Rory O'Donnell and the Kennedys

By James Francis Smith

This is not just another book about the Kennedys. Although, it covers in great detail their era. History is not pretty in fact it’s downright ugly, and we should not gussie it up to make it appear otherwise.
A new generation of O’Donnells picked up where The Life and Times of Liam O’Donnell left off, in the year-by-year historical novel, Rory O’Donnell and the Kennedys, removes the emperor’s clothes, revealing the ugly political secrets of the ’50s and ’60s. Following WWII, an unprepared America assumed the mantle of leadership for the Free World, survived the Cold War, the Cuban Crisis, fought two inconclusive wars (Korea and Vietnam), assassinated among others, their President, a Senator and the Leader of the Civil Rights movement.
Every major issue, confronting our country and the world today, can be traced to those two-decades. The social upheaval that haunts our cities from the formation of gangs, the thriving drug culture, to the pedophile culture staining the Catholic Church originated in the period immediately following WWII.
The fictional committee of 13, may not have not existed in reality, but its dogma resided in the minds of man.
Through the adroit combination of historical and fictional characters, the author takes the reader behind the scenes, beginning with the euphoria following WWII, traces the societal changes, the Korean War, the assassinations of JFK, MLK, and RFK to the despair in the jungles of Vietnam.
The Vietnam letters owe much of their authenticity to my good friend Doug Kiel who was one of the first grunts from the States to land there.

• Language: English
• Publisher: James Francis Smith
• Release date: Jun 6, 2012
• ISBN: 9781452450544

James Francis Smith

Philadelphia native James Francis Smith a graduate of LaSalle University with an MBA from Pacific Lutheran University, after a successful career in industry and finance, returned to his first love—historical novels. Or as he prefers, history chronicled in a novel style. In documenting the Irish-American story, he dedicated his remaining years to recording the achievements and contributions of Irish-Americans and Irish-born to their adopted land. Smith’s novels chronicle the lives, loves, and wars of people and events that have often been overlooked by history: Druids, Celts, and Romans – Europe circa 400 BCE The Civil War’s Valiant Irish – US 1859-1865 (currently being professionally edited) The Last of the Fenians – Ireland 1910-1923 The Life and Times of Liam O’Donnell – US 1918-1945 Rory O’Donnell and the Kennedys – US 1946-1968 Unholy Conspiracies – US circa 1990-2005 Western Civilization – A collection of short stories from ancient history to the current era

Book preview

Rory O’Donnell and the Kennedys

1946-1968

The Forgotten Years

James Francis Smith

Copyright 2012 James Francis Smith

Smashwords Edition, License Notes.

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be resold or given to other people. if you would like to share this book with another person please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

In this historical novel, names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to any actual persons living or dead, events, or locales is from the public domain or entirely coincidental.

Table of Contents

Chapter_1 Midnight 1945

Chapter_2 1946

Chapter_3 1947

Chapter_4 1948

Chapter_5 1949

Chapter_6 1950

Chapter_7 1951

Chapter_8 1952

Chapter_9 1953

Chapter_10 1954

Chapter_11 1955

Chapter_12 1956

Chapter_13 1957

Chapter_14 1958

Chapter_15 1959

Chapter_16 1960

Chapter_17 1961

Chapter_18 1962

Chapter_19 1963

Chapter_20 1964

Chapter_21 1965

Chapter_22 1966

Chapter_23 1967

Chapter_24 1968

Chapter_25 2009

The Cover

The cover depicts the vast technological changes that occurred during 1946-1968. The forgotten years began with reporters banging away on typewriters and copying with carbon paper before computers, originally known as tabulators, came into prominence. For those who study covers, yes, this is a laptop when for the period it should be four or more room-sized computers each with a capacity of 64k. But you get the picture.

Author’s Comments:

This is not just another book about the Kennedys. Although, it covers in great detail their era. History is not pretty in fact it’s downright ugly, and we should not gussie it up to make it appear otherwise.

A new generation of O’Donnells picked up where The Life and Times of Liam O’Donnell left off, in the year-by-year historical novel, Rory O’Donnell and the Kennedys, removes the emperor’s clothes, revealing the ugly political secrets of the ’50s and ’60s. Following WWII, an unprepared America assumed the mantle of leadership for the Free World, survived the Cold War, the Cuban Crisis, fought two inconclusive wars (Korea and Vietnam), assassinated among others, their President, a Senator and the Leader of the Civil Rights movement.

Every major issue, confronting our country and the world today, can be traced to those two-decades. The social upheaval that haunts our cities from the formation of gangs, the thriving drug culture, to the pedophile culture staining the Catholic Church originated in the period immediately following WWII.

The fictional committee of 13, may not have not existed in reality, but its dogma resided in the minds of man.

