It was a lively mess. There was talk of home, of wives and girlfriends and kids.
"Say, Fogarty," Sorensen said, "you have any plans for the thirty days' liberty we have coming up?"
"I thought I'd go home and see my dad."
"You ever been to Japan?" Sorensen asked.
"Nope."
"Ever think about going?"
"Nope. Too far away."
"Hey, man, you're in the navy. You can hop a military flight anywhere, any time. I went to Tokyo and came back in two and a half days, no sweat. This time there's no hurry. Look, I want a new tape recorder. Wanna go with me?"
"Maybe. I'll think about it."
"Well, you do that. Think about having a little fun. A woman walking on your back with tiny feet is very nice."
"For chrissake, Sorensen, don't talk about women right now."
Sorensen's eyes twinkled, "Tell me, Fogarty, was the Brit a good lay?"
"Yes, sure. But why get people upset with talk about women? By the way, don't you ever go home, Sorensen?"
"Home?"
"Oakland."
"This is home, Fogarty. I don't recommend it for everybody. But it's got its advantages… Most of these guys have families, or did. They all have trouble with their wives and more than half get divorced. They have kids they never see and parents who don't know where they are. Home for them is mostly some tract house on a Navy base with a busted washing machine and a Pontiac that burns oil. Their heads are full of Russians but they can't talk about it to anybody. It drives a man bananas. I tried it and it didn't work. Up there I'm a misfit. Down here I'm at least a well-adjusted misfit."
That drew a few knowing guffaws from the table. Sorensen went on to describe a night on Tokyo's Ginza that began in a massage parlor and ended in a sushi bar where the chef carved raw fish into erotic figures. Tunafish penis, octopus vagina. Everyone listened except Davic, who propped a Russian magazine against a water tumbler and methodically turned the pages, leaving greasy fingerprints on the paper and ink on his fingers.
Watching Davic, Fogarty picked at his chicken and let his curiosity grow. When Sorensen finished his story, Fogarty asked, "What are you reading, Davic?"
"An article on Czechoslovakia."
"That's interesting. What's it say?"
Sorensen now turned to listen.
"It says, 'The Soviet cultural attache left the Spring Art Festival in Prague in indignation after he learned that the colorful abstractions presented by several artists could be interpreted as anti-Soviet propaganda.' "
"My goodness, how rude," cried Sorensen.
Fogarty clapped his hand to his forehead.
"What happened to the artists?"
"It doesn't say. But for them, the gulag."
"Hey, Davic," Sorensen asked, "aren't you from New York?"
"I've lived there, why?"
"You ever been to Greenwich Village?"
"No."
"How about Coney Island? You been there?"
"No."
"You ever go to Yankee Stadium?"
Davic shook his head. "No, no sports for me. Except once I saw Moscow Dynamo play ice hockey at Madison Square Garden."
"Who'd they play?"
"Some Canadians, I think."
"Who won?"
"I don't know. They made me leave."
"For what?"
"I threw firecrackers at the Russians. Bang bang bang. It was wonderful."
"Davic, you're a fucking nut case, you know that?" Sorensen laughed. "Did you get arrested?"
"Sure, I've been arrested many times. At the UN, at the Russian consulate, at the Russian embassy in Washington. The KGB used to follow me home."
"How do you know it was the KGB? Why would they bother with you?"
"It was them."
"Davic," Sorensen said, "I know a lot of guys who don't like the Russians, but you, it's like an obsession with you."
Davic folded up his magazine and leaned across the table.
"Does that bother you, Sorensen?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"We're supposed to be professionals. Too much emotion can foul up our decisions. You should know that."
"You want to know why I hate them?"
"Shoot."
"They killed my father in Budapest in nineteen fifty-six when I was twelve years old."
"During the Hungarian uprising, the Freedom Fighters and all that?"
"Yes."
"Well. I can understand that. What happened?"
"Do you really want to know or do you want to make some kind of joke?"
"You've got the floor, Davic." Sorensen felt a little sheepish.
No one had ever heard Davic say much more than a couple of words at a time — usually a bitch of some kind. When he saw that all hands at the table were listening, he decided he'd go ahead and tell his story. He also decided he'd kill anyone who made fun of him…
"My family had a small grocery store on the ground floor of a new apartment building. It was a newly rebuilt part of Budapest. When the Russian tanks entered the city my father tried to keep me inside, but I wanted to watch the tanks and hear the roar of the guns. I was across the street when the first tank came down our block.
"A gang of boys attacked the tank with rocks. One threw a Molotov cocktail that just smashed against the tread of the huge tank and shattered. The gunner fired one shot over their heads to frighten them away.
"The shell landed in the store. Two soldiers climbed out of the tank and went in. When they came out, their arms were full of groceries, as much as they could carry. A ham, cans of fruit, jars of honey, bags of rice. I watched them go back again and again. When the tank finally left I went into the store. They didn't even move my father's body out of the way. They just pushed a few broken crates over him to get at the rest…"
Davic said these last words in a quavering voice.
"That's real bad, Davic," Sorensen said quietly. "But even for that you can't want to nuke all the people in Moscow—"
"Yes," Davic said, "and Leningrad and Kiev and Odessa too. The Russians have been doing the same thing for hundreds of years. The communists are no different from the czars. They rule through fear. They treat the whole world like my father's grocery store."
Sorensen now had to fight to keep his own temper under control. "You want revenge, Davic, an eye for an eye? That's how we got into this bind in the first place."
"The Russians understand revenge."
"Everybody understands revenge, you peabrain. Look what we did to the Japanese. We nuked 'em. Twice. But if we attack the Russians, that makes us just like the Japs when they sneak-bombed Pearl Harbor. Besides, when we bombed Hiroshima and Nagasaki, we saved millions of American lives. Or at least so they said. And remember, ethics and shit aside, they didn't have any atomic bombs to throw back at us. The Russians do." Sorensen took a deep breath, sort of pleased with his lecture. He hoped it got through to Davic and any others aboard who thought like he did.
Davic shook his head violently. "You're wrong, Sorensen. They are very patient. They will wait for their moment, and when it comes they will recognize it and they will strike. If they think they can win, they will launch. What's the matter with you, Sorensen? Are you blind? We sit and watch their power grow every day. More ships, more weapons, more men. Like this new Alpha. The only way to save ourselves is to stop them now…"
Davic sat back and looked around the mess. All conversation had ceased. Every sailor was looking at him.
Johnson, sitting at the far end of the table among the torpedomen, leaned over and said, "Right on, Davic."
Davic nodded and smiled. It was the first show of approval since he'd been aboard and it was heady stuff. Sorensen thought he caught a couple more heads nod, torpedomen. Fogarty stood up and was about to walk out of the mess.
"Stay put, kid. Look the old monster in the eye. It's the best way to put it back in its cage. Besides, Davic is doing us a favor, helping some of the guys face their worst nightmares and maybe get rid of them."