Until Time Erases You: A Tragedy of Love, Loss, and Courage in the Shadow of the Triangle Fire

By David W. Gordon

“Now, we wait and see how bad the city burns.”

A young Italian beauty, Catherine Tassone, is sent to America in 1904 after an eruption of Vesuvius devastates her village. A Jewish immigrant, Jacob Brosky, tries to make his way in the garment industry of New York. An Irish boy, Michael McMahon, grows up in his father’s shadow under the watchful eye of Tammany Hall leaders. Amidst the confluence of industrialism, immigration, and the Progressive Era, the three will discover love and loss in the shadow of the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory.

In turn of the century New York City, sparks ignite as their lives entwine under the pressure of greedy industrialists who put profits over people. Until Time Erases You traps readers high above the streets as an epic story of courage, longing, and loss burns around lovers frantically seeking to escape the inferno that could consume them.

David W. Gordon, a retired U.S. Marine, has taught American history and law for twenty-five years. He has an MA in American History from SNHU and an MA in Secondary Education from Mercy College. He was selected as a Senior Fellow by the James Madison Memorial Fellowship Foundation. His first novel, The Outhouse, is a Book Excellence and CIPA EVVY Award winner in historical fiction.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Dec 30, 2023
• ISBN: 9781304760449

Book preview

Copyright © 2023 by David W. Gordon

Cover art copyright © 2023 by Hannah Scarano

Cover image published with the permission of the Kheel Center, Cornell University, ILR School.

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or scholarly journal.

Although based on real events, this book is a work of fiction.  Some names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.  Where historical figures or places are used, every attempt to depict them realistically has been made although artistic license for the sake of storytelling has been employed.  Any errors are the author’s alone.  Otherwise, any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher or author is illegal and punishable by law.  Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.  Your cooperation and support is appreciated.

First Printing: 2023

ISBN 9781304760449

Claymore 1745 Press

New York

[e-mail]

Ordering Information:

Special discounts are available on quantity purchases by corporations, associations, educators, and others. For details, contact the publisher at the above listed email address.

U.S. trade bookstores and wholesalers: Please contact Claymore 1745 Press via email at [e-mail].

For Leon Stein –

Without him, many of the stories that this work is based on would have been lost to history.  To all historians, thank you for preserving and telling our stories.  We are forever in your debt.

Acknowledgements

When Neil Armstrong took his first step on the moon, he famously said, That’s one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind.  In doing so, he recognized that his achievement was part of something broader, greater than any single person.  Writing a book feels quite a lot like going to the moon.

Neil Armstrong seemingly understood that his name would be heaped with fame.  After all, it’s the astronaut that gets all the credit, but he couldn’t have gotten there without a massive team of people.  Armstrong always demurred in public interviews about his achievement, instead, pointing to the thousands of people that made it possible.  The Apollo mission that went to the moon had some four-hundred-thousand people working on the project.  Success was a team effort.

Writers are often portrayed as solitary figures, huddled in the corner of a cabin in the woods tapping away on an antique typewriter.  In reality, we collaborate, seek advice and feedback, silently terrified of how one may feel about the work.  I was lucky enough to have a wonderful group of people who helped me along the way.

First and foremost, thanks go to my wife, Lulee, for supporting me, as well as being my first reader and editor.  Eternal gratitude goes to my friends and colleagues; Tom McMahon, Kerry Tarantino, Diane Cascio, Morissa Townsend, Jenna Hughes and Nicole Burt for reading along as I wrote and tolerating the long droughts between segments.  A very special thank you goes to Ryan Leone, my script writing partner, for his dedication to the story and its characters. 

Finally, gracious thanks go to Leon Stein, David Von Drehle, Michael Hirsch, The Kheel Center, Albert Marrin, and the numerous other historians who have helped to keep the story of the Triangle Fire alive.  I could not have written this story without all of your work.  Simply put, no astronaut, nor writer, is ever really alone.

Prologue

November 28, 1910 - Four months before the disaster.

Smoke billowed into the air, obscuring the late morning sun.  Clouds of it drifted skyward, thick and black, but they could not hide the screams of those trapped below the growing haze.  A flurry of embers took flight, whipped into the air by the heat of flame, offering tiny glints of light in an ever darkening scene.  For Greg Smith, a nineteen-year-old waif of a man and the new departmental probie, it seemed as if the screams outnumbered the embers.  The horse drawn fire wagon tore across the gravel pathway towards the burning brick factory while Smith wondered how many needed saving.  He was a probational candidate and this was his first real response to a fire.  He noted the pleas for help became nearly as rhythmic and predictable as the clopping of the horse's feet carrying him towards the fire.  Smith, swallowing his own fear, began to question if he could bring himself to save them.

