It was six in the morning after Thanksgiving in Herb and Marcia Slocomb's comfortable but unpretentious home in Litchfield County, Connecticut. The couple had awakened early and were having a quiet cup of coffee and nursing monstrous turkey hangovers. They'd had a late holiday dinner the previous day, and it had been an unqualified disaster. Burdened by an entirely different kind of hangover, the legacy of a bloody-Mary breakfast that went into extra innings, they'd burned some courses, under-cooked others, and omitted a few. Still, they were together, and very thankful for that, Herb having recently come back from a tour in the Persian Gulf with the Naval Reserve in support of Operation Iraqi Freedom.
Since Herb's return, they'd reinstated their custom of having him cook breakfast on week-end mornings – but neither was quite in the mood for food. Herb had guzzled a glass of ice-water with three Alka-Seltzers in it and closed his eyes against his gastric rumblings, while Marcia had repaired to the bathroom and, quietly, surreptitiously and in a very lady-like manner, "been ill".
When Marcia returned to their den, they both looked at each other, thought "Thither but for the grace of God" and chuckled, good-humored through their travails.
In the three weeks Herb had been back from the Persian Gulf, they'd nearly had to get to know each other all over again, the thirteen months' separation having made them almost strangers – but strangers who were deeply committed. It was like a second honeymoon, or more likely a third or fourth, given Herb's previous reserve assignments. And, it had all been so – well, surreal....
When Herb's ship, the USS Abraham Lincoln ("Honest Abe" or "The Old Rail-splitter"), CVN-72, had completed its deployment to the gulf, The Air Group Commander (CAG) had visited LCdr. Slocomb's stateroom and inquired if he'd mind flying him back to the States the day before the ship steamed for home. It was a request unthinkable to decline, and they'd come back in Slocomb's S-3B Viking, alone but for the Flight Engineer, refueling several times, on land and in the air, along the way. It was on this long flight that the CAG had broached the subject of a plum assignment in the Regular Navy. Captain Barnes, the CAG, was coming home to a star and the Deputy's billet at ComFairLant in Norfolk, and had selected LCdr. Slocomb for an assignment in Fleet Aircraft Engineering, specializing in landing and arresting gear. This was based on his long experience with brakes, struts and shock-absorbers at the plant on the Connecticut shore where he'd worked for fourteen years. Herb had quickly considered the offer, and declared, "Well, Sir, you know I'm a reserve, and this would be a whole new direction for me. I'll have to discuss it with my wife, and of course the company, who've continued my pay for the last year and a half, will be far from thrilled."
"Well, Commander – and by the way there's a grade promotion involved – you clear your decks the best way you know how, but I NEED you in that job!" said the CAG.
Capt. Barnes, a dour Vermonter, had arranged their flight into Westover Air Force Base in Chicopee Falls, Massachusetts; Herb had mulled over the offer on the long flight home. Finally, they touched down and rolled out on Westover's nearly endless main runway, accepted the salutes of the two Lieutenants (one a j.g.) who'd been dispatched from Oceana Naval Air Station to return the Viking, and greeted their wives, who'd driven down and up to meet them.
