"I think this is called peace. We used to have it all the time." Armstrong didn't think about those days very often. He'd gone from high school almost straight into the Army. He'd been a boy then. If he wasn't a man now, he didn't suppose he ever would be.
"Not quite peace," Squidface said. "No pussy around. We went through that when we got here."
"Well, yeah, we did," Armstrong admitted. "All right, it isn't quite peace. But it beats the shit outa where we were at before." Squidface solemnly nodded and stuffed another slice of bacon into his mouth.
T hey gave George Enos shore leave after he helped bring the Tierra del Fuego back to New York City. They gave it to him, and then they forgot about him. He grabbed a train up to Boston, had a joyous reunion with Connie and the boys, and set out to enjoy himself till the Navy decided what the hell to do with him next.
The Navy took so long, George wondered whether he ought to look for a slot on a fishing boat going out of T Wharf. He could have had one in a minute; the Navy had sucked in a lot of first-class fishermen. But he had plenty of money as things were, with so much back pay and combat pay in his pocket. And if he was out a few hundred miles from shore when he got called back to active duty, there would be hard feelings all around. His wouldn't matter. The Navy's, unfortunately, would.
He was back from church one Sunday morning when the telephone in his apartment rang. He'd found he liked Catholic services. He'd converted for Connie's sake, and never expected to take the rigmarole seriously. But the fancy costumes and the Latin and the incense grew on him. If you were going to have a religion, shouldn't you have one with tradition behind it?
"I bet that's my ma," Connie said as she went to answer the call. "She was saying she wants us over for dinner… Hello?" The pause that followed stretched too long. As soon as she spoke again, her tone told George it wasn't her mother on the other end of the line: "Yes, he's here. Hold on… George! It's for you."
"I'm coming," George said. Connie's stricken face told him who the caller was likely to be. He answered formally, something he rarely did: "This is George Enos."
"Hello, Enos. This is Chief Thorvaldson, at the Navy Yard. The Oregon's going to put to sea day after tomorrow, and she's got a slot for a 40mm loader. You fit that slot, and you've had a long leave. Report aboard her by 0800 tomorrow."
"The Oregon. 0800. Right, Chief." George said what he had to say. Standing there beside him, Connie started to cry. He put his arm around her, which only made things worse.
"A battleship, Enos. You're coming up in the world," the CPO said. "You could hide your old destroyer escort in her magazines."
"Sure," George said, and hung up. He didn't much want to sail on a battleship. Like a carrier, it would draw enemy aircraft the way a dog drew fleas. But he couldn't do anything about that, either. With a sigh, he tried to smile at his wife. "We knew it was coming, babe. War's getting close to over, so I probably won't be gone real long now."
"I don't want you gone at all!" She clung to him fiercely. "And things can still go wrong at the end of a war. Look at your father."
He wished he'd never told her that story. Then he shrugged. He would have thought of it himself, too. He jumped when the telephone rang again. Connie picked it up. "Hello?…Oh, hi, Ma. God, I wish you'd been on the line a few minutes ago…Yes, we can come, but we can't stay late. George just got a call from the Navy…The Oregon. Tomorrow morning…'Bye." She hung up. "Pa's got lobsters, so it'll be a good supper, anyway."
"Won't see them in the Navy," George agreed.
Lobsters, drawn butter, corn on the cob…It wasn't quite a traditional New England boiled dinner, which didn't mean it wasn't damn good. "Enjoy it, George," Connie's father said, sliding a Narragansett ale down the table to him. "Navy chow ain't even like what the Cookie makes on a fishing boat. I know that."
"It's the truth, Mr. McGillicuddy," George said sadly. He took a pull at the cold bottle of ale. It wasn't bad, but he'd had better. He didn't say anything about that. Narragansett went back further than he did. "How long have they been brewing this stuff, anyway?"
"It's been around about as long as I have, and I was born in 1887," McGillicuddy answered. "Can't tell you exactly, 'cause I wasn't paying much attention to beer back then, but that's about it, anyhow."
"Sounds right," George said. He was born in 1910, and Narragansett had been a Boston fixture his whole life long. He took another swig from the bottle.
What with all the food and the 'Gansett, he wanted to roll over and go to sleep when he and Connie and the boys got back to their apartment. But he wanted to do something else, too, and he did. Connie would have thought something was wrong with him if he hadn't. And God only knew when he'd get another chance. "Gotta make it last," he said, lighting a cigarette to try to stretch the afterglow.
"I should hope so." Connie poked him in the ribs. "Don't want you chasing after chippies when your ship gets into some port that isn't Boston."
"Not me." George lied without hesitation. Not very often, anyway, he amended silently.
"Better not." His wife poked him again. "Give me one of those." He could reach the nightstand more easily than she could. He handed her the pack. They were Niagaras, a U.S. brand-they tasted of straw and, he swore, horse manure. But they were better than nothing. Connie leaned close to him for a light. He stroked her cheek. "Thanks," she said, whether for the smoke or the caress he didn't know.
He managed an early-morning quickie, too. Connie wouldn't have put up with that except on a day when he was shipping out. He kissed the boys good-bye-they bravely fought against the sniffles-and, duffel on his shoulder, headed across the Charles for the Boston Navy Yard.
Before he got in, Marine guards patted him down and searched the denim sack. Finding nothing more lethal than a safety razor and a clasp knife, they let him through. "Can't be too careful," one of the leathernecks said.
"Last week down in Providence, this shithead showed up in a lieutenant commander's uniform-he'd rolled the officer in an alley behind a bar. He blew up two guards-poor bastards-but he didn't get to the ships, and that's what counts."
"Story didn't make the news," George said.
"No-I guess they sat on it," the guard replied. "But one of the guys who bought a plot was my brother-in-law's best friend since they were kids. I knew Apple a little bit myself. He was a good guy."
"Apple?" George had heard a lot of nicknames, but that was a new one on him.
"Like a baby's arm holding one," the Marine explained. "Be some sad broads around, I'll tell you. Now pass on through."
Finding the Oregon was easy enough. George looked for the biggest damn ship tied up at any of the piers, and there she was: a mountain of steel bristling with guns of all sizes, up to the dozen fourteen-inchers of her main armament. She could smash anything that came within twenty miles of her-but, in these days of airplane carriers, how many enemy ships were likely to?
George shrugged; that wasn't his worry. He went up the gangplank and paused at the end. Catching the officer of the deck's eye, he said, "Permission to come aboard, sir?"
The OOD was a lieutenant. George had had a two-striper for a skipper before. "Granted," the name said. He poised pen and clipboard. "And you are…?"
"George Enos, sir."
The officer checked him off the list. "You're new, then," he said, and George nodded. The OOD went on, "What was your previous duty? And your battle station?"
"I was on a destroyer escort, sir-the Josephus Daniels. My battle station was loader on a 40mm mount. When they ordered me to duty here, they said that was where you'd put me." He knew the powers that be would do whatever they damn well pleased, but he'd got his druthers in. "I can do just about anything if I have to. I was a fisherman before the war, and I came back to the USA in the prize crew of a freighter we took in the South Atlantic."