By L. K. Lambert

After Mark arrived, his mother hugged him twice—once for the boy who left, and once for the man she hoped hadn’t changed. He smiled, said he was starving, and disappeared into the guest room to change. When he returned, he was out of uniform—just jeans and a tucked-in polo. Marion felt a wave of relief. He still looked like her little boy. Not a sailor. Not a warrior. Just Mark.

Dinner was quiet, familiar. Roast chicken, yukon gold potatoes, fresh picked green beans, with freshly brewed iced tea, and peach cobbler for dessert — Mark’s favorite. The kind of meal that only happens in a modest Arkansas home where the porch light flickers on at dusk and the blessing is never skipped. Afterward, they lingered at the table a little longer than usual. The kitchen clock ticked beneath a framed photo of Ronald Reagan, newly elected and smiling from the wall. Just beside it hung a simple wooden cross—unadorned, but reverent. Outside, the cicadas hummed through the open windows. It was August, 1981, and the Cold War still loomed like a distant storm. As was their custom, they retired to the front porch.

Frank stood up from his chair. “I’m getting a beer. You want one, Mark?”

Before Mark could respond, his mother spoke up, as only a proper Baptist woman would, “Frank, he’s barely twenty. It wouldn’t quite be legal for him to drink now.”

Frank didn’t flinch. “If he’s man enough to fight for his country, he’s old enough to have a beer with his old man.”

He went back into the kitchen and returned with two Budweisers. Marion sighed. “It’s just so good to have you home, son. Now tell us more about your job in the Navy.”

“Well,” Mark replied, “I mostly jump out of the helicopter to rescue pilots who’ve had to eject from their aircraft.”

She swooned. “Such a noble job. And to think, you’re in the military and you don’t carry a gun.”

Mark should have let her believe that. But he couldn’t deceive her.

“We don’t carry guns, Mom. But we sometimes carry weapons.”

“What kinds of weapons?” she asked, confused.

“Torpedoes.”

“Torpedoes? Aren’t those to shoot submarines?”

“Yes, Mom,” he said flatly. “My primary job is to hunt and track enemy submarines.”

There was a pause as she tried to make sense of it. “And when you find one, you shoot it?”

“Yes. But only if we’re at war. And we’re not now, so you shouldn’t worry.”

“When you put those torpedoes on your helicopter, how many do you carry?”

“Usually two,” he said matter-of-factly.

“So if you were at war, you could sink two submarines?”

“No, Mom. Usually the first torpedo, if it hits, will only cripple the sub. The second one is the coup de grâce.”

“And what do you mean by that?”

Frank chuckled. “He means he sinks the submarine, Marion.”

She frowned. “And all those men on board die?”

“I’m afraid so, Mom.”

Mark realized his mother was having difficulty with this. “But those boys have mothers too,” she objected.

Mark sighed and tried to explain.

“Mom, when we launch a torpedo on a target, we don’t do it just because they’re there. We do it because, at that same moment, they’re most likely planning to attack the carrier. Or in some cases… because they’re preparing to launch a nuclear missile on an American city.”

“Well—I guess I never realized. But these torpedoes… are they the only weapons you carry?”

Mark hesitated. “Not quite,” he said quietly.

“What else, then?” she asked, not realizing where that question would take them.

“Sometimes we carry…” He paused. “A depth charge.”

“A depth charge? What does that do?”

“It’s like a bomb. When it sinks to a preset depth, it explodes. If it’s close enough to the target—the submarine—the shock waves shake the sub until it breaks apart and sinks.”

“And when you use these, do you also take two of them?”

“No, Mom.” His voice dropped. “When we load a B57, we only take one.”

“But what if you miss? Or only cripple it?”

“That would be very unlikely.”

“Why? I don’t understand.”

Marion was getting more confused. Mark sighed and resolved to tell her everything.

“Mom… the B57 depth charge isn’t a conventional weapon.”

He still had trouble saying it.

“What does that mean?” she asked, her voice trembling.

“Marion,” Frank said, nearly shouting, “he’s trying to tell you it’s a nuclear weapon.”

Marion looked as if she’d been struck with a splash of cold water.

“Oh, my,” she whispered. “But… aren’t nuclear weapons used on cities?”

“No, Mom,” Mark said gently. “When we use the B57, we rarely miss.”

“Because you’re that good?” she asked.

He chuckled softly. “I’d like to think so. But mostly… it’s because the blast radius can be up to a quarter of a mile. Not much can escape it.”

“How often do you carry these…” she paused, “things?”

“I’ve never seen one. Not even in training. But I do remember—once, in a flight simulator—we deployed a B57.”

“At the end of the simulation, we were told we destroyed the target. But the shock wave in the air from the blast also destroyed our aircraft.”

“That can happen?” her voice tightened.

“Since we’ve never used it in anger, we’re not certain what would happen. But yes—it’s considered a very real possibility.”

She bit her nail. “Mark…” She thought for a moment. “I want you to promise me something.”

“Anything, Mom,” he said, momentarily forgetting how unreasonable she could sometimes be.

“I want you to promise me that if you go out to your helicopter and you see one of those depth… thingys… attached to it, that you won’t get on that helicopter.”

Mark sat in silence for what felt like an eternity.

“I’m sorry, Mom,” he said at last. “But I can’t promise that.”

“You promise me, Mark! Her voice trembling. “Frank—make your son promise.”

Frank sighed. Like his wife, he was not comfortable with the implications of their son’s duty. But he also knew his son would not shirk from it. So he said nothing.

Mark reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a Marlboro.

“Oh, goodness,” Marion exclaimed, “you’re smoking now?”

“Only a couple a day, Mom. Like after a meal.”

She watched as her son took a deep draw from the cigarette. A tear rolled down her cheek as she realized she could no longer see a boy—but a man. And it wasn’t the pride she had anticipated this moment would bring.

 

 

If this offering stirred something in you—
a memory,
a question,
a flicker of light—
you are welcome to share
your reflection below.
No need for eloquence.
No need for certainty.
Just a lantern,
gently placed.