Under the Ice

Remembering his all too recent meeting in New London, Colter wondered if the admiral had known about this mission all along. Could this then be the reason why Long had proceeded to vehemently question Matt about his decision to return a week early? It would also explain why he had resurrected the incident concerning Matt’s reluctance to surface beside the English weather station, over a year ago. It was evident that Command was afraid he had lost his nerve, and wouldn’t be fit to lead the next mission under the ice they already had in mind for him!

Bravado and recklessness were two vastly different terms that were sometimes confused. This was especially true when a careless act, carried out with total disregard for human life, reaped successful consequences.

Wars were full of such incidents. Yet Matt Colter was not about to risk his ship and crew merely to show that he was made out of the right stuff. To him, human life was sacred, and shouldn’t be needlessly wasted if a legitimate threat existed.

The brand of coward stung every man. Even more so those who’d chosen to be officers in the military.

There was a thin line between responsibility for carrying out the order of the day and the obligation to look after the welfare of those entrusted to one’s command.

For Matt Colter, the choice had been obvious.

He had been unwilling to compromise his ideals, and stood behind his decisions one hundred percent. The mere fact that he had once again been sent to sea proved that the powers that he had accepted his judgment, and that his choice had been the correct one.

Satisfied with this realization. Colter stepped through the hatchway that led to officers’ country.

The wardroom table was empty as he turned to his left and entered his cramped private domain.

It seemed that he had just fallen asleep, when his cabin filled with the resonant sound of the diving klaxon. Briefly opening his weary eyes, he stared out into the pitch black confines of his stateroom, and instinctively felt the angle of the deck alter as the Defiance took on ballast and dipped its spherical bow beneath the surging Atlantic. Confident of his crew’s ability to safely run the ship in his absence, Matt Colter yawned and almost instantly fell back into a sound dreamless sleep.

Meanwhile, on the deck immediately below. Petty Officer First Class Stanley Roth sat in the crew’s mess room, gingerly spooning down a bowl of oatmeal. At the same table, his shipmate Brian MacMillan was also in the midst of a meal. Yet unlike the sonar technician, Mac as he was known to the crew, was well into a four-course steak dinner. Wolfing down his chow like he hadn’t eaten for a week, Mac started with a bowl of onion soup and a tossed salad. Once this was consumed, he began working on a plate filled to capacity with a juicy T-bone steak, fried potatoes, and an ear of steamed white corn.

His mouth still filled with partially chewed meat, the curly, blond-haired torpedoman gulped down a sip of milk and addressed his dining companion.

“Are you sure you don’t want to try a bite of this steak, Stan? For once in his life, Cooky prepared it good and rare like a steak ought to be.”

Stanley Roth wearily downed another spoonful of oatmeal before replying.

“I’ll take a rain check, Mac.

This tooth of mine is still a bit sensitive.”

“But I thought you were going to see the base dentist today?” quizzed the torpedoman in between bites of potato.

Stanley disgustedly threw down his spoon and cautiously rubbed the lower left side of his jaw.

“I did, Mac.”

“Well if that’s the case, why can’t you have a real supper?” queried the puzzled seaman.

Reaching into his pocket, Stanley removed a folded sheet of prescription paper, and attempted to read from it.

“The doc says I have a deep peridontal pocket on the distal of my left mandibular first bicuspid.”

“Sounds fatal,” reflected the torpedoman as he went to work on his corn. He proceeded to polish off half the ear before adding.

“Now, in English, what the hell type of ailment is that?”

Stan Roth seemed utterly frustrated.

“How the hell should I know, Mac? I’m no jaw breaker!”

Sensing the degree of his shipmate’s distress, the torpedoman put down his partially eaten cob.

“Easy, Stan. I’m not purposely trying to aggravate you. I only wanted to know what that dentist did for your toothache.”

After a series of calming breaths, the sonar technician replied.

“First off, I should have walked right out of there the moment I entered that clinic, because there wasn’t a soul in the waiting room. Some scrawny nurse had me put what seemed like my whole life’s history on a form and then led me into the back room. We must have surprised the hell of that jaw breaker, because we caught him red-handed, putting golf balls into one of those electronic gadgets that simulate a golf hole.