One minute! barked the chief.  Muscles tensed and firefighters shifted their stances, readying themselves to leap off the steam-powered hose wagon and dash towards danger.  Smith tried to mimic them as best he could.  The driver tugged at the reins.  The horses whinnied and turned hard to the right.  The large silver bell at the front of the wagon clanged loudly as if to announce their imminent arrival.  Smith watched as firefighters leapt from the wagon, landing hard on their feet.  They were two steps away before he could even bring himself to act.  Echoes of crackling flames were punctuated by terrified screams buried behind a dark veil of smoke.  Desperate factory workers pleaded for help.  Smith’s feet dropped to the gravel and started to move forward, and then he looked up and that is where he froze.

The smoke parted long enough to reveal a long four-story brick garment factory.  The few window panes were shattered, replaced by desperate girls clinging to ledges and sills. In several places, girls clustered together at the windows in hopes of rescue.  They hugged one another in a ghastly embrace.  Some, their skirts aflame, slapped at their clothing, desperate to survive.

Smith felt a hulking grip take him by the arm and nearly lift him off his feet.

Hold on!  Help is on the way! the chief barked as he half-carried and half-dragged Smith towards the fire.  Smith was a young man, slight of build and ill-prepared for what lay ahead of him. The chief was his polar opposite.  Big, thickly built, and seasoned by experience, the man was at once terrifying to behold as an enemy, and yet, the most comforting of allies.  Smith could only hope to grow to be half the man the chief was.  Only time would tell.  Smith’s own father had paid his way into the department as was common of the day.  Smith began to understand the chilly greeting he had received on his first day in uniform. 

Smith recalled the chief’s blunt assessment of him.  Wearing it don’t mean you earned it, boy, the man had asserted.

The facade of the building spewed jagged tips of flames that spread side by side, and several rows deep, like the terrifying maw of an approaching shark.  Women seemed to climb the bricks in a desperate attempt to escape the hungry predator nipping at their heels.

You two on the pumps!  You and you grab the life nets! The chief bellowed.  He still held tightly to Smith’s arm.  Smith almost appreciated the attention as long as it kept him from facing the flames.  He watched as the more experienced men unfurled the life nets, ten foot square rope nets designed to catch those who might jump.  Other men unrolled the hoses and began working the pump.

Where do you want me, sir? Smith had drawn up sufficient courage to speak, but he only managed to squeak out the question.

He watched intently as the chief stared at the upper floors of the factory, his eyes tracking a woman as she held tightly to the window frame only to relinquish her grasp and move out onto the ledge, flames chasing her further and further out onto the precarious perch.

Get your ax and follow me, Son, the chief ordered.

Smith ran to the wagon and returned quickly, ax in hand.  His palms were sweaty and he gripped it tightly, fearing it would slip from his hands at any moment.

We need to get in there, the chief admitted as he adjusted his equipment.  The look on his face showed a hint of regret.  It was a preemptive apology to the Probie for the baptism he was about to face.

Yes, sir, Smith mindlessly responded, his eyes fixated on the growing flames. 

The two men began moving towards the factory front.  The chief spoke, but Smith could not hear him over the wails of trapped girls and the growl of the fire as it satiated its hunger.  He did, however, hear an eerie thud.

Several firefighters seemed to hesitate just ahead of Smith.  They paused for a mere moment, almost imperceptible, before moving forward towards the danger.  Smith followed them until he realized the source of the horrible thud.  He stood statuesque, and stared open-mouthed.  A woman had jumped.  Her young body twisted atop the spikes of a metal picket fence.  Two spikes tore through her chest, one raising her shirtwaist like a tent, the other tipped with bits of her innards spewing out like a nest of snakes.  Her eyes remained open with the shock of her sudden death and Smith found he could not break his gaze.  He felt he was staring into the eyes of Medusa and had been turned to stone.  Motionless, he watched as sinister seeds of flame floated on the wind and came to take root on her.  They spread like virulent weeds, devouring everything in their path.  Slowly, inexorably, they fed on her still body, growing uncontrollably as they consumed her.