Through the adroit combination of historical and fictional characters, the author takes the reader behind the scenes, beginning with the euphoria following WWII, traces the societal changes, the Korean War, the assassinations of JFK, MLK, and RFK to the despair in the jungles of Vietnam.

The Vietnam letters owe much of their authenticity to my good friend Doug Kiel who was one of the first grunts from the States to land there.

Major Fictional Characters:

Rory O’Donnell – a hard-of-hearing newspaper reporter

Jeannie McAllister O’Donnell – Rory’s wife

Baby John (BJ) O’Donnell – Jeannie’s sexually abused son, and a wounded Vietnam veteran

Crazy Tom McAllister – Jeannie’s brother, a hardened criminal

Sean O’Donnell – a biracial newspaper correspondent and Rory’s cousin

Tracey Adkins (One-one) – a member of The 13, a right-wing conspiratorial group dedicated to keeping ‘The United States, strong, white, and Protestant’ by influencing government policies and assassinating opposing political figures

Other Fictional Characters:

Suds Malloy – Editor at the Philadelphia Bulletin, and Rory’s mentor

Aaron Rosenberg – a U.S. citizen who volunteered for Israeli’s Haganah

Mad Paxton – a female British newspaper correspondent

Rev. Dicelli – a pedophile priest

Chapter One

Midnight, December 31, 1945

Door after door sprung open then slammed shut, many reopening and shutting in quick overlapping succession, as adults stormed onto narrow Sulis Street, followed by throngs of manic youngsters pounding on pots and pans.

God! What a racket.

Rory O’Donnell, pulling out his hearing aid to protect his sanity, understood why they made the noise, but wished they weren’t so exuberant. Everyone’s lips moved in unison,

Five, four, three, two, one, before shouting HAPPY NEW YEAR!

Jeannie McAllister turned and put her hands on Rory’s cheeks, gently pulling his face toward her. His stomach lurched with trepid anticipation. Then she kissed him on the lips, parting his with her tongue.

Not knowing how to respond, he just hugged her. They stayed joined together for a few moments. The first time Rory felt truly happy since learning of his brother Liam’s untimely death.

Jeannie plugged his hearing aid back in, then laughing madly, grabbed his hand, jerking him forward. They hooked up with a line of snake-dancing celebrants stomping, prancing, hooting, and hollering around the block. The line grew as more joined in. Soon, it began to break up as the older folks became winded and dropped off to sample more Guinness. With Rory in tow, Jeannie kept running ahead to link up with those still celebrating. After about ten minutes, they stopped to catch their own breaths.

Panting, she smiled with resigned melancholy in her eyes. Grinning back, he reached out and lightly brushed her chin. What’s up?

Rory … you know … oh, never mind.

No, tell me. I’m listening. Smile gone, he flashed his most serious you-can-trust-me look.

This is the last time I can act like a kid.

No, it isn’t.

Yes, it is. This time next year, I’m gonna be a mommy.

He put his arm around her, and they returned to their spot underneath Rosenberg’s awning. It was well into the New Year before a frightened young girl and an exhilarated young man rose from the cold concrete, heading toward their futures.

Corporal Tom McAllister glared, stood ready to pounce. His sergeant, after grabbing his mail, called his sister a prostitute.

She’s not; she got raped by a couple o’ squids. That’s how she got pregnant.

His superior’s she-prob’ly-brought-it-on-herself sneer ripped through the thin hold restraining McAllister’s untamed temper. Reaching back, he grabbed Betsy, his M-1, flipped the butt, and jammed the heavy stock into the NCO’s belly.

Here’s the deal, kid. Even though it’s New Year’s Eve, you pay for your own eats, ride up front, and get to sleep in the back. Nottin’ to do wid you, I just don’t like strangers around when I sack out.

It’s a deal.

What’s your name?

Sean O’Donnell.

Shawn, that’s a funny name for a black kid.

My grandpa hung it on me. He’s Irish.

Now that you mention it, you do got some white. Get in. I’m runnin’ late.

Tuesday, January 1, 1946

He knew that everything about him was false—even his smile. Although he attained the rank of colonel, others fought while he studied: poly-sci, history, civics … civics: what in the hell could he do with that? Moderately tipping the cabbie so as not to bring any undue attention, he walked as instructed the final six-blocks, arriving after midnight. Two others had entered the nondescript building just ahead of him. They fit the same mold: young, white, tall, reasonably handsome, Southern in manners and talk, with the rank of colonel, wearing campaign ribbons they likely hadn’t earned. Before going inside, he held the door for another colonel, nodding but not speaking. Today, he’d meet those who had seen to his education and grooming.

Although attired as a civilian, the person who greeted and assigned them their seats had the carriage of a superior officer—a general. "Gentlemen, my name is Zero-one; you will address me in that manner. The Zeros, numbering 13, consist of generals, oil magnates, clergy, university professors, and politicians. Think of us in the philosophical notion of nothingness; for all intents and purposes, we do not exist; therefore, no need to use our baptismal names.

