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CHAPTER 1

Palm Trees and Alligators

It's not easy having the name Francis Xavier Leo Aloysius Hollahan. But that was before leaving for Florida. Now I'm Frank. I changed my name on November 22, 1943, when Mom and I boarded the train at Philadelphia's Thirtieth Street Station and headed south.

Sixteen hours later, the engineer sidetracked our train a third time. Four more troop trains barreled past us. One hauled tanks and jeeps, the others carried servicemen in uniform. The war against Germany, Italy, and Japan was going strong, and it seemed like every soldier, sailor, and marine was on the move.

Mom sighed. "Poor Pops. He must be wondering what happened to us."

"He knows how it is," I said. "He'll be waiting."

Mom and I were on our way to join Pops, who had finished naval basic training and been sent to Jacksonville, Florida. Pops' job is patrolling the Eastern seacoast, looking for German U-boats that prowl the Atlantic and attack our ships. But Pops wanted more. He wanted to cross the Atlantic and see some real action. He wrote about going to exotic-sounding places like Casablanca and Algiers.

Exotic: from another part of the world, foreign, excitingly different. That was one of my eighth-grade spelling words. I liked the sound of it and I used it every chance I got. But Mom didn't like the sound of it at all. "What Pops does is exotic enough for me," she'd said.

At daybreak the next morning, we crossed from Georgia into Florida. I nudged Mom awake with my elbow. Her head jerked up. She opened one eye.

"Look, a palm tree!" I said, awed by the sight. The first I'd ever seen.

"Hmm," Mom said and fell back asleep. Two nights of sleeping sitting up had taken its toll.

I popped a piece of tutti-frutti in my mouth and whipped out my old, beat-up, black-and-gray composition book.

Dear Deidra,

Now there's an exotic name. Deidra was a year ahead of me in school. She was the best first baseman I ever saw. I never got up the nerve to say anything more than "hi" to her. But now that I'm a zillion miles away, I can think of plenty to say.

How are you? I am fine. You may not remember me. I left Jefferson Junior High two days ago forever, well, at least until the war is over, which could take some time. Florida is great. Palm trees all over the place, swaying in the tropical breeze.

Okay, so I only saw one palm tree and no breeze was blowing. Some people accuse me of lying, but it's more like stretching the truth. Funny how you can get a reputation just by trying to make things a little more interesting. Anyway, I'm sure I'll be seeing other palm trees, and a Florida breeze will pick up any minute, and it's bound to be warm and tropical. Hmm, maybe palm trees aren't exotic enough. I'll throw in an alligator. Or two.

I saw three alligators sunning themselves beside a pond. They looked mean and ugly. I can't wait to get off the train and see one up close. They don't scare me.

Well, got to go. I'll write again when I have an address and you can write me back.

Your friend and admirer, Frank (previously Francis) Hollahan

P.S. I think you're a great first baseman.

Mom woke up and took out her tortoiseshell compact. She flipped it open and dabbed her nose with her powder puff. Sitting next to her, I could see my reflection in the mirror. My blue eyes matched hers, but my dark hair was all Pops. My nose too, which was flat as a pancake. "Cute," Mom said. But what guy wants to be called cute?

Mom glossed her lips with Cherry Red lipstick and smoothed her pageboy hair. She snapped her compact closed. "How do I look?" she asked.

"Spectacular, Mom. Pops will fall down dead when he sees you."

"You really think so?" She grinned.

The steady clackity-clack of the train wheels slowed to a clack ... clack ... clack as the train chugged toward the station. A big sign announced JACKSONVILLE. Mom tapped her nails on the armrest. I popped another piece of gum in my mouth and worked it hard. I couldn't wait to see Pops. Three whole months is a long time.

The platform was crowded with sailors, a sea of white broken only by the bright colors of the women's dresses and, as Mom would say, their perky little hats. The blast of the train whistle sent a mother scurrying to grab her little boy's arm and pull him away from the tracks. I leaned against the window. All the sailors looked alike in their bell-bottom trousers and middy tops, but I was sure I would spot Pops.

