St Thomas More High School - Utopian Yearbook (Philadelphia, PA)

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L' .Jena N THE morning of June 30, 1950, when Father Joseph Toolin asked the Comman- dant at Taejon to be sent with the newly arrived American Marines as a substitute chaplain, the harassed general endeavored to talk him out of it. Their military chaplain had been wounded and had been sent home the day previous. 'Tm afraid you're in no condition for such duties, Father, he stated quite bluntly. Why, I understand that you're just out of bed from an attack of malaria. No, Father, as much as we need the services of a chaplain, l'm afraid I can't let you do it. The priest, his face white and drawn, spoke desperately as he strove to talk down the final- ity of the Commandant's decision. His village was deserted, he argued. His people had fied in terror of the oncoming Red armies, the mis- sion that he had worked so hard to build was in shambles. If I remain, he concluded, it will be a question of waiting to he taken prisoner. At least, if I go with you, I'll be able to be of some assistance to boys who need so much what I can give. Catholic soldiers don t need - just a chap- lain, they need their priest. He was breathless when he finished his plea. The general was impressed and moved. Non-Catholic though he was, he was aware of the truth of the priest's words. O.K., Father, he said, uyou win. We need fighting men with your kind of fight. Get ready. We leave in forty-five minutes. Minutes later, minus his cassock and clad in fatigues, he jumped into a waiting jeep and zoomed off to meet the oncoming enemy. The Red hordes were moving relentlessly southward down the peninsula. Father Toolin knew that. He had been in Korea at the very beginning when they had swooped down with- out warning, spreading death and destruction. He recalled how wonderful the news had been that the United Nations Army would come to the aid of the invaded South Koreans. He re- called, too, the shock of seeing the forces of the 84- . BY JOSEPH SCHEER, '53 free world, being held to a stale-mate after a moment of decisive victory, the horror of seeing so many thousands of young soldiers wounded and slain. He sighed deeply within himself. He had ministered to so many of them, and to their retreating comrades as well. Day after day, he had left his mission to crawl literally from one foxhole to another to be with dying soldiers, to murmur words of consolation as they fought oif the peace of merciful death. '40 God, he prayed, how wonderful, yet how terrible, are the duties of Your priests! Give me strength and courage and wisdom. The jeep bit a rut, and he was bounced back to reality. '6Day dreaming, Father? his youthful chauffeur smilingly asked. It was now February fourth, Sunday. He was with the Eighth Marine Regiment in a front line town. A Catholic church was there, it was but a shell now, just four walls and a bat- tered roof. Contrary to his usual procedure, he finished Mass before he gave his sermon. He paused before speaking, looking out at the group of battle-wom soldiers that made up his con- gregation, soldiers who were as faithful as they were fierce with the savagery of war. He spoke consolingly of the dignity of the Christian sol- dier, the crusading spirit that he must have, the will to give all in defense of His, their Di- vine Commander-in-Chief's principles, to accept death, if necessary, as the final proof of their loyalty. As he spoke, his voice, inspired with sin- cerity and eloquent with authority, was drowned out by a sudden blast that filled the area, as a tremendous red flame flashed before them all with a blinding glare. A monstrous cloud of smoke poured into the ruined church. Moments later, there was another blast, even more terrify- ing than the last. It was a direct hit. The con- gregation was tossed into the air like pieces of paper in a whirling wind. The stone walls col- lapsed as the earth leaped up from under them. Stone, plaster, huge beams of shattered wood, settled into a great pile as though it sought . THE CHELSEA REVIEW