Before continuing, Zero-one looked directly at each colonel.

I’ll address you as One-one, One-two, One-three, and One-four in the order in which you are seated, for you will be the first to accomplish our mission. Rise and repeat after me. ‘I’m on this earth to keep the United States strong, white, and Protestant.’

On their feet, each One shouted to demonstrate his loyalty.

I’m on this earth to keep the United States strong, white, and Protestant.

No sooner had they retaken their seats, than Zero-one continued, You will assume high level government positions: One-one in State, One-two in Defense, One-three in Justice, and One-four in Treasury.

Zero-one picked up four three-ring binders and distributed them in the order of the seating.

You are all graduates of outstanding Southern schools, Duke, V.M.I., Virginia Law, save one, Penn’s Wharton School. The last was chosen because no Southern financial curriculum equals those in the North. You will never strive for positions higher than that which you have been assigned. Like our English cousins, our government is run by those at your levels, not the political appointees chosen for reasons other than ability. While Catholics and Jews will salt the post-war government with their adherents, we will zero-in with a sniper’s precision to positions of influence. We must preserve America’s dominance in world affairs to insure it remains Protestant and Caucasian.

Zero-one looked for expressions of doubt, making certain that all understood his remarks.

This being a lifetime commitment, each of you will have to marry. Photographs and descriptions of your future brides are in the rear of your red binders. Open them, and we shall begin.

Without hesitation, the Ones swiftly turned to study the photographs of bikini-clad females, and glance at the information provided. Indications of approval were evident.

Zero-one continued as though he had not noticed their drifting attention.

The selections, all graduates of Southern finishing schools, have been educated and trained to fill your political needs; furthermore, they have been coached to satisfy your sexual desires. When you get your eyes back in your heads, let me direct you to our strategy, which, in order to implement, necessitates taking over a major political party.

Silence dominated as each colonel contemplated the enormity of such a task. One-four sucked in his breath before asking, Which party?

The Republican Party; why would you need to ask? Rockefeller’s liberal followers and the quasi-conservative Taft admirers have bickered long enough. It’s time for someone to put steel into the party’s backbone. That someone is us. It will take decades, maybe even half-a-century, but that’s our goal.

The leader picked up a second set of binders and passed them out.

Open the black binders and….

Content with his role, One-one took another peek at his future wife. Then he followed the other Ones to meet the rest of the Zeros.

Chapter_Two

1946

Enjoying one of those rare days that interrupt winter, while sitting on the stoop shared with the McAllisters, Rory O’Donnell tuned his hearing aid to capture the children’s excitement—sounds of tag, stickball, and hopscotch. Sounds missed in his youth.

No longer willing to put up with the annoying buzzing, he snatched up the Inquirer, Philly’s morning paper, to swat a bug, when out of the corner of his eye, he saw Aaron, the grocer’s son, coming up the street.

How’s it going?

Hi, Rory.

So what’s with the Sunday best?

Oh, the suit?

No, your dorky haircut. Rory grinned, knowing how sensitive Aaron was about his already-thinning hair. What’s up, you going to church?

Aaron laughed.

Aren’t you the funny one? He paused, something obviously on his mind. No. Not going to synagogue today.

Don’t tell me you’re going to rag on me about not accepting your uncle’s job offer?

Nah, nothing like that. Uncle Sol’s got his Irishman. The firm’s now Rosenberg and Quinn.

Really? Joe Quinn, my brother’s lawyer? Well, he’s not exclusively Paddy’s. Quinn represents the government union. Paddy’s the local’s president.

That’s the guy. But that’s not why I’m here. I’ve come to say goodbye. To say thanks for being my friend.

Goodbye? Where’re you going?

Israel.

Israel? Don’t you mean Palestine?

Aaron nodded. We Jews are going to reclaim our homeland; I intend to be part of it. For a moment he seemed taller, his back straighter. "I’m joining the Haganah."

That means fighting…, Rory said to himself more than to Aaron. Then, he gave him a quizzical look. But you’re 4F … a heart murmur or something.

Like they care. Probably think I’m gonna die, anyhow.

He chuckled to lighten the mood. Guess I’ll miss your wedding—sorry.

That’s a long ways off and by no means a sure thing … may never happen, knowing Ma and Jeannie’s dad.

Yeah, I forgot. He can’t stand your ma.

And she won’t be too crazy about having a McAllister as an in-law. It’s worse than that; they hate each other’s guts, and would take their loathing out on Jeannie and me. That’s why we haven’t even let on we like each other.

Hate to tell you, but that’s no secret. I’ve seen the two of you night after night, smooching under our awning. So I know the score—and so does everybody else.

Aaron paused and gave a knowing smile. "But don’t worry about the rest of the world. I say good luck to both of you, and Rory, thanks for being there for me."

