We'll Meet Again(Richard Marcott) We’ll Meet Again


Large dusty gray padlocked sacks with faded USPS stencils were stacked on the pier awaiting the Coast Guard cutter Absecon’s return from Ocean Station Patrol. The crew wasted no time getting the mail aboard. I was happy to have three from Carol. I whipped through the highlights, then went back, not to the first one, but the last one. I reread it several times: “Well, the mailman came today–so I guess we’re officially engaged now.”

We hadn’t been together for two months. I wasn’t looking forward to the long drive, but if Carol was on Long Island–that’s where I was going for the weekend. To beat the sailors to the ferry, I left the ship at lunchtime. Well, that didn’t happen. Not on a Friday. Half the navy must have been leaving Norfolk.

I eased my ‘57 Mercury into the car line for the Little Creek–Kiptopeke ferry. The Del MarVa pulled out just as I arrived. The loadmaster bellowed directions and waved furiously, moving us into position while the terminal agent changed the huge red arrow on the clock-sign on the overhead archway: Next Ferry at 1:00p.m. I had to wait an hour.

I rolled down the window and tamped a fresh bowl full of London Dock pipe tobacco into my favorite straight stemmed briar. I sucked at the Zippo flame, staring down my nose at the growing circle of embers. The rising smoke encircled my head, spreading its soothing aroma of freshly lit tobacco. With my pipe clinched in my teeth, I surrendered my body to the plush white leather seat and thought about Carol’s letter.

She had written that she had rushed home from work every day to rifle through the mail until she found the orange postal notice for an insured box. “Mom,” she whooped, “The package came. I’m going right back out to the post office. See you in a bit.” They told her the mailman had taken it to deliver and was still out on the route.

She said she drove back home, then backtracked what she knew was George’s route. She had known her mailman for years, babysat for his children. Swinging up and down the side streets, she spotted him, bag over his shoulder, on Henry Street. She tooted the horn and slid her old Dodge coupe alongside the curb. She popped out, waving, “Hey George. Do you have my package?”

“Just this little box from Herf-Jones,” George said, giving her the prize with a smile.

Carol went home, tore into the box, and yelled, “Mom, it’s here! It’s here! My engagement ring!”

We had missed the traditional moment when many cadets got engaged—the ring dance. Amid the strains of Cherry Pink and Apple Blossom White and Unchained Melody, beautiful women in colorful gowns, and handsome cadets in dress whites, swirled by, whispering quietly to each other. Flickering lights, reflected from a rotating crystal ball, followed the dancers like flitting moths.

Whenever an engaged couple strolled up the ramp to stand beneath the crown of a giant plaster replica or our class ring, nearby dancers shared the moment. The cadet presented his miniature, a traditional engagement ring for all service academy graduates, and kissed his fiancée while accepting the smiles and quiet applause from the dance floor.

For Carol, the moment had to be by proxy, from the mailman, while I was at sea. I had sent the ring to Herf-Jones to change the setting. Given the ship’s schedule, it made sense to have it sent directly to her house. At least we took pleasure knowing her ring would be unique. It was a replica of my class ring (which limited it to sixty-one). Reset with her tourmaline birth stone and a small diamond arrangement, there were none like it in the world, nor would there ever be.

The sounds of revving engines, parents herding their kids back into cars, and the staccato thumps of car doors jolted me back to reality. Finally, The Princess Anne was ping-ponging her way into the funnel of pier pilings. No need for precise ship handling here. The docking team secured the ship in a noisy, but precise ballet of deck hands, shouting over the din of running chains and clanking ramps. From the ferry, the hollow roar of several hundred cars and trucks starting their engines echoed off the high cave-like bulkheads.

I opened my driver’s door, banged out my ashes on the rocker panel, and closed the door and the window to ward off the impending fog of exhaust fumes. The cars offloaded in rhythmic double bumps over the steel ramp. The hulking blue and white ferry, nearly four hundred feet long, could move as many as a hundred and twenty cars across the eighteen-mile entrance to the Chesapeake Bay. With seven ferries in the system, Route 13 had become the shortest and most popular way south from New York and New England.

In a practiced routine, big trucks loaded first, stacked inboard to outboard on either side of the centerline engine room cowling. Cars followed, all according to a weight and balance plan orchestrated by the loadmaster.

The Princess Anne pulled out and headed north toward the Kiptopeke terminal on Cape Charles, VA. The double-ended pilot house made it easy to drive straight on, then straight off on the other side. I knew the crossing would take an hour and a half, so I squeezed out of my Mercury and made my way topside for a ham sandwich and some fresh air.

The sea was calm. The bright blue sky sported a narrow band of wispy clouds on the horizon. People had migrated to the open topside deck to enjoy the pleasant afternoon on this beautiful October day. A few couples strolled hand in hand, watching others snuggled on the rows of benches. A handful of obnoxious kids circled the perimeter in an imaginary chase. A growing flock of seagulls swooped and squawked at each other, fighting for the best position over the ship’s wake to snatch breadcrumbs tossed into the air by giggling teenagers. Sailors clustered in random groups, noisily sharing their plans for their liberty weekend. A few remained aloof, retreating to remote benches, their necks crunched deep into upturned P-coat collars, like turtles, deep in private thoughts.

