by Sarah Sundin
The plane picked up speed, bouncing and jerking over the field. Dorothy slammed her eyes shut and clung to the stool.
“I clung to him, and I’ve never let go.” Wyatt’s voice filled her mind with its soft drawl.
Her fingers hurt from the clinging. Dear Lord, please let me live.
The jerking stopped, but then came a sickening feeling, like dropping and rising all at once.
Dorothy stifled a cry and opened her eyes. She couldn’t see a thing in the night sky, but she knew she was hurtling through the air, untethered to anything safe and secure. “Oh, Lord,” she whispered. “Please help me.”
The plane rocked and swayed. How could Coxy see where he was going? See the divide between land and sky, between life and death?
The plane tilted to the left, and Dorothy almost slipped off her seat. She couldn’t stifle her cry this time.
“Only a shallow turn,” Coxy called. “How are you doing?”
“I’m fine.” But her strangled voice betrayed her.
“Are you sure? I can go back at any time.”
“Nonsense,” Lawrence said in a loud voice over the roar of the motors. “She’s fine.”
Fine, fine, fine. How could she be fine when the motors rumbled through her, when the smell of petrol sank in her belly, when the plane’s incessant motion made her dizzy?
Nausea billowed, reminding her of taking the ferry across the Channel and heaving over the side.
Even the risk of losing her perch on her stool paled in that green light, and she pressed one hand over her stomach.
“Are you feeling sick, Dorothy?”
How could she admit such a thing? But how could she deny it? She tried to shake her head, but that only increased the vertigo, and she groaned.
Coxy cursed. “Please pardon my language. I’ll head back.”
“Balderdash,” Lawrence said. “She’s not sick. No self-respecting member of His Majesty’s Royal Navy would dare get seasick.”
“But she might get airsick.” Coxy put the plane into another supposedly shallow turn. “My ground crew will have my head if I have a mess. Sorry, old chap, but I’m in charge up here.”
Up. Too far up. How could air be bumpy? She clapped her hand over her mouth. Please, Lord. Don’t let me embarrass myself in here.
The air bumps were soon replaced by ground bumps. The plane’s rapid deceleration was both terrifying and comforting.
But the nausea didn’t stop. Why wouldn’t it stop?
The motors quieted.
“Dorothy? How are you?”
She wanted out. Immediately. She faced him, her hand hard over her mouth.
Coxy’s eyes widened. “Let’s get you out of here. Bumps, out of the way.”
Somehow she moved, her legs weak and wobbly. Coxy hoisted her up through the top window. Dorothy had to use both hands to climb out, so she squeezed her mouth shut, willing her stomach to behave.
She crawled along the wing toward the ladder, and then her body betrayed her. She leaned over the edge of the wing and retched, over and over.
The plane rocked, and she sensed the two men joining her on the wing.
“Blast it all, Bumps. You should have listened to her.”
“It never occurred to me.” Footsteps descended the ladder.
Dorothy gripped the wing, head down. How could she ever raise it again?
“Are you finished?” Coxy squatted beside her with compassion in his voice. “Do you feel better?”
Only her stomach felt better. Everything else felt worse. She groped in her trouser pocket for her handkerchief and wiped her mouth.
“Here.” Coxy handed her another.
She used that one to dab her eyes. Tears would ruin her makeup. But what were freckles compared to the revolting mess she’d made?
“Are you ready to leave?”
She nodded, miserable inside and out, and she backed down the ladder, hands shaking. “If he cares about you at all, he’ll listen to your concerns,” Wyatt had said.
How could Lawrence care about a wretched, retching girl like her? Why couldn’t she be the woman she wanted to be?
19
Slapton Sands, South Devon, England
Thursday, March 30, 1944
On the bridge of the British destroyer Seavington, Wyatt compared the map to the landscape before him. The Slapton Sands area had been chosen for the American amphibious training exercises because its shingle beach, bluffs, and rolling green farmland resembled the US landing beaches in Normandy.
The residents had been evacuated from the region in December, and the Americans had invaded with a big amphibious training center.
He lifted his binoculars. The two British cruisers and four destroyers had lifted their fire from the initial bombardment, and the dust kicked up by their shells obscured the landmarks, but . . . “There it is.”
The square lines of the abandoned Royal Sands Hotel disrupted the smoke. Wyatt skirted around some sailors to the pelorus, found the bearing, and glanced at his watch. “Captain, the hotel is at bearing one-one-two. We have nine more minutes before we have to hold our fire.”
“Very good, Lieutenant.” Captain Willoughby issued orders to fire on the target.
As the American naval gunfire liaison officer aboard the Seavington, Wyatt had spent the past few days meeting with the British gunners and gunnery officers. Although Exercise Beaver was an American operation, the US destroyers hadn’t arrived in England yet, so British help was needed to protect the convoy and for gunfire support during the landings.
