and you return to your ship, I want you to take your grandfather’s sword with you. It’s past time it saw battle again.” The gold-ornamented dress sword had always hung in a place of honor when Jack was a boy, and sometimes, on very special occasions, his father would take it down and allow him to hold it, and tell him that this was the sword his own father had worn at the Battle of Manila Bay. Later, during a bout of adolescent skepticism, it occurred to Jack that officers on dreadnoughts during the Spanish-American War did not wear swords into battle. Still, it was his grandfather’s sword, and he had fought at Manila Bay, so the heart of the legend was true. Jack’s eyes smarted.
“It’s damned funny, isn’t it,” his father went on. “Forty years in the service man and boy, through one great war and into another, and I have never heard a shot fired in earnest. I think I would have measured up, but how is a man to know until the test comes?” His eyes moved to the ribbon of the Navy Cross on Jack’s breast. “You’ve met the test, son, and met it well. I never doubted that you would.”
“Dad—”
“No, let me talk. We don’t have a lot of time. I want to say something about your brother.” Jack started; his father had never mentioned Edward after the court of enquiry on the Sebago disaster. “I know you blame yourself for his death, but you’ve got to put it out of your mind. If anyone was at fault, it was I. I pushed the boy too hard. I was so determined to have my two sons holding commissions that I refused to see that he wasn’t cut out for the Navy. He wanted to resign from the Academy after his first term, but I wouldn’t hear of it. I held you up to him as an example, which wasn’t kind to either of you. And after my pressure led him to disgrace himself, I washed my hands of him. My own son, and I wouldn’t allow him in my presence! If I had been more of a father to him, he never would have enlisted like that. He would still be alive today.”
“Sir, it’s over and done. What happened to Eddie was no more your fault than if he had been hit by a train. And if he could be here, he would say the same, I know he would.”
“Well, that’s neither here nor there. What’s done is done.” He moved restlessly. “What’s to come is another matter, though. I want you to give some serious thought to your future.”
“Sir?” Jack’s voice was full of surprise.
“I know, the hazards of battle. But if you survive, as I pray you will, you should consider whether to retain your commission afterwards. I know,” he continued, weakly raising a hand to block Jack’s objection, “I know you chose a service career, and I know how much I had to do with that choice, too. But maybe I pushed you too hard, just as I did Edward. The Navy is changing. It’s being taken over by the slide-rule johnnies and paper-pushers. There’s less and less room for individual initiative, and you’ve always been a lone wolf at heart. You’d die of boredom in a staff post. Once we’ve beaten the socks off the Japs and Germans, you may find that your strong points are more valued outside the service, in politics for instance. And I don’t suppose being a dashing ex-submarine captain would hurt you, either. You will give it some thought, won’t you?”
“Sure, Dad.” Nothing was more unlikely, but Jack was responding to the pleading in his father’s eyes, not to his words.
“There’s something else.” His gnarled hands pleated the top sheet nervously. “You’ll be head of the family now. I expect you to look after your sisters. I blame myself there; I never had the time for them that they needed, and I’m afraid your mother was not able to give them the right sort of guidance. Not that there’s an ounce of harm in either of them—I don’t think that for a moment—but the knowledge that someone who cares is keeping an eye on them may help put them on a better course. Helen may act very mature and modern, but I know she still looks up to you. Don’t let her manner stop you from doing your duty to her as your sister. She has a way of getting involved with some queer ducks, but your opinion is important to her. She wants your respect, and you can use that to keep her from getting herself into any more of these messes. I know I can count on you.”
“Of course, sir.” He tried to imagine himself laying down the law to Helen about her latest man—or men; she wasn’t always exclusive in her habits—and failed. He would sooner tangle with a Jap destroyer.
“There won’t be a lot of money,” his father continued. “I’ve always lived up to my income. I’ve asked Harley to handle all that. If it meets with your approval, he’ll rent out the house and invest what capital there is. Helen and Arabella will continue to receive their usual allowances. Since you haven’t approached me, I assume you’re managing on your salary. If you have any special needs, just tell Harley and he’ll take care of it.” His voice faded away and his eyes closed. After a few moments he opened them and said, “I think you should send Helen in now. I’ll see you later?”
“Of course, Dad. I’ll be right here.”
Chapter 4
“Where the hell is the skipper? He’s been gone a whole fucking week!” Torpedoman Mike Antonelli had spent twelve years in parochial school and six years as an alter boy at St. Theresa’s in Baltimore. As soon as he enlisted in the Navy, he’d started developing a vocabulary worthy of a bo’sun’s mate.
Motor Machinist’s Mate Jerry O’Dwyer drained his coffee mug before replying. “Didn’t nobody tell you? His old man just kicked the bucket.”
“So what? When my old man shoved off, the cocksuckers only gave me a weekend pass.”
“Your old man wasn’t an admiral, unless it was in the Italian navy.”
“Hey, at least we got a navy, right? You Micks probably make do with a couple of fucking rowboats full of potatoes.”
O’Dwyer stood up. “Another cup of mud?” he asked. Antonelli shook his head. From the coffee urn O’Dwyer continued, “You hear the one about what they drink in different navies? The Limeys drink rum, the Frogs drink wine, the Krauts like beer, we Americans drink coffee, but the Italians stick to port!” He was joined on the punch line by “Smoky” Stover, the cook, who was in the galley cutting sandwiches.
“Very funny. You guys oughta be on Amateur Hour. The first time I heard that one, I laughed so hard I pissed in my diaper. Anyway, I wish the skipper would get the fuck back here.”
“What’s the rush? They won’t start the war without us.”
“Yeah, Antonelli,” Stover chimed in, “what’s your problem? Aren’t there enough V-girls in New London to keep you happy?”
“Mike here is a real businessman,” said O’Dwyer, deadpan. “Last week, for the price of a Coke, he got a dose of the clap. Who was it, Antonelli, that bobbysoxer with the Veronica Lake hairdo and bazooms out to here?”
“Aw, blow it out your assholes, the both of you. Selma’s a nice girl, she only does it after dark. Not like that floozie you were with the other day. She’s made you a blood-brother to half the fucking fleet. Anyway, that’s all crap. It’s what’s happening on this pigboat that gets me. A couple more days of Mister By-the-Book and I just might take a walk.”
O’Dwyer instinctively glanced around the mess-room to see if the torpedoman had been overheard. “You want to watch that lip of yours,” he said in a lowered voice. “Talk like that can get you in heap big trouble.”
“Screw it. We didn’t have any of this bullshit on my last boat, and we took care of our share of Japs and then some. A fucking torpedo doesn’t go any faster because you dust and polish it every watch. The skipper seems like an