Two firefighters bumped past Smith as they proceeded with carrying the ladder, making their way to the burning building.  The shove awoke Smith from the Gorgon’s gaze.

We have to help her, Smith muttered in shock.

That one is beyond our help, kid, the chief lamented.

The chief placed his hand on Smith’s shoulder and tried to turn him away from the girl’s body as the flames metastasized.  The melting flesh curled and dripped from the corpse as it lingered in mid-air garnishing the skewering spikes.  Suddenly, Smith lurched forward, dropped to his knees, wretched and then vomited.  He wiped his face, soot and mud mixed with vomit, but he rose and straightened himself.

It’s okay. kid, the chief proffered.  It happens to all of us.  Just remember, they still need you.  He pointed towards the factory facade, covered with women who had only moments of life left before they too would join the ghastly corpse below them.

Smith looked up at them and found a measure of resolve that would have to make due for courage.  The two men moved towards the flames until smoke obscured them.  They would save who they could.

⛛

You earned that uniform today, kid.  Smith stopped sorting through the debris for a moment to take in the compliment.  He nodded wordlessly and returned to the search and rescue effort inside the burnt out building.  There would be no rescue, but the search for bodies would continue for several more hours before they made their way back to the station.  Smith was not alone in his exhaustion, and the men worked silently, like monotonous drones, their souls frayed like the last fibers of a used wick. 

Outside, a reporter arrived to document the carnage of the day.  Clean and well-dressed, the young man sauntered towards a police officer tasked with keeping gawkers away.  He carried a camera and tripod slung over his shoulder.

Are you press? the officer challenged.

The young reporter offered him a quizzical look before responding, That's what the camera seems to suggest.

Glaring, the officer silently indicated his impatience.  The reporter took note and decided that sarcasm wasn’t worth risking access to the scene. 

New York Tribune, the reporter said flatly and flashed some credentials. 

Satisfied, the officer stepped to the side and the reporter moved towards the husk that had once housed a garment factory in Newark, New Jersey.  Reporters had grown used to covering carnage and disaster.  Workplace accidents did not usually garner much attention, but when the numbers clicked above a few dead and the dead were young women, interest was higher.  The reporter looked around the scene for several moments before deciding on a spot to set up.  He dropped the tripod and spread it with his foot.  Aiming the camera, the reporter clicked away at a group of firefighters combing through debris, the charred remains of the factory facade, and then he saw the shot he was looking for.  He turned the tripod and camera and aimed it at an organized pile.  A line of body bags firefighters had stacked a few yards from the brick-walled factory had taken shape, but several of the dead had yet to be bagged as they clearly had an insufficient supply of bags. 

  The reporter’s eye followed the macabre line,  arriving on the bodies of several women who were soot-covered, but otherwise intact.  They had jumped.  Their bodies showed the signs of the trauma they endured in death.  Limbs pointed in odd directions, heads turned too far to be natural.  A girl's arm somehow stuck high into the air; reaching into oblivion.  It was as if she were reaching for help or a loved one, who would never come.  Then, he noticed her face.  Her head cratered in on one side, bits of bone, brain and pavement mixed in a repugnant stew.  The reporter brought his free hand to his mouth in shock.

God have mercy.  Still, he clicked the camera just the same.

The firefighters glared at him.  The reporter could not help but feel the piercing stares of men who had so recently fought death face to face.  He did not belong among them.  Sensing their silent judgment, the reporter decided to turn it into an opportunity.

Gentlemen, can I ask the gathering of heroes to stand together for a photo?  Front page material here . . . the reporter suggested.

The firefighters gathered together.  Smith stood on the left side, not feeling particularly heroic.  If he had bothered to ask, none of his compatriots felt particularly heroic either.  The entire affair left twenty-five people dead and it felt as if something worse may be on the horizon.

Chapter 1

1906 - Five years before the disaster.

The snow-capped peaks of Mount Vesuvius danced between puffs of white cumulus clouds.  They moved slowly across the sky, obscuring the mountain for a moment, before moving along peacefully and revealing the jagged peaks once more.  The small Italian villages that surrounded the mountain, at its base, existed within its shadow and lived, always and forever, under the threat of eruption.  Vesuvius provided lush farmland and a wonderful climate, but not without the occasional grumble.