Rory nodded.

I gotta get going.

Rory rose, hugged him, surprising his friend, surprising even himself, and causing Aaron to slightly jerk at the impulsive move.

Nervous laughter.

Sorry, Rory … guess I’m a little scared.

You should be. My battle-hardened brothers told me that fear’s what kept them alert and alive.

He separated and took Aaron by the shoulders. Just promise you won’t go and get yourself killed.

I promise.

You know my address, so you better write.

I will. Scout’s honor.

"And don’t forget to let me know if you do anything heroic; I’ll make certain it gets in the Bulletin."

Rory waved, maybe for the last time. Watching Aaron’s frail-frame deftly avoiding the neighborhood kids dashing and stickballing back and forth in the street, Rory couldn’t help feeling a bit of envy … an emotion he’d keep in check. His friend was going off to danger. Rory’s prayers would follow. That’s when he saw Aaron hesitate to chat with the little redheads and blondes skipping rope. Probably the ones he gave a piece of penny-candy to when his father wasn’t looking.

Rory rose and walked down the street to hear what the girls were singing as they jumped double-Dutch.

Gather up your horses

and join the Jewish forces

to fight, fight, fight

for Palestine….

Heading down the Elevated train’s steps toward the waiting J bus, Cockeyed Collins asked, What did your family say after you showed them the hearing aid?

Ma and Maggie kept turning their backs and asking me to repeat what they said, as if they didn’t believe the gadget worked. It was funny at first … but it grew tiresome.

You look so happy, you’re almost giddy. What happened?

Promise not to laugh.

Promise.

I kissed Jeannie.

You dog you.

Or rather, she kissed me,

When?

New Year’s Eve.

That’s over a week ago. Cockeyed stopped walking, stood still, and stared with his one good eye. The other looking every which way. A WEEK ago. And you’re only telling me now!

It was so unexpected. I didn’t know what to do. She put her tongue in and everything.

Cockeyed’s face lit up with a knowing grin, which disappeared when Rory answered his question, Did you feel her up?

No. The insulted Rory could’ve swatted him on the side of the head. Come on, we’ll be late.

They resumed walking.

A few moments later. So what happened next, Romeo? Out with it?

Knowing Cockeyed wouldn’t give up until he heard it all, Rory said, Okay, fine; I considered it, but was afraid to … didn’t wanna scare her off.

Cockeyed punched Rory’s shoulder. "You’re weird. A girl kisses you, tongue’s you, and you don’t WANNA scare her off? Buddy, there’s no way you coulda scared her off. Next time, go for it."

Yeah. Next time … maybe. He waved a flat palm, letting Cockeyed know that part of the conversation was over. But he wasn’t put off that easy.

Her brother know yet?

About what?

You know her, uh … condition?

He should. Jeannie wrote. Didn’t want it to come as a surprise. But she hasn’t heard back. I didn’t expect him to answer. God only knows what he’ll do when he gets home. We don’t call him Crazy Tom for nothing.

Finally, the bus.

They took their usual seats in the rear, the same section they occupied every day on the way to and from La Salle.

I want to find out the score of St. Brendan’s game. Ask the guy next to you for the sports section?

Do you still follow that game? Cockeyed shouted, as though he too didn’t believe Rory’s hearing aid worked.

Hellooo, I can hear you. You don’t have to shout. He tapped his hearing aid. Yeah, I can’t help myself. Every year at this time, I get déjà vu, remembering high school, and how Liam reacted every time the team lost. He laughed.

He usually bet on the game.

"I don’t have time to worry about football games. I’ve an accounting test coming up. My professor thinks we should know about something called a Statement of Affairs. It’s used to report on insolvent companies. God! Accounting’s boor-ring. My assignment, which consumed the better part of my Christmas break, was from a textbook written by a guy named Finney—who my professor loves. Finney has a C.P.A. and a Ph.B. Do you know what a Ph.B stands for?"

Pretty hot and bothered?

Laughing so hard, Cockeyed could hardly get his comeback out. Good one. But get your mind outta the gutter … and off Jeannie.

Rory pretended to bop him before answering, No. Not a clue. I have problems of my own. My English composition professor made us write about a bunch of foreign countries. Russ DiBella, an Italian, got to write about Ireland; I ended up with Korea.

What’s that, some kind of Mexican food?

Very funny. Do you know why they don’t send donkeys to school?

Why?

Cause nobody can stand a smart ass.

More laughter, some from nearby passengers. "Anyway, I didn’t even know where Korea was. I had never heard of it. Fortunately, an editor at the Bulletin had actually been there. Tell you about him later. In the meantime, he gave me a great idea. He said, ‘Since you wanna be a reporter, consider writing your paper as if it were a news article.’"

