The Kellys: An Irish-American Story [Paperback]

Katie Kelly (Author)

Book Description

Publication Date: February 27, 2003

We are the Kellys. We are Irish. Catholic. American. And that's about all there is to us. We're just an ordinary family with absolutely nothing special about us at all. Like more than a million other Irish people, the Kellys came to America in the 1800s escaping everything from poverty to persecution. And for over 100 years we have stood around in the middle of our American history as it swirled about us, hurried past us. Periodically we would jump in—or be hauled in—to participate until after awhile all that history we were caught up in began to mount up as the years and then the decades and finally an entire century gathered speed and rushed by, grabbing us and pulling us along with it. Without trying—and perhaps without knowing—we became part of this new history in this new country of ours. A history littered with covered wagons, Indians, abandoned children, world wars, more poverty, more predjudice, great sadness and hearty good times. Life and death. As I began to sort through the pieces of my family's life, I realized with amazement: we were the Forrest Gump of families. Every time something earth-shaking or significant or momentous happened, the Kellys were there. We were not a crucial part of that history. Things would have gone on with us or without us. We didn't change a thing in the course of America's history or destiny. We weren't even an important part of it. We were just—there. In the middle of it all. It was an astonishing realization.

Editorial Reviews

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

Bougainville is ruled by a series of hills and ridgelines that rise like bleachers in a stadium until they reach a mountain range that runs straight down the center of the island. Military brass had its eye on a large mass of those hills jumbled up near that mountainous spine. Those hills were occupied by the Japanese which meant they could not only see what was going on, but they also had a huge military advantage over the Marines dug in down on the beach. Three hills in particular stood out: Hill 600, Hill 600A but especially Hill 1000.... Tommy and the other troopers from "I" Company were still trying to make it up the ridge, inching their way through the tangled, matted growth of the Bougainville jungle struggling to maneuver behind the Japanese. Then, according to the Morning Report for December 9, "The enemy was observed preparing an ambush along the existing trail and was encountered while in this preparation. This contact was established at 11:15 and a 30-minute fire fight ensued." Almost immediately the troopers were hit by what Marine historians describe as "a fusillade of fire." The Japanese had come back. Some 235 of them. According to one Marine account, "the parachutists attacked again and again without success." Artillery fire was called in, but the Japanese found protective concealment on the reverse slopes. Marine shells burst soared overhead like wrathful birds, then burst high in the banyan trees, too far away from the well entrenched enemy to do any good. Sweat poured out of them, their hearts beat so loudly they competed with the blare of the fire fight roaring around them. Then the nightmare began: the Japanese unexpectedly turned the fight around and cut right through "I" Company and in the melee that followed one of the machine gun squads became separated in the chaos. In the midst of all the confusion, Tommy Kelly and another Marine paratrooper, Jack Larson—ironically enough, also from Nebraska—were cut off and separated from their squad. Slowly, the horrible realization of their position dawned on them. They had been cut off. They were alone. All alone, surrounded by Japanese soldiers. Oh, Christ almighty. Now what? They lay there, hiding in the jungle grass that was little more than knee-high, watching the Japanese. They could not move. They could hardly breathe. There was a thick, bulky log a few feet away from them, the only cover in their immediate vicinity—if they could only get over to it. Pfc. Tommy Kelly had a plan and he wanted to try it. We know the Japanese strength here and we also need help, he argued. How about I try getting back to the patrol and get the information to them? And get some help. No. Not a good idea. You’d never make it. Tommy made the suggestion one more time. Nope. Too risky. Stay put. With 200 inches of rain a year Bougainville might have been the wettest place in the tropics but it also came close to being the hottest. The rains came like clockwork late in the afternoon and lasted well into the evening. In the morning, the sun came up, an astonishing, almost romantic sunrise silhouetting Bougainville’s spine of mountains in a wash of pink and purple and orange. Then the sun rose higher and higher, burning a hole in the sky and getting hotter and hotter and more and more humid as the day wore on. That combination of heat and humidity was enervating and exhausting and as the two Marines lay there, the heat was molten. It poured down on them, sapping them of energy and leaving them simultaneously sluggish and terrified. Jack must have dozed off for a brief second because he was jolted awake when Tommy suddenly rolled over twice very fast, then leapt to his feet. Bent over and head down, he barreled forward headed for the log and the cover of the jungle. * * * For months, 16-year-old Dee Kelly had been pestering St.Mary’s Hospital in Omaha to let her give blood. Finally they relented and she donated her first pint of blood in December of 1943. As she was leaving the hospital she caught a glimpse of herself in a mirror and screamed out: "I’m yellow!" Then she collapsed in a heap on the floor. It was December 8 in Omaha, Nebraska. It was December 9 on Bougainville. * * * There was an enormous rattle of gunfire. Then—silence. * * * It was nighttime in Omaha when someone knocked on the door. Big Earl and Aunt Frances were living in an apartment on Florence Boulevard at the time. Aunt Frances was at work. She had gotten a job with the Missouri-Pacific Railroad cleaning passenger cars so every night, after the cars were emptied out, she went down to Missouri-Pacific station at 16th and Nicholas Streets in downtown Omaha and spent eight hours a night sweeping, dusting, polishing. Picking up trash. Scrubbing toilets. Cleaning up after the hundreds of people who were traveling on the trains then. Uncle Earl and Dee were home with Veronica, the baby, who was now three years old. Dee had just washed her hair and was wrapping a towel around her head when she heard the knock on the door. When the telegram came, Earl and Dee were stunned. They stood by the door, frozen, a scrap of yellow paper between them. It wasn’t real. It hadn’t happened. Dee can’t even remember if they cried. Or how they got word to Frances. Or when.

Product Details

• Paperback: 204 pages
• Publisher: Inkwater Press (February 27, 2003)
• Language: English
• ISBN-10: 1592990525
• ISBN-13: 978-1592990528
• Product Dimensions: 8.9 x 6 x 1.2 inches
• Shipping Weight: 1.4 pounds
• Amazon Best Sellers Rank: #4,842,462 in Books (See Top 100 in Books)