use wine in Mass. The Lord drank wine too, as I remember. And then there’s the wedding feast at Cana of Galilee . . . .”

The colonel smiled a puckish, friendly smile. “I was raised a Presbyterian, Padre, but I don’t know much about my religion—or any religion for that matter. 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.” The Priest raised his.

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

The Colonel leaned back and looked at the Priest for moment.

“Yesterday, I was on the side of the road to welcome the first elements of those two trapped regiments as they arrived from Yudam-ni. My heart did a little flip-flop. You people did a magnificent job up there.”

“It wasn’t any of my doing, Sir. I was just along for the ride. The boys out there,” he waved his arms to those beyond the tent walls, "they’re the ones. They bought that victory, at a great price I might add, but they did it. We have some incredible men here, Colonel. Their courage and stamina is unbelievable; proud, boastful, profane to a fault, but still wonderful. I have never seen people with the valor and determination of these men.”

The colonel smiled faintly and nodded. “That’s been my experience, too, Padre. In more than thirty years of soldiering I’ve seen Marines come and Marines go, but they were always the best.” He looked directly at the priest, “Even with that, the reports I get about your battles at Yudam-ni take uncommon valor to a new level.” His pale eyes glinted with emotion. “As best we can tell now, you were 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 . . . convincingly.”

The Priest nodded. He had marched into the carefully laid trap at Yudam-ni with the Fifth Marines (Fifth Marine Regiment) and he had marched out again, thankfully.

"Like I said, Colonel, they’re—I think I heard one reporter say—‘Magnificent Bastards’.”

Glenn leaned forward. “You know, as the lines of wounded went by, I was reminded of the paintings you see, the ones about 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 the Marines’ Hymn and those on the road, frost bitten feet, lost toes, bandaged limbs, trying to march in step as they came into our camp. Lord did my heart go out to them.”

The Padre nodded. To him it was a magnificent exhibition of raw willpower.

Except for the competing roars of the lantern and the stove, the tent was quiet for a few moments. Then the colonel reached inside his shirt and took out a curved pipe.

Father Canavan looked up and smiled. “Not at all. I like the smell of pipe tobacco.”

Glenn picked up a soft leather tobacco pouch from his desk and proceeded to fill the bowl. The pouch, shiny and stained, reflected many years of hard use. “Most people do, but I still like to ask."

The Priest watched the colonel as he puffed and stoked to get the tobacco glowing. He wondered why he had been summoned.

As he watched, he noted that his host bore a striking resemblance to someone, but he couldn’t put his finger on just who it was. He was not a big man; slight would be a better word, but he appeared leather strap tough. His iron gray, close-cropped hair had just a hint of 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 look. From his reputation, he seemed to have a bulldog personality, too. He doubted if there was a Marine anywhere in the world who didn’t know about “Starchy” Glenn and his exploits over the last quarter century fighting his country’s battles. To the troops, he was a god.

Canavan also noted that the colonel’s way of speaking, in clipped sentences and phrases, made him seem hard and cold, but the chaplain, looking in his gray-green eyes, suspected a warm, even sensitive man underneath.

Smoke circled the colonel’s head in wreaths as the tobacco came to life. He took the pipe from his mouth and smiled. The smile did it—the cocky, gnarly grin. 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 . . . .”

“You’ve been with the Fifth Marines ever since Pusan. That’s at least five or six months now. 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 and scratched under it. It had taken him a while to understand the Marines’ unit designations and sometimes he still had to think about them before responding. He had been in the Fifth Marines for some time. That’s the Fifth Marine Regiment. Now he was in the First Marine regiment, the Colonel’s regiment. They were both, along with the Seventh Marine Regiment, a part of the First Marine Division.

“I really don’t know. We have a new Supervisor of Chaplains, back in Tokyo, Reverend Falshaw, uh . . . Captain Falshaw. You might know him.”

The colonel shook his head.

“He sent out some new orders. I received mine when we came into Hagaru. A few replacements came in. We were all transferred to other stations.” 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 bureaucratic entanglements and the inexplicable personnel shuffle exist in the Navy’s Chaplains Corps too, huh?” He laughed again. “Thank you, Father. I’m sure you will.”

Glenn puffed on his pipe a minute more. Smoke billowed, then dissipated quickly in the drafty tent. “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 lives . . . ?”

“I tell myself that, too, Sir, but it still makes me uneasy. I had to kill.” The husky man paused. “A Priest killing someone . . . intentionally . . . .” He shook his head slowly, anguish evident. “To save others, I guess.” He looked at the colonel. “I’m forty years old, Colonel. I never had to make those kinds of choices. But there it was . . . I never thought I would have to decide . . . that I would be faced with that.” He looked into the distance, his words thoughtful.