Mom peered over my shoulder. "Do you see him yet?" she asked.

I was too excited to answer. I pulled on my knuckles until they popped, something I always do when I get edgy. The train jolted to a stop. Steam hissed and bellowed a white cloud from beneath the wheels. Darn, I couldn't see anything.

Lugging our suitcases, I led the way, weaving through the crowds, craning my neck, searching for Pops. Any second now I knew he'd come bursting through the swarm of people shouting, "Francis, my lad." The crowd thinned out pretty fast. Seems like everyone getting off the train had someone to meet him. They gathered their luggage and climbed aboard buses or into cars and cabs.

"St. Augustine. Daytona. Palm Beach. Miami. Alllll aboard!" The conductor's voice boomed like he'd bounced it off a mountainside. The people waiting to board scrambled on. Pretty soon Mom and I were the only ones left standing on the platform. The engine started up, and the whistle blew its long, lonely wail as the train disappeared down the track.

Mom smoothed her hair and tried to hide her disappointment, but I heard it in her voice. "Let's wait inside," she said.

I dragged our suitcases in, and we settled on a long wooden bench. I peeled off my sweater. Florida sure was warm for November. The door to the waiting room swung open, and Mom half rose from her seat. When she saw it wasn't Pops, she sank back onto the bench and gave me a weak smile.

Mom rooted around in her purse and pulled out a dollar bill. "Here, get yourself a hot dog and an orange soda."

"Don't you want one?"

"Francis, I couldn't eat a bite wondering what's happened to your father."

"Don't worry, Mom. He'll be here." But I was getting pretty worried myself. When Pops joined the Navy, he told me I'd have to look after Mom until we joined him again. That was a piece of cake in Philadelphia. But Florida? I sure wish he'd hurry up and get here.

On my way to get the hot dog, I stopped at the glassed-in booth where the station master sat. I cleared my throat. "Excuse me, Mister. Do you have a message for Mrs. Hollahan?"

The station master riffled through a pile of telegrams, shook his head, then checked a bulletin board. "Nope. Nope. Nope," he said as his finger ran down the row of tacked-up notes. "Sorry, son. Nothing here for Hollahan."

We waited two hours. No Pops.

"Well, Francis, there's no doubt our telegram went astray. We'll just have to get ourselves to the naval base and find him."

"Two blocks north," the station master mumbled through a mouthful of chips when we asked directions to the bus. A block away, we spotted a bus marked "Mayport U.S. Naval Air Station." People lined up, waiting to board. According to the schedule, it was the last bus going to Mayport that afternoon.

The driver climbed into his seat and adjusted the mirrors. "Tickets. Tickets, please," he said, punching a hole in each ticket before handing it back.

"Don't let him leave," Mom ordered as she dashed into the bus depot to get our tickets. The last passenger in line climbed aboard. The driver checked his watch and switched on the engine. I placed one foot on the step and kept the other on the curb. I craned my neck looking for Mom. I sent her telepathic messages. Hurry. Rush. Run.

The driver shifted gears. "On or off, son. I've got a schedule to meet."

"My Grandma will be here any second."

"On or off," the driver repeated.

I held my ground. I don't know where that grandma came from, but it got me started. "You wouldn't deny an ancient, decrepit old lady a last glimpse of her grandson before he ships out, would you? He might be killed and never come home except in a coffin." I gave him my basset-hound look, all sad and droopy.

He wasn't buying it. The driver rolled his eyes and gripped the handle that closed the door. Let him crush me like a melon — I wasn't moving.

But where was Mom?

I kept talking. "Grandma's got rheumatism. Bad! If you left, she'd faint dead away. I know you wouldn't want that on your conscience."

"Son, back off that step. Now."

I was running out of ideas when I heard Mom's voice. "Here I come," she called, waving the tickets and tripping along on her four-inch heels.

"That's your grandma?" asked the driver.

I smiled.