Catherine Tassone worked the fields in the little village of San Giuseppe with her family as she had done her entire short life.  At fifteen, Catherine could not remember a day she was not working at some chore or another.  Like most in her region, her skin was olive, her hair jet black.  Still, Catherine knew she was different than most girls her age.  While her neighbors were convivial and made the required, You are so beautiful sort of statements to everyone’s daughters, they did not do so to her.  Catherine was instead greeted by gasps or bulged eyes, sometimes a mouth agape.  She had high cheekbones, a small Roman nose and lush lips framed by long black hair that she let hang rather than pin.  She wasn’t just beautiful, but striking.  Her mother had told her that people were surprised that God had blessed anyone so much as her.  It never felt like a blessing to Catherine.  People would stare at her and only the bravest would speak to her of her beauty.  At her age, she wanted the boys to call her beautiful, but they never did.  They were afraid to speak to her.

Vesuvius was not afraid to speak to anyone.  The mountain rumbled in the distance.  Catherine ignored the first grumble and continued to thrash her hoe into the earth in an effort to cut a small trench for seeds.  Vesuvius, seemingly unsatisfied with her reaction, deepened its voice and roared.  This time, it got her attention and Catherine turned to look at the mountain.  She waited for a cloud to clear before she spoke.

Oh, Vesuvius, you hush.  We have work to do, she muttered.

Her younger sister, Sophia, was not so bold.  The ten-year-old moved behind her elder sister and peered at the mountain from the relative safety of her sister’s back.

The mountain has never done that before.  Is it about time? Sophie timidly asked.

Is it about time?  That was a question everyone who lived around Vesuvius asked themselves.  It was an ever-present thought that lingered in the back of the minds of those who lived under the shadow of the mountain.

No, Catherine reassured her, but she never quite believed the words when she said them, and she had been forced to say them more often of late.

Remember, we don’t ask that question, Catherine chided her little sister. It is bad luck.

Sophia nodded.  She shared much of Catherine’s looks, but her youth protected her from feeling the alienation Catherine had grown used to.

The mountain rumbled again, longer and louder than before.  The clouds ignored the complaints at first, but Catherine watched as they began to shake.  She looked around for her parents and saw them in the distance, working.  They had grown immune to the complaint of the mountain and did not pause as she had to watch.  The mountain was shaking, and with it, the ground underneath her feet.

Papa! Catherine called as Sophia tightened her grip on her sister.

The mountain shook and took the ground under their feet for a ride as it did.   

The mountain has never done that before, Sophia remarked and pointed.

Catherine turned back towards the mountain to see a tail of smoke slinking up towards the sky.  Suddenly, the mountain spat out a wide cloud of dark smoke and the puffy cumulus clouds were consumed without warning.  The sky was growing dark.

Catherine took her sister by the shoulders.  She playfully and gently shook her as if she were the mountain while she forced a smile on her face.  Sweetly, Catherine tried to console her worried sister, despite having concerns herself.

It has, Catherine said, though she did not quite believe herself.  You are just too young to remember.  Everything will be fine.  Let's finish our work so Papa will not be angry.

The girls returned to their work, but Vesuvius would not let them focus.  Sophia kept turning and glancing up at the mountain.  The plume of smoke puffing from it grew larger and longer, reaching further and further up.  The day grew dark long before nightfall and the girls could not see to finish their work.

⛛

Evening brought an ominous cloud no resident in San Giuseppe had ever seen before.  Not a star in the sky could be seen.  Candles perched in windows or lanterns in the local tavern, even the torch light of the streets, seemed to be consumed by the belching of Vesuvius.  One could hardly see their own hand waving in front of their face as ash thickened the sky.

Catherine stumbled in the darkness, her hand gently rubbing on the wall, guiding her towards her bed.  When her shins found the wooden frame with a thud, Catherine knew she had arrived, albeit with new bruises on the way.  She felt along the edges for the soft blanket her sister was sure to have wrapped herself in.  Finding its edge, Catherine lifted it and slipped herself under the covers.  The mountain continued to growl, caring not at all for those who sought some respite from the long day.  Sophia rustled and tucked herself under her sister’s shoulder.  Catherine hugged her and held her.  She kissed her soft black hair, a puff of soot filled her nostrils, permeating everything.

Sophia opened her eyes a bit and Catherine regretted the affection that awoke her.