“Priests are prepared for death, Colonel, including our own. They deal with it every day, in their parish, here in the military, in their own families. What they don’t expect to be faced with is killing someone themselves.”

Glenn nodded. Although a big man, the Priest was a sensitive man. The strain of what he had caused to happen was evident.

“There’s about a dozen 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.

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

“No. No. It’s okay.” Canavan shook his head. “It’s done. I’m sorry I snapped back. I meant no disrespect. It was all so difficult. I’ve asked the Lord for forgiveness. Now I have to forgive myself.”

Similar to Canavan’s thought process earlier, the Priest reminded Glenn 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 lines and wrinkles surrounding 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 the priest 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. 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. Whether you want to admit it or not, to me and to others, you are a hero.”

Except for the distant boom, boom of the artillery and the flapping walls, the tent was quiet.

The colonel 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 minister to people, to save souls.”

The colonel’s face brightened a little. “I was just wondering if one could look at what you did like a lesser of evils, like a surgeon who has had to cut off some perfectly good part of a human body in order to save the whole body; maybe an amputation or cancer surgery.”

The Priest looked thoughtful as he considered 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.” The Priest's face reflected momentary introspection. His eyebrows knitted in thought. “Even the Church has justifications for war . . . a just war . . . for killing. 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. We don’t want to become maudlin.” He reached for the bottle of Scotch and nodded to the priest.

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 or Padre over and over

Canavan nodded. “My Christian name is Francis. Use 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 better way. That’s why the troops use ‘Padre’, I suppose. It means Father in Spanish, but I guess Padre makes a chaplain more reachable or something.”

“Thank you . . . Frank.”

They sipped the whiskey for a moment.

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

The Priest was surprised. “Yes . . . He was a missionary here. He was killed when the Communists first invaded.” His voice caught a little. He wiped his eye. 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 problems.”

They sipped quietly again for a time, each absorbed momentarily by his own thoughts. In the distance a firefight had suddenly begun. Frank could hear a bugle call, the dull thumps of grenades, the bursts of automatic weapons and the sharp snap of rifle fire. It was dark out there; like it had been at Yudam-ni. Fighting at night was the worst kind of fighting. The enemy bugle calls added to the terror. His mind and his prayers went out to those Marines

The Priest's mind moved to wondering again about the reason for this meeting. Despite getting to know each other, there had been nothing pointed to the conversation. If there was something specific, he decided to let the colonel bring it up.

After a few more quiet moments—the distant fire fight stopped—and nothing forthcoming from the colonel, Canavan decided to ask a question. “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.”

“Didn’t think you’d hear that did you, especially from a senior officer?” The colonel’s lip curled.

Canavan shook his head. “No, I didn’t.” 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 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—for thirty years.

“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 don’t win wars and they haven’t helped me once.”

He leaned back. “But you asked a question. Let me give you a little history of our situation here, the Starchy Glenn version.

“You know how this all started. The North Koreans attacked South Korea on June 25th. That was last summer. With it only being five years since the end of World War II, we weren’t ready, and the country was more concerned about the Russians and Europe than this backwater area. I’d bet that ninety percent of Americans had never heard of Korea.

“In any event, when we decided to respond to the invasion the only troops the US of A had available on short notice were poorly trained occupation troops from Japan. Predictably, the Commies rolled right over them. The Marines were ready, that’s our mission, but we were spread all over the world.

“We finally got here in August and the Army troops got beefed up enough that together we stopped them at Pusan. I know you remember that, you were with the Fifth Marines when they fought there. They called you people “The Fire Brigade.” You put the fire out. But you were also surrounded, 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. 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 then was what comes next? 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 colonel’s take on it.

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

“Politicians." The curl of the colonel's lip again betrayed his feelings.

“What the hell is a limited war?” His eyes flashed. “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? Do we take time-outs when someone is hurt?

“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, his children, or his sweetheart. We owe that to his mother and father and brothers and sisters.” Starchy stopped speaking. He looked off into the distance a moment, his eyes glassy with emotion and seeing something other than the flapping tent walls.

He turned back to the priest. “Padre, when you fight a war, you fight to win. No ifs ands or buts. It’s really a black and white thing. If you don’t want to do that, then get the hell out. Don’t do the war. There’s no middle ground.”

His face softened a little. Then he continued. “MacArthur and his cronies finally ‘weaseled’ us into what we have now.”