Rory O’Donnell byline, La Salle Collegian, January 1946

My assignment? Describe Korea, a country as foreign to U.S. History as any on earth. I began as a roving reporter, asking my fellow classmates, Where is Korea? That provided 18 answers of, I never heard of it, and three, It’s part of the Hawaiian Islands … Isn’t it?

The library’s ancient, bruised, and battered encyclopedia proved more useful.

I came across a tidbit in the Evening Bulletin describing the reduction of 30,000 American troops, leaving behind only a single regimental combat unit.

Why isn’t Korea free? After all, we defeated the Japanese, who had occupied the land for centuries.

In the dusty realm of the Evening Bulletin’s morgue, I uncovered a startling fact. ‘Our military leaders did not believe the A-bomb would work. Therefore, they prevailed upon the Truman Administration to entice Russia to stand against Japan. They were successful. The Soviets declared war on Japan—two days after the detonation at Hiroshima.

We compounded our errors by selecting Christian Syngman Rhee, a Korean émigré. An avid anti-communist, Rhee has advocated an invasion of the North to swiftly unite Korea. North Korea’s Kim II-Sung, a guerilla leader and former major in the Soviet Army, has expressed a similar desire regarding the South.

Is the single regimental combat unit in Korea meant to prevent infiltration by the communists, or to prevent Rhee from invading the North and starting World War III?

On the bus ride home, Cockeyed asked how Rory’s professor liked his paper.

He practically called me a traitor for criticizing our government’s effort to combat communism. In my defense, I informed him that five of my brothers had served, and that Liam gave his life for our country. Then I offered to go outside and duke it out.

What happened?

I have to meet with Brother Paul in the morning. Don’t tell Ma … and say a prayer I don’t get expelled.

Rory would never mention his indiscretion to his ma, because he had learned to never discuss bad news unless he absolutely had to. During his walk up Sulis Street, he mentally replayed what happened during his meeting with Brother Paul, which he covered in a long overdue letter to his da’s WWI-friend Alex Wellbourne, now a British Lord. A letter he allowed Cockeyed to read before he posted it. Not that it stopped Cockeyed from asking questions, Rory guessed accountants have to live vicariously to supplement their otherwise lethargic lives.

Dear Lord Wellbourne,

Philadelphia, January 1946

You must be disgusted with me for not thanking you sooner for the hearing aid you so kindly sent. I wish I could claim it was because of remorseful time I had recovering from the loss of Liam. In good conscience, I cannot blame it on my younger brother’s tragic death. The truth? I was afraid it wouldn’t work, or worse, people would think less of me because I needed one.

Things’re as normal as can be with all the soldiers home after being gone for years. I miss Liam, really miss him. It’s like a part of me is gone. Whenever the front door opens, I look up expecting to see him. When the mail arrives, I sort through the envelopes looking for his scrawl.

Enough about the gloom.

I’m following in your journalistic footsteps. Several days ago, I turned in a paper for school, composed to look like a news article. My lay professor didn’t like my conclusion, and we ended up getting into a heated argument.

The next morning, I reported to the principal, who enjoyed the article, deciding it merited space in the school paper. I didn’t get away scot-free. As punishment, Brother Paul assigned me to report on the sports teams, all because Tom Kelley, the current sports editor, had been drafted. Somehow, I have to squeeze this extra chore into the little time available between schoolwork and my night job at the Bulletin.

Suds Malloy, my copy editor and my mentor, is my inspiration for writing the article. He earned his nickname by always insisting on a foamy head on his beer, and Suds likes his beer. He spends a good deal of time on the telephone talking to famous people—at least that’s what he claims.

Once again, please accept my heartfelt thanks for the hearing aid. And, please, continue to be my friend.

Rory O’Donnell

For Jeannie, life was anything but boring. Her brother, nicknamed Crazy Tom by the neighborhood kids, was home from Europe after being discharged (some claim after being released from the brig.) He and their father nearly came to blows after Mr. McAllister found out he had a pregnant daughter and attempted to whip her. On the bright side, Tommie slept outside her door at night to prevent her da from getting near her. For the first time in her life, she had a protector.

Now that her big brother was home, she wanted to show him off. Tommy, if you had worn your uniform, McHugh would’ve let you drink for free.

I ain’t in the Army, anymore.

You could still wear your uniform, lot’s a guys do.

After sipping his brew while he gathered his thoughts, Tom came clean with his sister. My discharge wasn’t honorable. I beat up my sergeant, got tossed into the stockade. Deciding it would be cheaper to get rid of me than to feed me for the next twenty years, they kicked me out. Gesturing toward the door, he tried changing the subject. Ain’t you afraid dad’ll walk in? Catch you in a bar?

He can’t, got kicked out a year ago. McHugh said he got drunk too often, and caused too much trouble.

Bout time. Tom waved his glass toward the youngest McHugh working the bar. Jeannie shook her head. Like father, like son.

