This is a story about what it was like to serve on a nuclear submarine during the Cold War, and the aftermath
Cold War Patrol
I.
asleep in morse patterns deprivation of dreams
to escape from the beast moments on the beach
O2 set to minimum, crew’s berthings in peace
one hundred men below, one hundred days at sea
the north atlantic steals a submarine’s heat
a sweater and coffee i bought in cocoa beach
and pink floyd the wall word for word hey teacher
and i’d sit in the missile compartment to read
a tom clancy novel as the russian fleet sought me
i bought it in january at the base exchange
three months lump sum tore the enlisted club up
next day we got underway hungover, fired up
the power plant and the party was over till may
uniform rows stowed below like crew’s laundry
II.
it’s quiet and blue, more sleep is the clue
read, watch a movie, not much else to do
your days, in dreams, are spent back on the farm
until the next battlestations alarm
i head to sonar sleepy-eyed once again
for twelve hours of tracking soviet men
in simulations that aren’t simply ended
and drills designed to test your resolve
a hostile scenario allowed to devolve
into virtual attack, disbelief is suspended
i had real cans of coke and celestial seasonings
hanes beefy t’s cause the seas were so cold
wearing that sweater on christmas patrol,
blank memorexes, a couple of walkmen
a carton of smokes (to be sold)
tobasco and blueberry poptarts with frosting,
then whatever else i was told
talkin about camaros and kegs of blue ribbon
the girl back at home who won’t wait for you
as uncommon women uncommonly do
and that club down in Cocoa when liberty’s given
all that’s on the beach yet I’m still at sea
where I go deep to track the adversary,
lovingly classify your sounds, and study
in my mind living geometry, tactical poetry
subtly choose the approach i like,
silently flood my tubes and strike.
not quite so simple, life
though I tried to be a quick study
III.
Systemic sailor sleep deprivation
Consequence concealed on a subconscious level
My future revealed by a man who, disheveled
and unkempt, requested my kind contribution
Homeless in the Bean a routine, I’ll say this
he wasn’t straight to populate my distribution list
intact, tho one fact froze me flat in my Bostonians
The “Sub Vet” cap upon his nook n crannied cranium
and fate sets shipmates on different headings, it seems
but I know he wakes up sweatin to those same damn boat dreams
and I wonder if I’ll get his bed when I’m ready for the Soldier’s home
and if they’ll buy me whiskey so my head can rest a moment, so
I gave the guy a twenty storing karma as my last resort
he looked like I still owed him so I welcomed him ashore
a Globe obituary left on the next seat of the T
told me he’d accrued a star and fouled anchor after
thirty years at sea in the nuclear canoe club
and left behind no family, nor enemy sub.