The admiral and I talked about 1972.
About the ship. About the fire. About the men we knew who didn’t make it home from that war.
He told me about his career. His wife, Ellen. His son, who’s a pilot now. His grandson, Tommy, in the fifth grade, who was sitting across the table with his mouth open, staring at his grandfather like he’d never seen him before.
“I never told him that story,” the admiral said quietly. “Any of it. I never told anyone.”
“Neither did I,” I said.
He looked at me for a long time.
“I tried to find you,” he said. “After I made chief. Then again after I commissioned. I wrote to the
Navy Personnel Command. They said you’d retired. They wouldn’t give me an address.”
He shook his head.
“I looked for you for thirty years, Chief,” he said.
“I was right here,” I said. “In Norfolk. The whole time.”