Not letting the insult go unanswered, he pushed one of her sensitive buttons. You still pining over that O’Donnell kid?

His name’s Rory, and he ain’t no kid. He’s in college.

He’s damaged goods. Won’t get anywhere with that gismo sticking out o’ his ear.

It’s called a hearing aid. And he can hear as good as anybody. In fact, he hears better because he can also read lips. Turning to the offensive, she took her older brother on. What about you, Mister Big Shot? What are you gonna do for a living? With a record, you can’t get a job.

I learned a lot in the Army, I’ll get by.

"Yeah, by robbing five and ten cent stores like you did before the war. But now if you get thrown in the can, you won’t be getting out so easy.

That’s my business. Tell me about the guys who raped you?

No. You’ll just go after them and get in trouble. The damage is done. Besides Paddy, Rory’s brother, is getting me a lawyer.

How did it happen?

I don’t wanna talk about it.

I got kicked out of the Army on account of you. Tell me.

I met them in Frankford, at the Y.W.C.A. They took me outside into the alley for a beer. Told ’em I was a virgin.

Were you?

Don’t matter … didn’t matter to them, either. A drunk watched them do it. He sucked on a bottle and watched.

As One-one approached the State Department, housed in what he considered to be the ugliest government building in DC, he practiced saying aloud his assigned name over and over. Tracey Adkins … Tracey Adkins … Tracey Adkins.

Passersby gave him the oddest looks as he crossed the National Mall, but he ignored them, hoping he wouldn’t be so unlucky as to work near any of them. It’d be a lot easier if I could just use my code name. But then I’d have to explain how I got it.

When introduced to his new boss, his need to reply to stern-looking Dean Gooderham Acheson’s first question totally unnerved him. What did you do to earn the rank of colonel at such a young age?

Tracey’s answer. I could tell you, Sir, but then I’d have to kill you, brought gales of laughter from Acheson and the two secretaries present. Tales of his boldness preceded his finding a desk in the overcrowded halls of State. Smiles by the ladies and grins from the men assured him he had been accepted.

One Monday morning, Cockeyed startled Rory with a story spreading about Crazy Tom. It seems that Tom and several of his wartime buddies decided to extract their own revenge on Jeannie’s rapists. Last Friday night, a group of his Port Richmond gang waited outside a South Philly bar for one of the guilty sailors and ended up nearly beating him to death. Because the police in that precinct have their descriptions, the gang can’t return to get the other one. I guess Tom’s fortunate that Philly’s police don’t exchange information.

Does Jeannie know about it? Rory asked.

I don’t know. You’ll have to ask her.

When he found an opportunity to ask about the beating, Jeannie claimed she tried to stop him, but Rory had the feeling she was secretly glad her older brother stuck up for her. Before long, Crazy Tom became a hero among the young toughs who gathered in the local bars, all of whom swore they’d take on the cops if they tried to arrest their champion.

The more Rory thought of the attack, the more intrigued he became. Before long, he suspected Jeannie had been more involved than she had previously let on. One day, he asked, How did they know which sailor to beat up?

Tom made me accompany them, she finally admitted. They waited outside the Navy Yard’s gates until I pointed the guy out. Tom and three friends followed … and don’t ask, because I promised never to reveal who they were. Then I took a bus to the subway and came home.

Your brother was a juvenile delinquent before he got drafted. Now he’s a hoodlum. Do you know what his gang call themselves?

No.

But he suspected she did. They call themselves the Crazy Toms and their motto is, ‘We’re tomcats who prowl at night.’ I’d stay away from Tom and his friends. They’re headed for trouble—hard time trouble and worse. Established gangsters aren’t going to allow some small-time punks to take over the rackets and numbers, which I hear Crazy Tom and his boys’re trying to do?

That’s nonsense. Tom has more brains than that?

Is that so? Why do you think he doesn’t sleep at home, anymore? She didn’t answer. Rory guessed he had pressed too hard because she darted home without uttering another word.

Soon after, Katie came home from the convent for a visit. She didn’t actually come home, she stopped at Mrs. Furey’s house, and the O’Donnells all went there because her order still wouldn’t let her visit her own mother. Rory guessed they were afraid she’d decide to leave once she saw home again. The conversation was pleasant until Ma told her about Jeannie being pregnant.

She’s what? Katie exclaimed. I always knew that girl would get herself in trouble. She’s nothing but a doxy. Didn’t I warn you and Liam to stay clear of her? she asked, using sign language as if Rory didn’t have a hearing aid.

He signed back that Jeanie had been raped, and wondered what the convent was instilling into his sister. She was no longer the tomboy who had ruled the roost when she lived at home. Instead she was now on some holier-than-thou kick—had been ever since she found out Liam was dating a minister’s daughter.