As we crossed Thimble Shoal Channel, I leaned on the starboard rail, took the last bite of my sandwich, and re-stoked my pipe. The sun cast a bright streak on the rippling wavelets. Like a beam, it guided my thoughts over the horizon. It was hard not to think of our last patrol when the German sail training ship, Pamir, sank. The tragic loss of over eighty young lives was a reminder of the power of the sea, and Hurricane Carrie. That had been less than a month ago. When would I let it go?

We pulled into the Kiptopeke ferry terminal on time. Reversing the disciplined order of boarding, the loadmaster directed the cars over the noisy ramp.

A wolf-pack formation of cars headed north on US 13. One by one, drivers broke off while the semis blew by us like we were out for a Sunday drive. Seven hours to go. With one brief stop for a snack, I could probably make it to Roosevelt, NY before midnight.

The steady hum of tires accompanied my low-pitched radio that changed from static to music to sports, as I dialed into whatever station was in range. I had plenty of time for mind-drift. Random scenes danced in and out of my head: my high school prom; saying goodbye to dad and mom on the steps at Chase Hall; Thanksgiving visits; graduation; meeting Carol. I chuckled to myself, “Poor Carol. After my nebulous when-the-hell-did-it happen, what-did-I-say proposal, now she had to get her engagement ring in the mail.”

A welcome sign alerted me that the Delaware Memorial Bridge was ahead. I had been on the road for four hours. Crossing the bridge, I merged into heavier traffic on the New Jersey Turnpike.

A little hungry, I pulled into the first Howard Johnson’s Plaza for a rest stop. There were no choices. They had an exclusive contract. If you were going to eat on the Jersey Turnpike, it was going to be at Howard Johnson’s. I skipped the all-you-can-eat fish special and wolfed down a platter of their famed macaroni and cheese. Lots of ketchup. Great stuff. I grabbed a vanilla cone for the road. As I exited the plaza, the Ho-Jo’s orange roof, with its trademark “Simple Simon and the Pie Man” weathervane, faded away in my rear-view mirror.

At some point, I detected a faint odor that triggered thoughts of home. I cracked the window. Oil! Through the latticed power-line towers, I could see the distant silhouette of tanks: flat, short, tall, thin, and onion domed. They formed a dark base that sprouted tall chimneys. Smoke billowed from some while others stood as silent sentries with red blinking aircraft warning lights. Flickering flames flashed from a few.

In the darkening twilight, thousands of white lights built their Etch-a-Sketch profile of tangled pipes and cracking towers. These huge refineries stood unaware that they owed their birth to the oldest refinery in the world, the Kendall Refinery, back home in Bradford, Pa. I felt a little smug.

My exit to Staten Island was coming up. I crossed the island to the 69th street ferry, then checked the cheat-sheet I had taped to the dashboard. “Follow the Belt Parkway to Southern State, then Exit 21 to Nassau Rd.” I pulled into the Berlinghoff driveway at 65 West Roosevelt Avenue just before 11:00p.m.

It had been a long day, but I perked up when I saw Carol running to the door to greet me. Her mom, in her bathrobe, stood behind her. It was too late for her dad, an early-rising milk man, to be up. Her mom chatted with us amicably. “How was the trip? Are you enjoying the ship? I’m excited for Carol. I’ll see you at breakfast.” Then, in a polite move, she said goodnight and went off to bed. I was so tired I was in the small attic bedroom before midnight.

Oh yeah–she was wearing her ring. So, I had missed the bended-knee-slip-it-on-her-finger moment too. But, although the seahorse tails and eagle wings of her miniature have rounded to smooth gold over sixty-five years, the magic of the ring still works for us.

I managed a few trips to Roosevelt between ocean station patrols and our wedding in March 1958. Distance, time, and winter weather made it difficult. I usually arrived near midnight on Friday. We enjoyed a late Saturday date, dinner and dancing, or a movie. I began leaving later and later on Sunday night. We did work in a little talk of wedding arrangements, but Carol and the “Queen Mother” were in charge of that. I told them both, “Ron (my best man) and I would arrive on time in March–just tell us where to stand.”

On my last trip before the wedding, I didn’t leave Roosevelt until very late. I knew I was in trouble as soon as I hit the Jersey Turnpike. I fought desperately, and not too successfully, to keep my eyes open. Two men in dungarees and P-coats were hitchhiking. I stopped next to them, not even pulling off the road. I opened my door, yelled over the top of the car, “You guys Navy?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“You headed for the ferry?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Do either of you drive.?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Get in. Take us to the ferry.” I opened the back door and flaked out on the back seat with no idea of even what their names were. I was asleep in seconds.

The abrupt bounce of the ferry hitting the pilings and the vibrations of her backing engines woke me at 7:00am. I was still in the back seat, below decks. Not a sailor nor another car in sight. The loadmaster wrapped on my window and mustered me off in time to make morning quarters.
I couldn’t keep doing this!

When Ross Parker and Hughie Charles wrote the WWII hit song, We’ll Meet Again. I wonder if they knew how timeless those words would be.
They were going to apply to Carol and me for a long time.
We’ll meet again, don’t know where, don’t know when.
But I know we’ll meet again some sunny day.

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