“I don’t think I’ll like it any better, to tell the truth. The missile boats stay away so long…”
“Sure, Peggy, but they have two crews, don’t forget. Two skippers and all. Except for the turnover period, either you or Nancy Dulany will have your husband at home. He won’t even have the ship around to worry about. You’re luckier than Cindy Williams. The Manta doesn’t have two crews. Buck’s the only skipper she’s got. Even in port, there’s no relief for him.”
“Somebody was figuring out that because of the slow training program for replacements, a missile boat sailor would have to stay continuously on sea duty for thirteen years. That’s Admiral Brighting’s fault.”
“There’s always somebody talking that way at the beginning of anything that’s new and big,” said Laura. “It’s only last year the George Washington went to sea for the first time. You can’t …” The conversation was right back in its old track. Peggy was not looking at her, was staring out the window instead. Laura felt rising resentment at the U.S. Navy for putting her in the position of having to defend it, then realized it was exasperation with her visitor. She fought down the ire, made her voice gentle. “Come on, Peggy,” she finally said, “with two crews, the blue crew and the gold crew, Keith’s going to be home half the time, maybe more, counting overhauls and such. Besides, he’s barely begun with the Cushing. It hasn’t been too bad yet, has it? How was it with his previous boat?”
“Just the same,” said Peggy. “He was married to it, too.”
“Well, you’re not blaming Brighting for that, are you? Anyway, how long was he skipper of it?”
“About two years. That’s when the baby was born. Even then, I hardly saw him.”
“Has he had any shore duty since you’ve been married?”
“Yes, sure. He was in the Pentagon just before he got the Dogfish. It was nearly as bad. Sometimes he stayed nearly all night there. It’s just not fair!”
“What’s not fair, Peggy?” Despite Laura’s resolve, she sensed asperity creeping back into her voice, had to make an effort to will it out.
“The Navy. The way it treats people. Especially the ones like Keith who didn’t go to Annapolis!”
“That’s not true, Peggy. The Navy isn’t that way at all. Keith’s been treated exactly the same as everyone else.”
“Then why does he always get these tough jobs?”
“He doesn’t. At least, they’re not only tough jobs. They’re also very good jobs. Keith’s reputation is tops in the Navy. Look at the Cushing. She’s the newest and the best of the big new missile subs. Don’t you think every submarine skipper around would like to take Keith’s place? Or Bud Dulany’s in the other crew? Why do you think Keith was picked?”
No answer from Peggy. Again she was staring into the distance. Laura had the feeling that nothing she was saying, or could say, would change Peggy’s determination to find fault with her situation.
Proteus, a floating machine shop built during the war to tend diesel submarines, had been modified by the addition of facilities for the servicing of nuclear submarines and Polaris missiles. She was, by consequence, some forty-five feet longer than her sisters, but the extra length was indistinguishable except for the huge pair of gantry cranes that surmounted it. What was noticeable about the ship was that she looked more like an ocean liner than a warship. She had two promenade decks from bow to stern, two large smokestacks for appearance only (since she, too, was diesel-propelled) and she had many portholes along her sides. Only the anti-aircraft guns, still mounted, though seldom exercised, her coat of navy “war color” gray paint, and the cranes — far heavier than any liner would need — testified to her military purpose. That, and the fact that she seldom moved from her berth alongside a pier on the New London side of the Thames River. No ocean liner in service to an active shipping company would have been allowed to remain so immobile.
But Proteus was actively carrying out her primary function, although her propellers hardly ever turned, for there was always at least one and sometimes as many as four submarines alongside. The whaleback hulls, dull black in color, lay very low in the water. Only a tenth of their structure showed above the surface, and were it not for a prominent protuberance amidships vaguely resembling a sail, their presence would be easy to overlook.
Not that the residents of New London and Groton were likely to overlook anything. The easiest way to keep aware of what submarines were alongside the Proteus was to look southward over the rail of the high arched bridge across the Thames River as one drove eastward from New London to Groton. To the initiated, the white block numbers painted on the respective sails translated automatically to an intimate communication of the myriad of details beneath.
To be sure, the submarine nearest the bridge obscured the numbers of those between her and the tender. But such details presented little difficulty to residents of the area, who had long since become nearly as adept as any members of the U.S. Navy at checking out the submarines alongside the Proteus.
Rich’s office, as Commander Submarine Squadron Ten, or ComSubRon Ten, was at the forward end of the topmost “promenade deck” of Proteus, with large circular ports opening out upon the forecastle which lay two decks below. There was a watertight door to the side, backed up by a light wooden screen door, giving access to a verandalike extension of the covered promenade. Aft of his main room Rich had a private bedroom with a standard civilian-type metal bed bolted to the floor, and a private bathroom. The suite had a twin, on the other side of the ship’s centerline and easily accessible through a door, assigned to her skipper. Over the years it had become customary for the captain and commodore to mess together in the captain’s sitting room, thus leaving the squadron commander’s sitting room available for discussions and conferences. It was an arrangement dictated by necessity, for these seemed always to be going on.
There was a desk flush against the slightly curved forward bulkhead of the space, upon which rested a standard dial telephone, supposedly plugged into a special dock connection when the ship moored. It had been so long since Proteus had moved from her accustomed berth, however, that, for all Rich knew, the wiring might have been run directly to the nearest telephone pole. Attached to the bulkhead were the standard ship’s telephone, a gyrocompass repeater, a voice tube with swing cap leading to the bridge and, prominently centered, a bows-on photograph of Proteus with ten tired diesel submarines alongside. The caption read, “Tokyo Bay, 1945.”
Richardson had swiveled around to face Keith Leone, who was slouched in an armchair.
“You must really have pushed your gang on the Cushing, Keith. All the tests down at Canaveral were perfect, and you got away three days early. Now what can we do for you up here?”
“The usual, I guess, Commodore. Get us ready for the next drill. My crew is tired, though, and I am too, after the pressure they put us to down there. We’ll be glad to turn the ship over to Bud Dulany and the gold crew next week.” In what was an unaccustomed gesture for him, Keith passed his hand wearily across his face.