"Get on," he said, jerking his thumb. He was still shaking his head halfway to the base. Yep, sometimes my storytelling comes in handy.

The bus dropped us off outside the Mayport Naval Air Station's main gate. A cluster of low, white buildings blistered by the Florida sun stood beyond. A dozen more were going up nearby. Bulldozers worked to clear more land. In an inlet, I could see the yachts and fishing boats that the government had taken over from civilians to use as patrol boats for the duration of the war. I wondered which one Pops operated. Maybe he was out on patrol and that's why he couldn't meet us.

The guard at the main gate waved in jeeps, lorries, lumber trucks, a cement truck, a derrick, and dozens of military vehicles, one after another. Each military vehicle received a smart salute from the guard as it rumbled past. Three sailors walked in ahead of us, each flashing an identification card.

"Come on, Francis," Mom said and started past the guard.

"Whoa, there, little lady. You can't come in here."

"But we've come all the way from Philadelphia," Mom said, as though that were reason enough to let us in.

"Sorry, ma'am," he said.

Mom put on her best smile. "It seems there's been a mix-up. Our train arrived twelve hours late, and my husband wasn't able to meet us. He's stationed here and patrols for U-boats. He must be on duty." Mom straightened her shoulders and stood a little taller. She sure was proud of Pops. "Do you know where we can find him?"

"I couldn't let you in if I did know. No pass, no entry. Tell me his name and rank and I'll see what I can find out." I watched him on the phone through the open door of the guardhouse. He was back a minute later. "You did say Seaman Ted Hollahan, didn't you, ma'am?"

Mom nodded.

"Sorry, but he completed gunnery training two days ago. He shipped out on a carrier."

"But that's impossible," Mom argued.

"Ma'am, with the Navy, anything is possible."

New Territory

My mouth dropped open. Pops gone! Mom clutched her purse. Her knuckles turned white. I watched her eyes go from wide to narrow, then wide again. Finally, she took a deep breath and collected herself.

"There's nothing to do, Francis, but rent ourselves an apartment and wait to hear from Pops." She nodded her head emphatically, and I knew not to argue.

Mom agreed with me, though, that we needed something to keep up our strength. We found an ice-cream parlor and ordered chocolate sundaes. Mom bought a newspaper. She spread it out on the table and ran her finger down the "Apartments for Rent" column, which was very short. "Ouch! Forty-six dollars for an apartment. We can't afford that." I heard a few more ouches, then, "Here's one. 'Sunny, two-bedroom apartment, furnished, one block off beach.'" She stopped and her smile disappeared. "Military families need not inquire." Mom's eyes flashed.

"Who wants their crummy old apartment anyway?" I said, trying to cheer her up.

Mom punched my arm. "That's telling 'em, Francis," and she put her nose back in the paper. "Too far. Too much. Unfurnished." Mom looked up. "It's back to Philadelphia for us," she said.

Pops told me to take care of Mom, and I wasn't about to call it quits. "What about this column, 'Houses for Rent'?"

"We couldn't possibly afford a house, Francis."

I pointed and read. "Frame house, near beach, furnished. Twenty-six dollars a month. South of Jacksonville Beach on Ponte Vedra Road."

We grabbed a taxi and rode south past houses, beach cottages, and hotels. "Golly, there are sailors everywhere," Mom exclaimed.

"Yep," said the driver. "The government took over the hotels and filled 'em full of sailors, most of 'em here for training."

We passed through a couple of small beach towns. Pretty soon there was nothing much to see but sand dunes covered with stubby palms. Every now and then, we caught a glimpse of the ocean. We turned off the highway. The scrub palms gave way to tangled thickets of small trees bent by the wind. "Bayberry," said the taxi driver. Seconds later, we pulled into a grove of huge oak trees with gray lacy stuff hanging from the branches. "Spanish moss," offered the driver.

The taxi stopped in front of a tiny frame house with a tin roof. The landlord, in a big house across the road, came to meet us. Before he could open his mouth, Mom said, "We'll take it." And she hadn't even set foot inside.

