NOTE: This story is unrealistic. 'LOD' (leader on duty) is the wrong term for one lol and there are tons of other inconsistencies, but I made many of these choices for the emotional core of the story. No shame on the Navy. Oorah! 

Esther remembers what she served when the announcement was made that the six-month surveillance trip would become twelve: lobster. Hundreds of pounds of lobster, so fresh from the re-up plane that she and the cooks had to kill them themselves. It had been funny, even. Lobsters crawled the pristine galley floors, click-clacking claws shimmering in the artificial light. Cooks with butcher knives versus those beady-eyes crustaceans. It was war, alright. So many that the LOD had taken a few minutes from his papers and charts to drive a screwdriver between a few eye stocks. And then, of course, punish the cooks for the hell that was the galley.

Esther remembers the faces of the crew when they were served all that fresh lobster, more than they could possibly eat. Not gratitude but agony. Pale faces, sad upturned eyes, forks that stabbed uselessly at the soft pink meat. They knew without having to be told. More months trapped inside that godforsaken sub, sleeping in bunks half the size of the twin beds they had as children.

It was a very bad night. The claw marks in her arms and the muscle ache from fifty push-ups and one-hundred crunches notwithstanding.

When those twelve months became thirty-six, there was a similar feast. The galley was somber, cooks preparing a funeral meal. Sea scallops drenched in butter and garlic. Colorful fish gutted and deboned. Oil burns tattooed themselves on the arms of cooks determined to get the perfect sear on some hundred cuts of fillet mignon. 

When the crew of 150—some woken up mid-slumber—were herded into the mess hall, it was all groans and shouts as they saw what was presented painting-perfect in the buffet lines. Some of the roughest, toughest, and most exhausted the Navy had to offer, the submariners screamed and cussed God. They thanked the cooks profusely for the food before throwing whole plates in the trash out of protest. No filet mignon could make up for the time they lost, away from family, unable to even hear their voices on the phone. And for what? The South Pacific looked as calm and peaceful as a nature documentary.

"Ours is not to question why. Ours is but to do and die," the LOD often quoted. He'd remind them of the spiel every recruit received at boot camp about how they signed away their rights when they enlisted. No longer citizens but warriors, sacrificing their freedom to protect others. And if Uncle Sam said patrolling these pristine seas was protecting civilians, then that's where they would be.

When thirty-six months became fifty-two, unheard of for submariners, there came a last feast. Oh, how the cooks tried. But they knew their delicacies would be trashed. Esther couldn't touch any of her favorites, not even the scallops.

The LOD stopped quoting WWI poetry. Or lecturing. Or talking at all.

The sub took on a different vibe in those days, now colloquially known as "The Love Boat," it was its own small city. Peace & Love hippie ideology, mostly reserved for Esther and other begrudging enlistees, spread in whispers throughout until it had become a roar. At night, 'War, What is it Good For?' would play on ancient CD players.

And in one moment it all changes.

0400. A war vessel headed straight for the coast. Communication cut off, no way to reach Command Control. How convenient. One strike from the Love Boat means war. All those family members and lovers the submariners can only talk to during shore leave are in horrible danger.

The LOD gathers as much crew into the mess hall as possible. He explains the situation, although most are aware through their duty stations, and he offers solutions.

"We strike. We start a war. We ram it. It's an 'accident.' We die. It's my duty to make this decision alone, but I can't."

The second solution is unspeakable. Horrific. Men openly weep at the long tables. To die at these horrible depths, crushed by tons of water, torn apart by the engines. Esther squeezes the gold ring around her finger, just a simple band. Live to see her wife? Put her in danger by starting a war?

It's not even a slim margin. So much love in that submarine for the people they haven't seen in months, for those they've risked everything for. The crew chooses a quiet accident as their fate.

In a haze, Esther wanders the galley. The fresh food is gone; all left are cans and powders. Just today she served three-bean salad in vinegar. Certainly not the galley's best work, but all they had. She does math in her head, something her wife tutored her in. Just enough flour and sugar.

One last meal while they're all gathered in the mess hall. Chocolate chip cookies, something sweet and comforting. One last reminder of home.

A cook pokes his head in. And then another. Soon, her whole staff finds themselves in the galley, mixing ingredients, rolling dough, and covering each other in flour. They laugh. They cuss God one last time. They cry. The LOD lingers in the galley way entrance, wordlessly watching the alchemy.

It's not much compared to lobsters and filet mignon, but no cookie finds the trashcan.