Katie started fingering her rosary beads when she heard that Jeannie had been ravished. Ma jumped in, signing that she agreed with Katie (whom she called Sister Bridget) that it was probably Jeannie’s fault. Knowing he wouldn’t be able to convince either one to change their mind, Rory mumbled something about having to study and left without saying goodbye. Lord knows what they discussed after he left.

When Ma got home, she barely talked to him as if it were his fault for storming out instead of his sister’s—a nun with little compassion.

Deciding it best not to pursue the topic with either Ma or Katie, he went about his business. His first column in the Collegian covered Joe Verdeur, an incoming freshman who already held three world records in the breaststroke. Because La Salle didn’t have a swimming pool, he interviewed Joe at the Germantown Y.M.C.A.

Tommy, get Ma!

She ain’t here. Keep your voice down.

Where is she?

Mother Superior sent for her. One of the little snots was acting up. Look at you, you’re all wet.

My water broke, you idiot. Get Mrs. O’Donnell.

Can’t. The Rosoliniis are looking for me. They’re waitin’ across the street.

Go out the back and climb the fence. You’ve done that often enough. Get goin’ or I’ll scream that you’re here.

Okay. Hold your water.

Crazy Tom pounded on the back door of the O’Donnell’s until Mary Bridget stuck her head out the upstairs window. What do you want?

Jeanie’s water broke or something. She wants you. I gotta go.

After phoning for Mrs. O’Leary, and loading herself down with clean towels and sheets, Mary Bridget O’Donnell went out her front door, crossed over the stoop, and into the McAllister’s, but not before scowling at the two Italian hoodlums leaning against the side of Ganther’s house. If you’re looking for Crazy Tom, he’s long gone. Move along, or I’ll call the Paddies. Whether from the news that Tom McAllister had fled or the threat of police, Mary Bridget was happy to see the louts darting down the alley. She no sooner finished changing the bed linens and making Jeannie comfortable, than the elderly midwife made her appearance.

This is the last one I’m delivering, Mrs. O’Leary announced, examining the frightened girl.

Mrs. McAllister arrived home to find her next-door neighbor brewing a pot of tea. Has your own stove broke?

Not a’tall. Your daughter’s in labor, and I’m helping Mrs. O’Leary.

Thank God you were here. I spend more time in Mother Superior’s office than my delinquent children. Those youngins’ll be the death of me yet. How’s Jeannie doin?

See for yourself. She’s in for a long night. She’s too skinny and hasn’t the hips for this sort of thing

I’d be ever so grateful if you’d stay.

Long past midnight, the squalling baby arrived. Mary Bridget turned pale at the resemblance to her own Liam the night he was born.

Spanking the newborn to encourage crying, Mrs. O’Leary said, Jeannie can thank the Lord, the baby’s a scrawny one. Or else, he’d have ripped her insides on the way out. The jaundice will go away in a few weeks. Has she enough milk to feed him?

Why would God let him be born if He wasn’t going to provide the mother’s milk to nourish him? Mary Bridget asked.

It happens. Well, my work is done. And I mean it this time. I’m finished with the birthing business. I’m just too old. With that comment, Mrs. O’Leary took her leave.

Mary Alice McAllister picked up her grandson, and Mary Bridget went home.

Although Rory was assigned to the loading dock at the Bulletin, he spent so much time with the reporters he began to feel accepted. The paper was going through its own transformation, from peeling war stories off the associated press wire service to printing about peacetime activities. During the war years, due to the lack of college and professional sports, enthusiasts turned to high school. This emphasis on youth-centered activities continued through 1946. One day, Rory decided to do a piece on Philly’s Reds Bagnell, a high school football hero now graduated, presenting the finished article to Suds as though it were print ready.

Rory O’Donnell byline, Evening Bulletin, November 1946

Where have they gone?

When college and professional teams were depleted by the wartime draft, high school sports reigned supreme. A year ago, I sat in Shibe Park’s upper deck, watching West Catholic and Roman duke it out for the right to take on Southern High. In the closing seconds, with the score tied, and after being held for three rushing downs inside the five yard line, West’s Reds Bagnell surprised his opponents with a jump pass to his tight end, waiting all alone in the end zone.

Charley Albertus took up the mantle for West Catholic and carried his team until the final 19 seconds, when Southern High’s Colletta faked a field goal before passing the game-winning touchdown.

Charley Albertus will be back to lead West Catholic. Johnny Papit, a bruising runner from Northeast High, will take up where Reds Colletta left off. I plan to be among the 50,000 spectators.

Rory had never believed all the talk about the Bulletin’s quirkier side until he saw his article in print. Suds submitted it under Rory’s byline, and he received his first check for $15. Now a publicized reporter, he immediately clipped out the section and mailed it to Alex Wellbourne and his Marine brother Palooka.

Now he could take his place at lunch as though he were one of the regulars. If the paper wasn’t already paying him, he’d pay to be a party to the discussions.