He sat back down and looked directly at Canavan. “In early November, we were pushing the North Koreans back into the dark ages. The Chinese, The Red Chinese, those bastards, they jumped in with some warnings, some small attacks here and there, but the higher ups didn’t read them right. Then surprise, surprise, their armies hit us hard a couple of times. The Chinese had thousands of troops in North Korea and we didn’t know it. The high muckety-mucks in Tokyo stuck their heads in the sand.”

The colonel put his pipe down. It had gone out as he was speaking. “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 the Red Chinese existence and pushed forward, keeping their head in a sack. Even though we had a large number of Chinese prisoners, those idiots in Tokyo told us they were nothing but the remnants of the defeated North Korean Army. The South Koreans who were with us told us they were Chinese. Do you think maybe the Koreans can tell the difference between North Koreans and Chinese?

“At the end of November, the Chi-coms attacked again 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. “And perhaps the worst thing of all, as far as the Marines is concerned, we kept going north oblivious to what was happening in the west. We should not have even been in Yudam-ni. We didn’t have to fight that battle. Our mission was to link up with the Eighth Army after we passed through Yudam-ni, but they were stopped by the Chinese long before we were supposed to move north. We didn’t know that. Nobody changed our orders. We should have gone no farther 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.”

The colonel was silent for awhile. The war continued in the distance. The intense cold continued to bite. The walls still flapped.

“To answer your original question, Father . . . .” He smiled. “It took me awhile to get to it, but 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 our one division with ten divisions. But with it all we are winning. We have unit integrity again and we’re Marines. And 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 flapping and the roaring stove and lantern, it was quiet in the tent again.

After a moment the colonel 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 . . . before the last war. Where in the world did the colonel get that book?

Glenn 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 book was a collection of stories about people the Chaplain had met during his time in the Navy. There were humorous characters, interesting profiles and inspirational people. Each vignette 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 the sketches actually look like what I’m trying to draw.”

Glenn smiled at the attempt at humor. “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. His expression changed. He seemed a little hesitant. “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."

“Colonel, anything you want . . . .”

“Frank . . . Father . . . Padre. Funny,” Glenn laughed. “somehow I’m finding it easier to call you Father now.” He seemed to be wondering at his own ambivalence. Holding up one of the black and white theme books, he stated. “I have been keeping a journal of sorts for many years in these books. You can see some of them are old.”

Canavan saw 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. And . . . there are some letters to my wife, there, too, in some of the little pockets on the covers. I think they give snapshots on my thoughts at any given time. Sometimes the writings are just observations. Sometimes I’m like a reporter. It’s just a hodgepodge, really, and I don’t write well, but I think there is a legacy here. They all show what my mind-set was at certain times. It also shows what others did during those times. These are very raw.”

The colonel looked down and patted the pile. “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, like in World War One, or the “banana wars” in the Caribbean, 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, now suspecting what the actual request was going to be.

Colonel Glenn leaned forward.

“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, I’ve been thinking more and more about this. It is an axiom. The more a soldier goes into combat, even as a senior officer, the more chance there is that he might not make it back. I don’t know if I will come home carrying my shield or be carried on it.”

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.” He brightened. "I’d like someone to read them, edit them and to rewrite them in proper English” He stared at the Priest with an open, puppy dog look. “I can’t pay you or anything . . . I will give credit when published . . . .”

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

“Father, I read your book. I know about your career. I’ve met you . . . I’m impressed with you. This discussion has confirmed my opinion. I . . . You will do this right. 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 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 a low priority for you.”

Colonel Glenn gathered up his books—they made a large 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 the most battered and gave them to the Priest. He put the rest back in his desk. “These are the first ones, going back to China and World War ll.”

Canavan 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 . . . uh, tent flap 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 he knew who the Priest looked like. 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, pumping and stoking the air valve vigorously. He thought of the colonel’s pipe. Finally the mantles began to glow. He then tried to coax a little more heat out of his tiny oil heater the same way, but at least for the moment, he wasn’t too successful. He continued to wear his parka. 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. Finding his spectacles, he balanced them on his nose. The metal was cold, even coming from near his body.

The book’s black marbled surface was worn almost white in a few places. Someone had taped the back cover to the front. The pages were water stained and yellowed. The word “Shanghai” was scribbled in the faded white title box on the front cover.

He closed his eyes and reflected a moment. With all that was going on, he wondered about 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 they were out of this mess, when things quieted down?

Then he supposed it was because he was in his unit now and the colonel 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.