This is my second post about A Private Battle, the posthumously-published story of historian and reporter Cornelius Ryan’s fight with prostate cancer.  See the previous post here.

This long post recounts an episode late in Ryan’s life, when the cancer had begun weakening his bones.  He had finally received a long-coveted honor, being elected a Fellow of the The Society of American Historians.  His wife Kathryn tells how he was injured on the way to the dinner where his election would be formally announced.  Sadly, he would miss that announcement, forced to leave the dinner because of extreme pain — but what happened when he was hurt I found to be a deeply moving story.

Wednesday, April 24, 1974, the day of The Society of American Historians’ dinner was breezy and cool.  As the day progressed a damp chill permeated the air.  I drove Connie into New York.  As always he was impeccably dressed but his medication had worked still more significant changes on his body.  His collar size was now 18-1/2, a source of extreme mortification to him.  The Cushingold appearance of his face had intensified, as had his abdominal girth.  Still, although he refused to believe it himself, his dignity, carriage, and mannerisms were as impressive as ever.

He wore a light wool black overcoat and carried General Seitz’s cane.  He had not recently needed it, but in crowds he found it a useful protection.  I parked at an underground garage not far from The Colony, letting Connie off on the sidewalk before I drove down to park.  Neither of us had noticed a black iron bicycle rack bolted to the sidewalk near the garage.  When I came up to ground level after handing the car over to an attendant, Connie was nowhere to be seen, but a crowd of people had gathered at the edge of the walk.  Hurriedly I joined them and, pushing my way through, saw Connie lying on the cold concrete.

I knelt beside him, frantic.

“Connie!”  His eyes were closed.  “Connie,” I said again, “Can you hear me?  What happened?”

He tried to speak, but his breath came only in gasps.

A man beside me said, “I saw it happen.  He caught his cane between the racks of the bicycle stand and just seemed to twist around.  Then he lost his balance and fell.”

Two young men, dressed in jeans and frayed jackets, stood near Connie’s head.  Alone at night, I would have been frightened by them.  Now along with the man who had explained to me what happened, they became a source of comfort and strength.  One of them leaned down to Connie.  I half expected him to rob my husband there in the street.  Instead he gently pulled Connie’s coat closer about his ears and neck and, as I watched dazedly, took off his own tattered jacket, rolled it into a ball, and gently eased it under Connie’s head.  “I don’t want to raise him, but I don’t think his head should be lying on the pavement,” he explained.

The first man touched my arm.  “I’m going for the police and an ambulance,” he said and started to make his way through the crowd.

“No,” Connie said in such a strong voice that we were all startled.  He was very pale and his breath came in small gasps but he was also determined.  The man rejoined me.

“You’re from Ireland,” Connie said.

The man nodded.

“From Mayo, I expect,” Connie said between short breaths.

“How did you know?” our benefactor asked.  “I haven’t lived there in over twenty years.”

A faint smile played over Connie’s face.  “I know the county accents,” he said in that same breathy way.  “Even though I’m a Dublin man myself.”

“I never would have guessed.  Please let me get an ambulance.”

Connie shook his head.  He looked at the two young men standing near where I knelt beside him, trying to massage warmth back into his hands.  “Do you boys think you can get me on my feet?”

Both nodded.  “But take it easy for a few minutes longer, sir,” one said.

“Let’s do it now,” Connie told him.  “I feel like I’m stiffening up on the inside.  If we wait I might not be able to get up.”

Gently the boys caught Connie from either side.  Our new Irish friend politely asked the other onlookers to move away and one by one they did.  Bracing Connie’s neck and shoulders with their arms the boys slowly got him upright.  He cried out once and bit his lips but made no other sound.  With his hands on the bicycle rail, the Mayo man on one side of him and I on the other, Connie swayed but did not faint or slip.  The boy who had put his own thin jacket under Connie’s head picked it up and, finding a fairly clean part of the lining, gently brushed off Connie’s coat and trousers.  He even rubbed his own coat across my husband’s shoes.  Connie asked for Jeff Seitz’s cane and I gave it to him.

“What’s the time?” he asked faintly.

“Almost seven,” one of the boys answered.

“Katie, we’ve got to go.  We’ll be late.”

I stared at him.  “It’s impossible.  We don’t know what you’ve done to yourself.  Let’s go to Memorial right now.”

There was a little silence.  The men with us exchanged glances.  They knew Memorial’s fame.  “Maybe you’d better, sir,” one of the boys said.

“All I need is a taxi.”  He was still breathing in short gasps but his words were firm.

The man from Ireland stepped out into the street and within a minute a taxi rolled up before us.  The boys opened the door.  “Get in, Katie,” Connie said.  “I don’t think I can slide across.”

Once settled in he stopped the three men from closing the door.  “Please let me pay you for your help,” he said.  All three looked aghast.

“Absolutely not,” said the man from Ireland.

“Pay us for what, sir?” one of the boys asked.

“O.K.,” Connie said.  “Has somebody got a pencil and paper?  I don’t think I can reach in to get mine.  I want your names and addresses.”

“No money,” our Irish benefactor said.

“No.  Books,” Connie told him.  “I write them.  I’ll send you all books.”

One of the three produced a pencil and paper and each wrote his name and address.  The paper was handed in to Connie and I took it from his nerveless fingers and put it inside my handbag.

“God bless you,” Connie told the three.

“And may He look after you, dear man,” said our Irish friend.

The three of them stood in the pavement watching our taxi pull away.  The unsung angels who had rescued us made an odd combination but they were bound together by compassion and kindness.*

The footnote indicated reads, “It was two weeks before I got around to sending the books.  I received a letter from the Irishman’s wife.  Her husband had died the preceding week in a car crash.  The other books came back, stamped ‘Return to Sender.  No such address.’  The kindess that we had been given was never to be repaid.”

This episode epitomizes the whole book:  such a beautiful thing, with such an awful, awful ending.