Suds, an old-time FDR Democrat in a newsroom heavily-laden with Republican sympathizers, loved baiting his fellow reporters. "I see where the Republican-controlled Congress has reduced the military budget by ninety-percent. What does that leave us with? One fully equipped division isn’t enough to defend Philly’s League Island.

Americans’re tired of war, one of the more conservative writers challenged. ‘Bring the boys home,’ is what our readers are clamoring. Don’t you read your own paper?

Our foreign policy should be scrapped, another stated. It’s time Americans took care of Americans and let the rest of the world go to the Devil.

You’ll be singing a different tune when Russia occupies all of Europe because we haven’t got an army capable of stopping them.

Rory waited a few moments before asking, Is it true Russia left over 150 T-34 tanks with the North Koreans? Before anyone could interrupt, he added, Won’t those tanks make it easy to overrun the South and the one combat regiment we left behind? No one answered.

Rory’s feeling of belonging helped lighten the mood at home where Ma couldn’t see why Paddy had to get involved with Jeannie’s predicament. Ma, the girl got raped by some sailors, and I hope to get them to pay toward the child’s support. You wouldn’t want her to have to raise it all on her own, would you?

It’s her own fault. She got herself pregnant. She’s too young to be hanging around with sailors.

Anyway, she’s Rory’s friend, Paddy said, nodding at his younger brother. I’m doing it for him as much as her.

You’ll rue the day you got involved with those McAllisters. The way he’s going, Crazy Tom’ll be in jail before long. And divil a bit o’ thanks you’ll get from any of them. Ma always reverted to her Irish brogue whenever she became agitated.

Not willing to debate any further, Paddy let her have the final word.

That weekend, he told Rory about meeting with the sailors. Because Jeannie’s a minor, Joe Quinn made Mrs. McAllister come along. One of the sailors was still sporting bruises from the beating he took from Crazy Tom’s gang. Initially, both were belligerent and denied any involvement in the rape. Jeannie started crying the instant she saw them, and never stopped until they left. Paddy hesitated to allow Rory to picture the scene.

"Quinn pointed to her and asked how they thought a jury’d react. That’s when I jumped in and warned that their careers were on the line if they didn’t agree to a settlement. The battered one said, ‘The Navy’d never listen to a civilian.’ I stood, pointed to my picture in uniform sporting all my medals. ‘I think the commanding officer of the Navy Yard would listen to a decorated Marine who’s also a national vice-president of the government union, don’t you?’

"The one with the bruises turned a sickly lime-green, looking as though he’d throw up. The other got nastier, and threatened to get even.

‘I wouldn’t think of it,’ Quinn said. ‘I’ll have you up for charges before the sun sets.’ That seemed to settle the disagreeable one down, and both began looking for a way out. In the end, each agreed to pay $10 a month toward the baby’s welfare and education. It’s not lot of money for a girl raising a child but it’ll help get her situated.

Rory thanked him, and felt Jeannie’s story was finally verified.

Although he knew this development wouldn’t change his ma’s opinion/

Jeannie decided to name the baby, John, after her brother, who died in the Philippines. She told Rory that Imbecile John had always been nice to her, and it was the least she could do.

The baby’s coming didn’t bring joy to the McAllister household. Jeannie’s da went on a tear, and didn’t sober up for a week. Only a threat from Crazy Tom kept the old man from laying a hand on the perpetually squalling infant.

Things also got a little heated when the parish priests refused to baptize Baby John. They insisted the child either have a father or be given up for adoption. Jeannie refused to marry either of the sailors and would never put her firstborn up for adoption. I’d have aborted him, if I knew this was how the priests’d react, she said, describing her defiance.

Supporting her decision, Rory promised to get in touch with an old friend, Father Joe Smith, who, after serving as an Army chaplain, had been assigned to a parish in the Northeast section of Philly. One Sunday afternoon, unbeknownst to Ma, Dinny drove Rory, Jeannie, and Maggie to Father Smith’s church, where the priest baptized the infant.

Dinny was the proud owner of the O’Donnell’s first car—a used Ford sedan. The car consumed as much oil as it did gas. The motorcycle cops were always pulling him over because of the black smoke belching from the exhaust pipe. They were stopped twice on the day of the Baptism, once going and again on the way home. Thankfully, the newborn crying in Maggie’s arms made even the most hardened cop relent and wave them on with only a warning to get the car fixed.

Even the news of Baby John (shortened to BJ) being baptized didn’t bring delight to his grandfather. Mr. McAllister refused to let Jeannie’s ma get up at night to attend the child. She brought that brat into the world. Let her take care of him, he’d proclaim for anyone to hear, but usually as a jibe aimed at Jeannie.

Nothing was ever going to change next door, and there was little that Rory could do but show support. Jeannie, never the healthiest looking mother, took on a perpetual gaunt-gray appearance, as though all the laughter and joy had fled from her life. Because