Don't be afraid Soph.  Don't be afraid, Catherine gently reassured her.  She caressed her cheek gently and her sister’s eyes fell closed again. Catherine turned to look out of the window at the mountain.  Normally, the moonlight would illuminate the snow capped mountain, acting like a lighthouse that would shine bright enough for travelers to pass, even in the deepest parts of night.  Tonight was different.  The mountain wasn’t just dark, it was missing entirely.  She could see nothing through the window.  Catherine found herself biting her lip before turning back to her sister.  She caressed her hair, half to console Sophia, and half to soothe her own agitated nerves.  Catherine could not shake the feeling that it might be just about time.  The thought terrified her.  She found herself whispering a prayer.  Dear Lord, please don't let there be anything to be afraid of.

⛛

Mrs. Tassone stood at another open window.  The night air was overladen with soot and she found it hard to breathe.  She sought the window for fresh air, but there was none to be found.  She listened as her husband scrapped his knife over a piece of wood, working rhythmically as he carved at the kitchen table.  She turned to face him, the small candle on the table barely cutting through the darkness.  Do you think this will blow over like it did six years ago?

Mr. Tassone stopped his carving and fiddled with the small cross he wore around his neck.  He was a deeply religious man and his faith had never waivered, nor would he argue that God had given him reason to doubt.  She likes to make noise.  God is with us.  There is nothing to fear.

Mrs. Tassone wasn’t as confident as her husband. I wish I shared your faith, she whispered, not sure if she was responding to him or to her own fears.

Her husband abandoned his carving and joined her at the window.  He brought the candle with him and placed it on the small sill in front of them.  He wrapped his arms around his wife’s waist and nestled his chin into her shoulder.  That is why you fear.  You do not have faith, he placed a gentle kiss on her neck.  God is with us.

Mrs. Tassone pursed her lips, as if to respond, but apparently thought better of it.  She said nothing.  Her gaze returned to the darkness of the window as her husband took the candle and returned to the table and his carving.  Maybe he was right that her lack of faith was why she feared.  Still, she could not settle the upset rising in her gut.  The feeling that, maybe it was about time, gnawed at her and she could not separate herself from it.

⛛

The following day dawned, but the sun struggled to pierce the gray.  Ash danced on the wind, an ominous prequel to the coming main event.  The entire Tassone family took to their chores, especially since the darkness that ended the day too early yesterday had left them behind.  The mountain had grown quiet again, but the smoke still billowed into the sky.

Mr. Tassone, as faithful as he was, decided to work a bit closer to his daughters than he had the day before.  He knew they were nervous, especially Sophia.  He tried to joke with her, but she would not have it.  Mr. Tassone bent down, picked at some grass, stood up and let the light breeze take the grass from his hands.

You see? he said to Sophia.  The winds are in our favor, see?  He pointed at the mountain and wiggled his fingers, suggesting the smoke was blowing away from the village nestled at the bottom of the mountain.  It was, for the moment, and that was enough for him.  God will protect us. There is nothing to fear.

As if on cue, the mountain rumbled loudly.  The rocks that made up the massive mountain seemed to moan under pressure.  Some force seemed to be trying to escape from within.  A struggle was underway and the Tassone family could do nothing but play spectator.  The force within snarled again, roared and then, suddenly burst outward.  The cone of the mountain burst into the air.  A massive rock formation hurtled into the air.  Mr. Tassone watched in awe at the sheer force that was required to launch a mountaintop into the sky.  His wife screamed, but he did not register it amongst the sound of the very earth exploding before him.

Sophia screamed for her papa and ran towards him, but his gaze was fixed.  He watched as the cone flipped several times in the air, rock and earth spewing in every direction as it was pulled from the air and dragged back down to earth.  The cone came crashing down in the distance, a soundless explosion of dust and debris.  He did not move until he felt the tug of his daughter on his arm.

Papa!  Papa! Sophia shrieked.

Mr. Tassone gathered her in his arms.  Hugging her tightly, he began to wonder if he should run, but was paralyzed by another thought; where?

Catherine moved towards her mother.  Both fixated on the mountain, or what remained of it.  As Catherine arrived at her side, Mrs. Tassone was in shock.

The time has come.  The time has come, she repeated over and over.

Catherine tore her eyes from the calamity unfolding before them and stood in front of her mother, breaking the woman’s gaze.  As the two locked eyes, Catherine found her mother white with terror.  She fought back the urge to cry and took her mother’s hands in hers. Sweetly, Catherine urged her mother to move.  When the gentle approach failed, Catherine grew more firm.

