Byron walked along the forecastle and stood opposite his bride, almost close enough to reach out and clasp hands. She blew him a kiss. His face under the peaked khaki cap was businesslike and calm. A foghorn blasted. The submarine fell away from the dock and black water opened between them. “You come home, now,” he shouted. “I will. Oh, I swear I will.” “I’ll be waiting. Two months!” He went to his duty station. With a swish of water from the propellers, the low black submarine dimmed away into the drizzle.
