FMC Tom Riley
Hailing from Rumford, an interior town in Maine, Tom Riley was born just after Christmas in 1922. His father’s side had originally come from Ireland, refugees of the Potato Famine of the mid-19th century, but looking for opportunity they emigrated to Canada. There for a couple generations, their descendants then made their way across the border into Maine, the demand for workers in the paper mills there enough to convince them to uproot once more to the United States. Riley’s mother Nelly was a true “Maine Yankee” however, locals born and raised there in Rumford. This difference not mattering all that much, she was happy to settle down and raise her family at home, her days spent in a combination of raising their son and walking every day to work in the local laundry or out to the market to shop for the usual necessities.
It was a loving home and comfortable upbringing, although the young Tom was continually disappointed at having to grow up as an only child. With no one else in the home, he became very close to his parents, particularly his mother. The two spent considerable amounts of time together, especially in the years before he was in school, but the young boy also was forced to content himself with finding things to entertain himself on his own as well. This is likely why he eventually found his way into music, eventually adopting the trumpet as his instrument of choice – something the Marines would put to good use later.
Tom entered high school tall, thin and good looking. He was a good kid that was about the furthest thing from a troublemaker, but he also had a terrific sense of humor and was known to be able to turn any moment, into something much lighter and fun, no matter how serious. Naturally he was well-liked by all, and when given the opportunity that high school presented, the outgoing and fun-loving teenager quickly put his trumpet to work. He joined the Stephens High School’s orchestra and jazz band, the latter all the rage as it played for the school’s frequent dances. Fun as the band was, it was the orchestra that proved life-changing for the young man, where a pretty little violinist named Teresa Connors soon caught his eye. It did not take long before Tom was completely hooked, the young trumpeter virtually settling down right there, right out the gate.
No doubt with Teresa’s help, Tom stayed out of trouble and did well in school, receiving a much-desired acceptance letter in his senior year from Syracuse University, where he dreamed of one day attending and studying law. While he, like everyone else, paid close attention to the events going on in the world around them, at that moment life was still going on as normal for American kids like him. And so, beginning his senior year of high school, Tom pressed on accordingly without much thought otherwise, excited to graduate and then make the move to Orangemen’s campus the following school year.
Half way through his senior year of high school when the news of the Japanese attack reached him. With his heart set on attending Syracuse in just a few months, he came to the growing realization that he was mostly likely going to get a draft notice as soon as he graduated. Desiring to stay in school, he applied to the Maine Maritime Academy, where he could take ROTC and defer any military commitments until after graduation.
His last few months of high school went by even slower than most, Riley’s anxiety increasing more and more with each passing day, worried that a draft notice would arrive in his mailbox before his acceptance letter to the academy did.
Eventually he could sweat it out no longer and went to see a recruiter. Growing up his old barber had served in the Marines, and he never forgot the stories and fond memories he would regale his captive audience with. “He talked a lot about the Corps,” Riley recalled later, and so he ultimately decided to follow suit. Relieved in a way, he returned home, with orders in hand to report to Parris Island after graduation.
His acceptance letter to Maine Maritime showed up in the mail a few days later.
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