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side as far as I was concerned. Three more fish were caught in the next hour. I had no luck at all. I was disgusted, and Pat-the stinker- he was delighted. The wind was getting noticeably stronger now. My father suggested to the captain that we start back for shore. The captain, his weather-eye getting a trifie blood-shot, agreed. I objected loudly. I wanted to catch just one fish, no matter how small. Pat laughed taunt- ingly. I was amazed when the captain and my father agreed to delay our return half an hour- just to keep me happy. I think Pat's laugh had something to do with my father's change of mind. IIe's that kind of Pop. Just fifteen minutes later it came. A heavy gale moved in with lightning swiftness from the ocean. Then it began to rain, it poured down on us in torrents. Immediately, the captain headed his small craft back to shore. He had a rough time holding the boat to its course. All the passengers made a mad dash for shelter from the slashing rain. Just then a gust of wind blew my brotber's hat oif. Foolishly, he grabbed for it as it went over the side of the boat. At that very moment, a huge wave crashed against the boat, and, horror-stricken, I saw Pat being swept overboard. I was at the railing when his body hit the water. His disappeared instantly. Yelling frantically for help, I leaped in after him. It was only with Godis help, I felt, that I somehow caught him. Pat was wild with panic, but on seeing me he relaxed, fortunately for us both. Maybe, it was because a similar incident had happened just the summer before. We were about a hundred yards away from the boat. We could hear the men on board calling out to us to keep our heads. Directed by the sound of their voices, we swam toward the boat. Almost miraculously, thank God, the ocean got calmer. We reached the boat, breathless and exhaustedg someone threw us a rope. How I managed to tie it around my brother's waist, I'll never know, but I did. Pat was hoisted up, then I felt myself being pulled in. That's all! Everything went black. I thought that I was drifting back into the sea, deep down-down-down, and I didn't care. The next thing I heard was my mother's voice, calling me. I awoke with a start and jumped up, somewhat amazed at my agility. Sputtering and stuttering, I asked how Pat was. Fine, I supposef, she said, looking at me oddly. I was surprised, and a little hurt, that she wasn't, or hadn't been, crying. Dry eyed as a piece of undunked zweibach, she was. Stout-hearted lady, I thought dubiously. Is something wrong with him? she asked. Didn't dad tell you, Mom?', I countered cautiously. Mom was a trickster in getting information she wasn't supposed to have. Tell me what? she demanded. I haven't seen hide nor hair of your father since he left the beach an hour ago. He went home-and no wonder. You were no company for him, sleep- ing away there. Get up out of here, now. We're going out for dinner tonight. When she told me this, I sighed in deepest relief. I knew then that my adventure in the briny deep was all a terrible dream. I was glad it tumed out that way because, even though my moment of heroic glory was gone, I don't think that I'd ever want to go through an experience like that, however successfully heroic the outcome. Besides, I doubt very much whether the real-life hero would have been as successful as my dream-hero was. A hundred feet away from the boat? In a gale-churned sea? Oh brother . . . lucky you! fC0ntinued from page 811 had spoken the language of the locality where they were situated in the last war, we would have a better understanding between ourselves and our foreign friends. This understanding between peoples is basic for a true peace. There are many other practical reasons for learning another tongueg for example, to broaden our own personal knowledge, and to THE CHELSEA REVIEW . be able to obtain a better position than the other fellow in these days of intensive scholastic competition. We always gain something from studying a language, even if it concerns only the self-satisfaction of accomplishment. There- fore, only the inept and the imprudent could possibly think that the study of a foreign tongue is a total waste of timeg quite the contrary--no? .83

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to shelter those who would need shelter no more. It was a ghastly pall that covered them, made more ghastly by the fact that so many had not yet need of it. For a split second, there was silence, the awful silence that follows in the wake of a terrifying disaster. Then were heard the mount- ing cries and screams of those who held on to the remnants of life. Mangled bodies writhed and strove senselessly to free themselves from the shackles of their doom. Inside of the church and throughout the entire town, the decimated section was an inferno, horrible with the moans and screams of the victims of the blasts. Empty faces and legless bodies sought relief in their cries. The air was replete with the despair of physical agony. Father Toolin struggled to his feet, pushing aside the rubble that half-buried him with the inexplicable strength of desperation. Painfully he crawled to a mound formed by the debris. His head shrieked its pain. He wanted to join the others in the delight of crying out his dis- tress, but he knew that he must not. He had work to do. He had to help them to dissolve their despair, to give them hope. Summing up all his remaining strength, he called at the top of his voice: That was a rough one, fellows, that was rough. Let's not give up yet. They can't win. Even-even-now we can beat them. We've got a weapon they can't destroy. It was a strange voice that he heard, as though it was coming from a distance in the form of the echo of an echo. Yet something in his voice coaxed from them instant obedience. It was a voice that hushed the nightmare of their incredible dis- tress. The cries toned down to a whisper of groans. Let us pray, men, his voice commandedg let us pray. He began: O my God, I am heartily sorry . . . From the mangled and twisted bodies, tor- tured in the excess of agony, came a murmuring response: 0 my God, I am heartily sorry . . . Sobs, clenched-teethed sobs, punctuated their words. The pain in the priest's head grew worse. He could not see, but his wavering voice con- tinued steadily throughout that prayer of prayers: and I detest all my sins . . . The panic, the wild fear of the inevitable, was gone, as the uncertain voices limped in a sort of discord chant -- and I detest all my sins . . . Father Toolin sank to his knees in the final desperate effort to finish the prayer. His arms hung foolishly by his sides as he strove vainly to keep his head erect. Blood trickled from his eyes, his nose, his mouth. He spoke the last words in gasps that were wrung out of the depths of his soul: to do penance and to amend my life . . . He didn't hear the response as he fell face forward, his arms outstretched crosswise. Chap- lain Toolin's work was done. The dust settled gently over the holy place like a blanket. It was then that a shaft of soft light broke through, as though it were a spotlight, and marked the body of an other Christ, who, like his Divine Leader, had done that which was - beyond the call of duty. The ray, resplendently bright now, shone like a benediction from above on the body of Joseph M. Toolin - citizen, soldier, priest - hero for eternity! SENI0liS CAN BE SElll0llS going. My dad will be up, waiting for me with a stop-watch. Isn't it odd, I concluded as we walked out of the store, that after all these years, here we are talking about a man who has been dead all that time and was buried centuries ago, in Stratford-on-Avon. THE CHELSEA REVIEW . . fContinued from page 751 Well, you can't keep a good man down, Lump said, laughing. A badpun, I know, but old Bill, the master, is still alive--right here on the corner of 54th and City Line in Philadelphia- on-the-Delaware! And still the 'ghost' of the town, I'd say. What would you say, Skip ? ,I-skipped-it and said nothing. I just groaned. . 85