Come, Mama, she tugged at her arm.  We have to go.

Catherine’s tugging got her mother moving, but the woman stumbled as her daughter dragged her back to the rest of the family.  Catherine turned to help her mother, whose dress had caught on a rock, and that’s when she saw it.  Where the summit had been, the mountain was bleeding red.  Lava spewed forth, spitting into the air and dripping down the sides of the mountain.  Worse yet, it was coming towards them.

Chapter 2

1906, New York City - Five years before the disaster.

Michael McMahon waited as he was told.  He stood behind the wagon instead of near the horses where he preferred to be.  He was a boy of fifteen, but if someone asked, he would have told them sixteen. It would be true in less than two months.  Like his father before him, he was rushing headlong into adulthood.  He wanted independence and responsibility more than he wanted any childhood frivolities.  Michael was raised by his father to be a serious young man.  Today was the most serious day of his life. 

Several firefighters walked past him.  They wore their dress uniforms and chatted amiably, all with thick Irish brogues.  One met the boy’s gaze and quickly looked away.  Michael had noticed how many of his father’s friends no longer wanted to look at him.  He didn’t understand why, but he knew things were very different now. 

It’s time, a voice barked in the distance.

The collection of firefighters shuffled and organized themselves, arranging their lines wordlessly as if they had done this too many times for their own liking. 

Attention! the same voice barked, and the line of men snapped to.

The tenor drones of the bagpipes began to hum.  When they all found their pitch, the skirl of the pipes began.  On queue, the pipers began the march and the men stepped forward together as one. The clop of horseshoes joined the chorus as the wagon began to move.  It was then that Michael took his first step in a long goodbye.

Michael marched along the streets of the city behind the hearse that carried his father’s coffin.  It was covered in the Stars and Stripes, surrounded by flowers, and escorted by New York’s bravest.  He could see well-enough to count them, but there had to be a hundred or more firefighters surrounding him.  They came out to show their support for a fallen brother.  A hero who gave his life to save others.  It was a parade full of pomp and circumstance.  None of it would bring him back.  Surrounded by hundreds of men in one of the largest cities on the planet and yet Michael felt as if he was now utterly alone in the world.

The procession made its way to Calvary Cemetery on the outskirts of the city.  The trip to Woodside, Queens, was some forty blocks, but Michael could barely remember the trek here.  There was an eclectic mix of stones that dotted the rolling hills of the lush green grass.  Michael read his mother’s stone several times, but he had no memory of her.  She had died of consumption when he was less than two.  At least his father would be with her now.

Standing before a large hole in the ground, the open grave that would soon swallow his father, was a troop of bagpipers.  They played a dirge and the firefighters stood at attention.  Michael was handed a tightly folded American flag by an officer he recognized from his father’s station.  He held it tightly to his chest, digging his fingernails into the cloth and fighting back tears.  He was determined to remain stoic and brave, but the pageantry of it all, the fatigue and loneliness was becoming more oppressive by the moment.  Just as he thought he might break, the bagpipers came to an abrupt halt and silence dominated, if only for a brief moment.

O God, an old, gnarly priest exclaimed, by whose mercy the faithful departed find rest, send Your holy angel to watch over this grave.  The priest motioned to the chasm before them.  Through Christ our Lord, he added before making the sign of the cross.  Michael made a silent, but solemn promise that he would watch over his father’s grave himself.

O God, Who has commanded us to honor our father, have compassion in Thy mercy, on the soul of Michael McMahon; forgive him his sins, and grant that we may see them in the joy of eternal brightness. Through Christ our Lord. Amen, the priest continued.  Michael wondered why God took men who sacrificed themselves for others.  Heroes should be the kind of person God protected most, he thought.

His thoughts were interrupted again as the bagpipers began to play another mournful lament.  The pipers came to attention, did an about face and began to march away from the grave, their music fading into the distance as they marched.  After a moment, the other mourners began to follow them slowly as the gathering began to break up.  The pipers played as they crested the hill and disappeared from Michael’s view.  They were gone.  The mourners and firefighters were gone.  His father was gone. 

Only a few people remained at the gravesite along with Michael; the old priest approached, placing a chilly hand on the boy’s shoulder, more out of formality than affection and spoke. John 15:13. Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.  Your father was a hero, son. 

Michael had been told that several dozen times in the last few days. It was supposed to make him feel better, but it didn’t.  It made him feel worse, like his father chose someone else over