Other than the landlord's place and our postage-stamp house, there wasn't another house in sight. The whole area seemed pretty desolate. Inside, the house looked even smaller. One long room served as living room, dining room, and kitchen. I could hardly turn around in the bathroom. The two cubbyhole-size bedrooms ran across the back and faced east. There were no closets. Maybe the house didn't look like much, but the ocean was close, just past the trees and over the sand dunes. I planned to spend a lot of time on the beach.

Saturday I wrote Deidra another letter to let her know my new address. I told her about our house and the beach. I got a little carried away and used words like fantastic, incredible, magnificent. I told her I went to a terrific school too, even though I wouldn't even see the building until after the weekend.

Monday I missed the bus and had to walk the two miles to Beach Junior High. I told Mr. Moore, the principal, all those things he needed to know, like my name, address, and where I went to school last. He rose from his desk, unfolding like an accordion. My eyes followed him up and up. I waited for his head to hit the ceiling. It didn't, but his height was astounding. Handing me a note, he said, "Take this to Mr. Jolly in Room 305. Down the hall to the right, fifth door on your left." Mr. Moore gave me a pat on the back and a push out his office all at the same time. I did a quick hop-slide past his gargantuan shoes.

Classes had already begun, so I took my time and scrutinized each classroom I passed. A fresh start. New territory to conquer. I'd take 'em by storm. I reached Room 305, threw open the door, and stepped inside. Every head in the room turned. A hundred pairs of eyes riveted on me.

"Step right in," boomed Mr. Jolly. "Right this way to the Class of the Magnificent Twenty-Seven." Mr. Jolly swept his arm across his chest and gave a deep bow.

Weird! I looked over my shoulder to see if he was talking to someone behind me.

"Aha, a note," he said, snatching the paper from my hand. "Laaaadies and gentlemen and alllll my distinguished students, I introduce to you our new pupil, Frank Hollahan. Today, we become the Magnificent Twenty-Eight. A good round number, divisible by two and fourteen and ... what other numbers, Frank?"

"One and twenty-eight," I shot back.

Mr. Jolly leaned forward. "Continue."

"Uh, four." I scratched my chin.

"And?" Mr. Jolly's flabby jowls jiggled as he nodded his head in encouragement.

Who was this man with three strands of hair plastered over his bald scalp? He couldn't really be a teacher, could he? But there he was, standing in front of the class and making me perform like a monkey. I scratched my head and under my arm. I couldn't help myself. Some girls giggled, and I heard a few snorts from the guys.

"Let's see." I cracked my thumb knuckle. Now I really did have to stop and think. "Seven goes into twenty-eight. Yeah, definitely seven."

"Excellent. I believe we have a scholar in our midst." There were a few more snorts from the back of the room. "Will Frank be a mathematician, a juggler and tamer of numbers?" Mr. Jolly continued. "Ah, only time will tell."

He glanced down at the paper I'd handed him. "I see that you are from Philadelphia, the City of Brotherly Love. Tell us about yourself."

Why do teachers like to put new kids on the spot? I wish they'd make everyone in the class stand up and tell something about himself or herself instead. That would sure help a new kid know who he wanted to hang out with. I pulled at my knuckles. It helped get my mind working. "Let's see, uh ... I like sports, especially football. Not to brag or anything, but I'm a natural-born athlete."

I heard a snicker from the back of the room. Mr. Jolly cleared his throat and glared down the third aisle.

I stuck my thumbs in my belt and squared my shoulders, like Pops does when he's about to set me straight. "Some people think just because I'm short and on the lean side, I'm not good at sports. The truth is, I'm what you'd call sinewy. And I'm tough." I glared down the third aisle. "I might not look like a football player, but I can pass like a pro. I've got terrific coordination."

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Excerpted from "The Spy Who Came In from the Sea"
by .
Copyright © 2010 Peggy Nolan.
Excerpted by permission of Pineapple Press, Inc..
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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