The selfsame situation fifteen years ago as the Bomb fell upon Hiroshima. He had been on convalescence furlough. They had been alone when the news came and there had been a drink between them just as now. And after the announcer stopped he had cried out hysterically like a child in a nightmare.
"Those fools, that's the end of civilization, that's no longer war."
"Shut up," his father had shouted, "how dare you insult the Commander in Chief to my face. Get out of here and stay out."
A highball glass had crashed against the floor. And that had been the end. He hadn't returned after the war.
Yes, it was most unfortunate that now, after so many years, they should read that memory in their faces; that it was only the glasses and not the minds which clicked.
They had put them down awkwardly with frozen smiles on their lips and his father had said:
"Sorry. But an old dog won't learn new tricks. Guess it's too late in the day for me and you to get together, son."
"It's never too late, Dad," he had wanted to say, but the words died on his lips.
So it had been the failure of a mission; but then it closed an old and painful chapter with finality and he was free to open a new leaf.