The Healing Journey

September 25, 2026

Hogan’s Bar, Gerard Avenue, Bronx, September 1955

By James P. Bohan

Jim Kelly had been a 19-year-old B17 tail gunner from the Bronx based in Britain in WWII. One night coming back across the Channel on one engine with just the copilot and himself alive, he promised his God he would go to work for Him if he got back to the base in one piece. God had kept his part of the bargain and he was keeping his.

That September week, at the start of the school year, he must have heard something.

Something about Hogan’s Bar down the hill from the school. A block from the old Yankee Stadium. Something about some fellas dropping in for an underage few on the way home.

So that afternoon, after his last class, he went up to his room on the third floor, took off his Roman collar and cassock, put on a zipper jacket over his white tee shirt and black chinos, put a cigarette behind his ear, skipped down the stairs, walked down the steep hill, made a left onto Gerard Avenue, ambled down the block and, hands-in-his-pockets, whistling, approached Hogan’s establishment.

Someone must have seen him through the window just in time.

“Damn!”

They all made it out the back and down the alley leaving half-drunk beers and money all over the bar.

He entered, ordered a beer, took the cigarette from behind his ear and lit it. The place was empty but for him and Hogan.

“Someone leave all this money behind?” Hogan silently scanned the world out the window.

“What a shame! I’m up at the school up the hill. You think anyone would mind if I take this and donate it to our foreign missions?”

No answer. As Hogan cleared the abandoned glasses, Jim smiled, pocketed the money, finished his beer, put the smoke out in an ashtray, and walked out into the bright sun.

Next day, in several classes he recounted how he had dropped into Hogan’s for a beer the previous afternoon and asked if anyone knew anyone who might have left money there. Said that he had it, and if there were no claims, he would donate it to the good works of the foreign missions.

There were no claims.

That was in 1955 or so, when Brother Kelly was 31 or so. One evening, about 45 years later, I had just finished watching “Twelve O’Clock High.” I called the retired brothers’ residence at Iona College in New Rochelle.

I introduced myself and said I was looking for a Brother James Kelly who had taught at All Hallows High School in the 1950’s.

“Well, he’s right here.”

He came on the line with every bit of enthusiasm I remembered.

“Jimmy!! How are you?”

“Fine, fine. Listen Brother I just watched “Twelve O’Clock High.” And I had to call you to thank you for what you did over there, and for everything you did for us at All Hallows.”

Silence on the line and then: “Jimmy, that’s very kind of you. So good to hear from you. Thank you very much.”
©James P. Bohan

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