“Ambition reigned over small pleasures?”
“That and a latent inability to sip. Wayne Newell remains a man fully committed to whatever he undertakes. One hundred percent full steam ahead in everything. No deviation once he has a goal. And moderate drinking was just asking too much of him — so he quit. ‘It’s all a simple matter of discipline,’ he says in a grand manner to anyone who’ll listen. Now, since he’s cleansed of one more sin, he doesn’t understand those who enjoy it. My good husband has so tittle imagination that he just assumes everyone must have the same problem with alcohol that he had,”
“And I suppose the same goes for smoking,” Connie said with a grin.
“He’d be a chain-smoker.” Myra took out the pack of cigarettes again and looked at them longingly before returning them to her purse. “Too soon after the last. How about something for dessert?”
“Not a chance. I put on weight every time Ben goes to sea.”
“That’s funny. A lot of us lose.”
“Some women stop eating when they’re alone — I make a pig of myself. It seems that I don’t cook any less for three than I do for four, and teenage girls eat like birds so they can fit into their bikinis. Who eats the rest?” She spread her hands in front of her before turning them around and pointing both index fingers at herself. “Mother! I haven’t been able to waste food since my parents used to tell me about the starving Korean kids.”
“Every generation has their own method of shaming a kid into eating.” Myra winked across the table. “And you’ve become a real, live victim. But no one would ever know, kid. You don’t look an ounce different than the days we used to force-feed our little monsters while old Stonewall was at sea.”
“You’re kinder than Ben. He claims that he sees so many overweight sailors who only stand watch, eat, and sleep that he doesn’t want to come home to a wife with the same problem.”
Myra nodded. “It doesn’t matter that they’re on different submarines or that they’ve both gone their own way, does it? You know …” she began, before pausing to search for the right words.
Connie Steel blotted her lips on her napkin and waited patiently. Her friend across the table had something she really wanted to say, and there was nothing to be gained from interrupting her. Myra was still nodding, staring out at the Pacific Ocean, silently agreeing with what she’d just said and what she was about to say.
“There’s something about little boys growing into big boys but still loving the same toys they grew up with. That’s why our husbands pick up right where they left off after they’ve been away from each other for years. It’s not that they love each other so much or that they’re such great friends. We’re — you and me — much, much closer. It’s those submarines they play with,”
“Their toys,” Connie agreed.
“Wayne’s probably into it more than Ben. Your man has room for you and the girls when he’s ashore. I’ve seen him — believe me. He gets his heart and his mind away from that boat for a while when he’s in port. Wayne never does.” She sighed. “He’ll throw a football with Charlie. He’ll take Kathy shopping, unless he’s bitching about her boyfriends. And of course he takes me out to dinner and then comes home for a romp in bed.” She turned away from the ocean and rested sad, brown eyes on Connie. “But after each of those pet habits — those naked urges to preserve the images of father and husband,” she concluded bitterly, “he’s back on Pasadena. Sometimes, I’m sure his mind is with Pasadena when we’re making love — just a different ride.” She blinked away what might have become a tear. “Does that make sense?”
“Can I tell you how many times I’ve heard that?” She thought about the cigarette pack in Myra’s pocketbook. God, how beautiful one of them would taste right now. “Do you remember the time Judy Bennett said something like that — about the different ride, I mean — at one of her wives’ luncheons when Mark was C.O. of old Stonewall?” She waved her hand, “Don’t bother to answer, it just proves we’re all in the same position at one time or another, if you keep in mind the Bennetts are considered the perfect Navy couple. It was an extra glass of wine or so that brought that out — and from the wife of the commanding officer, no less.” Connie giggled and wagged a finger in Myra’s direction. “You were the one who whispered to me that it was never going to happen to us, that it was more likely a problem for horny old Navy wives with teenage kids. And I think I said we’d be different because we’d seen it firsthand. So.…”
“So here we are … having lunch by ourselves because their toys keep getting bigger and faster and quieter and more lethal — the perfect piece of ass, I guess — while we get a little older each day.” Myra Newell gazed back across the Pacific. “I’m still not complaining … that much.…”
“Neither am I.”
“But there is a difference. Your man makes an effort to come back to you for as long as he can. Wayne tries — or he used to. Now he’s thrown himself so completely into Pasadena that I don’t think he has room for us anymore. It’s not just that submarine. There’s more, but I don’t know what it is.” She took two cigarettes from her pocketbook and placed one in Connie’s outstretched hand.
An aroma had settled in Pasadena’s sonar room that was decidedly human. It wasn’t necessarily considered a foul smell at that stage, more one that develops when normally clean people are too tired to shower and fall into their bunks with their clothes on. Then there’s no time between watches to catch up. Once it becomes universal, it also becomes acceptable — a hazard of the workplace.
Tension was also part of it, something undefined, an essence that contributed to the aroma and reflected itself in the unease of the men. They weren’t snapping at each other. No lights had broken out. It was more their silence, a desire to be isolated from the world around them. Too often they found themselves looking away from their friends rather than beginning a conversation. Responses to questions were shortened to one word or however many were necessary to convey an answer. Men no longer greeted each other by their nicknames. Officers were acknowledged more out of habit than basic discipline.
Pasadena’s crew was exhausted, physically and emotionally. They were at war. They had sunk two enemy submarines threatening their homeland. They had been ordered after a third. Yet there wasn’t a soul on board who had any idea whether his loved ones were alive or dead. Was there a reason to mourn? Or would they return to Pearl Harbor as heroes, saviors of their country?
They also knew they were again ordered to find and sink another enemy that could be much like the previous two — this new target would give every indication of being an American missile submarine! Their captain had once again indicated the target was approaching under the guise of an American boomer which they must sink before it sank them. It was the only way they could save America — and the doubters among them had been silenced by their captain. Not a man could remember as bizarre a situation in the history of the sub force.
Dick Makin slipped into sonar and closed the door behind him. “Christ, how can you guys hear anything when you smell so bad?” It was intended to be funny. There was no response.