The Archbishop Wore Combat Boots. Nancy A. Collins

more importantly were the parents’ reactions to their children’s performances. Couples who had shown no interest in the Church returned with enthusiasm to the practice of their faith. Unwittingly, the kids, having become the family evangelizers, were far more effective than any priest.

      “Day of Infamy”

      On December 7, 1941, the Japanese suddenly attacked Pearl Harbor, reigniting my desire to be an Army chaplain. Convinced that America belonged in the war, the Pearl Harbor attack only solidified my feelings, making me even more determined to get to the front and make my own small contribution to the war against Nazism.

      In Baltimore, Archbishop Curley, a supporter of President Roosevelt’s decision to join the war, announced that a priest would be permitted to become a chaplain in the armed forces if his pastor, agreeing not to expect a replacement, granted permission. It was all I needed to hear. Listening to the nightly radio reports with Father McGraw, I began remarking on the need for chaplains. Adding to the pressure, I highjacked dinner conversation, talking about the anti-Christian atrocities committed by the Nazis. Shoring up my case even further, I let my feelings be known to key parishioners who in turn talked to the pastor.

      What sealed the deal, however, was the arrival of a new assistant, Father Dziwulski, replacing Father Herb Howley, who had been so kind and generous with his advice to a newcomer. Finally, biting the bullet myself, I knocked on Father McGraw’s door. Seated at his desk, he immediately knew why I was there. Almost before I could ask, he gave me his permission to leave.

      When I telephoned my parents, though not wanting another son to follow my brothers Frank and Denis into the war, they raised no objection. The Youth Club and parishioners, already aware of my ambition, were comforted that a young priest was eager to serve alongside their own sons.

      Registering at the recruiting office, my physical revealed no vestige of rheumatic fever damage to my heart. After getting my uniform, complete with first lieutenant’s bars and the chaplain’s cross, I was ready to go. But the Army wasn’t. Cooling my heels for several long weeks, my notice finally arrived in the mail. I was to report to the Chaplains’ School at Harvard at the end of December 1942. (The only difficulty I encountered was getting accepted by the Military Ordinariate, the Catholic diocese in charge of chaplains, since a priest, generally, had to have three years of pastoral experience before joining the armed forces. Citing that I had been ordained on December 8, 1939, I managed to qualify as a candidate by December 1942.)

      The parish’s farewell party, though warm and fun, was a real tear-jerker. Held in the auditorium that I had helped build, we reminisced, laughed, and belted out the popular new Christmas song, “White Christmas.” The parishioners gave me a generous purse and a new radio to keep in touch with the news. Fighting back my own tears, I thanked them for their infinite support, inspiration, and affection during my two and a half years at St. Thomas Aquinas. Arriving as an inexperienced priest, new to their ways, their acceptance of me had nurtured my education as a parish priest. Moreover, each person’s reverence for the priesthood as well as our faith had made me realize the grandeur of my vocation. In that sense, this was a kind of graduation. Never had the words “good-bye and God’s blessings” meant more.

      The following day, as he walked me to my car, Father McGraw surprised me with an unexpected question. “Will you return to St. Thomas after the war?” I paused. “I don’t think I can answer that,” I said slowly, pausing again. “I just don’t know.”

CHAPTER 6

      Into the Army

      On a brisk day just after Christmas — December 28, 1942 — I left Washington to report to the U.S. Army Chaplain School at Harvard University in Cambridge, Massachusetts. The motto of the Chaplain School was Pro Deo et Patria (“For God and Country”), a simple statement that would define my life for the next three years.

      It was cold in Boston, with a few patches of snow on the ground. The size of our class — more than a hundred men — was surprising, and I was delighted that one of the chaplains was a fellow diocesan priest as well as a fellow North American College graduate, Father Jack Albert. Having been a chaplain for some time, he promptly offered some useful advice: “It’s easy to get overworked as a chaplain. There is too much to do. Don’t knock yourself out.” Being a popular, handsome priest, solid in his piety, I took his advice to heart.

      I was billeted in Connate Hall, Room 44, along with seven other chaplains, Protestants of various denominations, all gregarious, friendly, and extremely interested in meeting a “Catholic priest.”

      Classes began immediately on December 29 with an address by the commanding officer, Chaplain (Colonel) William D. Cleary, nattily attired in his uniform and the polished boots of a cavalry officer. Just as surprising, he spoke with an Irish accent — a congenial, but no-nonsense Catholic officer and priest.

      In addition to relatively easy classes on military law, military sanitation, military courtesy, and protection against chemical warfare, we had drilling and hiking exercises to teach us the rudimentary phases of “close-order drill.” Thanks to my four years as a cadet at St. John’s College High School in Washington, the drilling — and hikes — were hardly taxing.

      My academic background as a student at the Catholic University had prepared me for Chaplain School. Having gotten such a superior education from my professors, I wasn’t the least worried about embarrassing myself. In fact, my only difficult academic class was Graves Registration, involving, in case of significant casualties, laying out a cemetery on a map which required a solid knowledge of mathematics. Having studied algebra and trigonometry in high school, I tried to help chaplains with weak math backgrounds, since flunking Graves Registration might wash them out of school. On test day, after finishing the cemetery problems, I went to the bathroom, leaving my exam paper on my desk so that anyone needing to take a look could. I don’t know if it helped, but no one flunked. In the end, there was nothing to worry about because, as we later discovered, the Army forbade chaplains to bury any men killed in action. The ultra efficient Graves Registration Office had complete jurisdiction over the bodies of soldiers fallen in combat, securing and identifying the body as well as notifying the family.

      Though we could have learned what we needed to know about being a chaplain in one afternoon, they dragged it out for three or four weeks, making sure we knew the drill. In the end, I think we got some kind of spurious recognition from Harvard University, allowing me to tell pals that I got through Harvard in four weeks.

      Chaplain Philip M. Hannan

      Personally, my only problem was the presence of some very pretty Irish cousins who, living in Boston, visited me on Sunday afternoons. Since I made the mistake of introducing them to my roommates, one young Presbyterian chaplain promptly asked if I could help him make a date with one of them. Since they, fortunately, all had steady boyfriends, I could say, with some mental reservation, that they were all engaged.

      What we didn’t learn in classes we made up for in our interesting discussions, the Protestant chaplains eager to understand Catholic moral teaching in matters such as “use and abuse.” “How can you allow people to drink liquor?” they asked. “What do you think about smoking? Or gambling? Or dancing?” — a query from one handsome young man who, being a good musician and having an attractive wife, was forbidden to dance under penalty of discharge by his local authority. Carefully explaining the difference between properly acceptable versus sinful dancing, I saw relief flooding his face. In fact, he was so grateful — and scrupulous — that just before we completed our training, he approached me again: “Now, let’s go over this another time. I’ve got to be able to convince my superior that there is a moral way to dance.” Assuring him there was, I wished him well!

      Having the utmost respect for each other, Catholic, Protestant, and Jewish chaplains interacted easily. Though the Catholics held informal group meetings to strengthen our camaraderie and support for each other, Chaplain Cleary politely and firmly reminded us of our great opportunity to be of service to our Protestant and Jewish confreres. At one such Catholic chaplains gathering,