It was a good night’s sleep at Refuge Farm. That said, it took two layers of eiderdown to maintain the bubble of warmth in our beds. It was a struggle to maintain warmth against cold. Splash let out something that sounded like a giggle. Looking over at the little weather monitor in the great room, there was befuddlement. The digital display stoically displayed a two-digit number. That would not be unusual most mornings, but this one featured something unusual. A decimal point. The gauge read this: “7.9 (F).”
If the beds had not been made, it is likely they would have seen us back in them. Purely for safety.
Splash did a quick search on the archives for appropriate topics associated with the term “cold.” That apparently is a more common term than is useful for identification of topical things. He tried the search term again as “Cold,” which narrowed the search results to include only beverages, exposed flesh, and some disassociated but prominently labeled porcelain handles. Encouraged by that limitation, he tried it in all-capital letters: “COLD.”
That produced a groan. The result was exactly what should have been evident before hitting Google’s version of the world. It was about an undeclared but major conflict. The one that ruled our lives for nearly four decades, youth in “Duck and Cover” days to adulthood in hardened vaults. And, of all things, completely topical, since a separate strand of morning information discussed the benefits and hazards of war with Russia.
Everyone leaned forward around the cast iron fireplace. Melissa had dumped a treated fire log in the bottom of the grate filled with yesterday’s ash, and then a couple nicely seasoned real and natural logs. Loma grumbled that the Embassy in Kiev had been evacuated. We all had a sense of what that meant, back in the old days. The rising flames were a comfort, though, and interior temperatures rose gradually to the point that jackets could be safely removed inside.
DeMille looked at Splash’s tablet and sighed. The story was an old one, dated in November of 2004, so not quite twenty years ago. We were not young then, as a group, but certainly old enough to know better about at least some things. We thought that included the inherent danger of kinetic conflict with a nuclear-armed opponent. He handed the device back to Splash, saying “Go ahead. Tell us what it was like to be dark and cold.”
Splash smiled and began to read old words slowly. “It was dark, which was appropriate. Most of the shifts we worked either began in the dark, or ended in them. That was regardless of the time of year or the sunny nature of the clime where the vaults were located.”
The group had a collective memory. The light in the Fort Richardson Room of the Army-Navy Country Club eighteen years ago was like that on the watch floors. Florescent, and a little chilly in its illumination. But at the Club, there were cold libations and excellent hors d’oeuvres on the central table. Some of the vets couldn’t make it, and Vince had mailed the legendary stuffed fabric chicken mascot from one of the Watch Centers all the way from San Diego to preside upon the affair.
The stuffed fabric Frog from Rota, Spain, could not attend, although a fabric patch, suitably flat, was presented as a token. Some of the Old Salts recalled that before joining the chilly conflict, the Frog had been an artificial amphibious creature designed to supplement routine bath use. Either the effort for cleanliness had washed it away, or the collapse of the Cold War opponent had rendered it superfluous. Of the two iconic Cold War Mascots, only the Fowl remained to observe from the central table in a slightly dusty glass case.
The same patina of dust had settled on the Red Banner Pacific Ocean Fleet sailor’s cap that flanked the Fowl’s case on the table. Our opponents had been good at what they did, and respected at their trade. The cap had been procured in a chaotic but fully peaceful swap meet in Moscow after the struggle concluded. Another object was the drab tan tunic of the Red Army, also peacefully acquired, and festooned with Orders of This-and-That draped on the other side of the stuffed chicken.
Forty veterans of the Ocean Surveillance Information System had gathered on that chill evening to celebrate the conclusion of a great struggle. There had been no parade at the conclusion. Instead, there had been a breathless time as a Wall came down and the old Warsaw Pact melted away. Then the Union we opposed came apart at the seams.
No parades seemed appropriate since a single DELTA III ballistic missile submarine remained on alert to respond to potential NATO aggression. And it appeared Peace had broken out for the first time in our lives.
That great transition led to a bunch of other things. Freed from a bilateral and chilly conflict, there was a resurgence of a social religious conflict. Sometimes it was far away and sometimes much nearer and incandescent. There was never really time to savor the arrival of peace. The pressure to harvest resources to devote to something new was great. The elements of the system that contributed to the successful outcome of a chilly struggle lingered for a while, in Japan and Hawaii, London and Spain and suburban Maryland and Virginia’s Tidewater.
With another war in progress, the old memories associated with those places slid quietly away. They were renewed decades ago that night, which is now even more distant than the one we had commemorated long ago. But there is something new and startling this cold morning. There is talk again of conflict with an old foe, something that causes reflective memories to echo. It was easier that night at the old celebration, since the object had been to remember the effort the old struggle had required. And now, on this frigid morning, there is talk of conflict again.
We are too old to sign up for this iteration of old struggle. We do hope all concerned can remember what it cost to get to peace the last time. We would hate for another couple generations to spend the most productive years of their lives amid a dark and chilly War. Melissa dumped another log on the fire, and the temperature in the Great Room continued to rise slowly toward double digits. Triple, if you count the one after the decimal point.
“It was pretty darned cold this morning,” she said. “I wonder just how hot this can get?” She was gesturing toward the fire, but we took the metaphor.
A couple of us nodded in both likely directions. They remembered things like “analogous response” and “dual phenomenology” as daily issues. And concerns about desperate missions beneath the waves, far away.
There was some discussion of the nature of human conflict as the temperature slowly rose in the room. There was also talk about the nature of temperature, and just how welcome warmth could be. Provided it did not get too hot. We remember what we called it, since it was war in strange and constant chilly motion. At the time, it came branded in all capital letters. Bold assertive ones we had once embraced with the heat of emotion to keep things at a comfort level we could all accommodate.
As a group, we generally prefer “comfortable” to “hot.” Neither of those words in upper case. But we shall see about this iteration of the temperature in human affairs. There is a sufficient stockpile of logs to get as warm as anyone can stand.
Copyright 2022 Vic Socotra
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