Out on the gray waters of Lyme Bay, dozens of little LCVP landing craft darted toward the beach, carrying two regiments of the US 4th Infantry Division.
Wyatt glanced at his watch again. Timing and accuracy were vital to knock out enemy positions without hitting GIs. Those fake gun positions offered no danger, but the Allies had to take the exercises seriously to be prepared for the actual invasion.
Only two months away.
The Seavington’s four 4-inch guns cranked into position, and Wyatt bent his knees to steady himself. Light and smoke and noise assaulted his eyes and ears, and the concussion took his breath. The guns on the Hunt-class destroyers were smaller than on American destroyers, but the salvo was still impressive. He grinned at the navigator beside him. “Jolly good show, old chap.”
“Mighty fine shootin’ there, Tex.” Lieutenant Langley’s Texas accent was even worse than Wyatt’s English accent.
Smiling, Wyatt peered through the binoculars. A new tuft of smoke appeared about a hundred yards west of the hotel. He picked up the telephone and discussed adjustments with Lieutenant Foster, the gunnery officer. New coordinates were ordered, and Wyatt braced himself as another salvo disrupted the English country morning.
In battle they’d be unlikely to destroy an actual gun battery, since the Germans encased them in thick reinforced concrete casemates. But persistent fire could rattle the gun crew and drive them underground to seek shelter, and it could damage the supply lines—anything to keep them from firing on the troops on the beach.
A new pillar of smoke rose. The hotel . . . was it Wyatt’s imagination or had it just lost a chunk of roof?
The LCVPs drew closer to the shore. Time remained for one more salvo.
Wyatt made pencil marks on his map for each hit. He paused when the guns fired again.
Once the troops landed, the ships would hold fire until directed by a Shore Fire Control Party on the beach.
Wyatt didn’t envy those fellows in the landing craft. Sure, no one shot at them from shore, but live naval fire whizzed over their heads, getting the men used to the noise of battle.
A geyser of dust rose from the hotel—a solid hit, and Wyatt whistled.
The captain ordered the guns to hold fire. Wyatt made an X on his map and anticipated where the SFCPs might direct fire—at the draw, at the causeway, and at the hotel again, where enemy snipers were supposed to be located. He’d noted his landmarks and knew the coordin
ates.
Since the SFCPs wouldn’t call in fire for a while, Wyatt wandered out to the wing of the bridge. Barely above freezing, the sea air spun around him.
The British ships had a different scent, but a good one. Funny how every ship had her own unique perfume.
Thank you, Lord, for letting me be here. Not only was it fun, but he was helping prepare both the American soldiers and the British sailors for the coming battle. He felt bad for Geier, but the man had his chance.
Wyatt raised his binoculars. Tiny landing craft rode the white-tipped waves onto the beaches, and tiny soldiers ambled over the beach. Wyatt had a hunch they’d move a bit faster when they landed on Utah Beach on D-day.
“Hey, boys,” he muttered. “Take this seriously. It’s your duty.”
Duty. A little pang of guilt. By fulfilling his duty to his country, Wyatt was breaking his promise to help at Fairfax & Sons. Last Sunday he’d made progress. He’d figured out the departments and the flow of money. Next he needed to look for something fishy. That would have to wait.
Wyatt frowned and rested his elbows on the railing. He could still see Dorothy’s face when he told her he was going to Plymouth. She’d said all the right words—she was thrilled he had this opportunity and that Marino had seen Wyatt’s worth—but she’d been quiet and distant on the bus ride from church to the office.
That wasn’t like her. Was it because Wyatt wouldn’t be investigating for a while? Or was it something the preacher said? Something Wyatt said? Or another matter entirely?
He’d asked about her weekend, and she’d said she had a date with Eaton. Instead of gushing about him and every fancy detail, she’d said she didn’t want to bore Wyatt. And she got even quieter, a bit pale.
Maybe she’d had a fight with Eaton. Compassion for her beat out elation for himself. Besides, even if she’d had it out with Eaton, that didn’t mean she’d turn to Wyatt. If she wasn’t attracted to him, she wasn’t attracted to him. He refused to fool himself.
His breath tumbled white before him. Up went the binoculars. Couldn’t let himself be distracted.
On the beach, figures in khaki field jackets and olive drab trousers covered the beach and climbed over the seawall. Faint stuttering of machine-gun fire crossed the water.
Wyatt returned to the bridge and called down to the radio room—the British called it wireless telegraphy. They hadn’t heard from the SFCP, so he bided his time, his foot tapping on the deck. He couldn’t fire until coordinates were called in. He couldn’t risk hitting the troops.
On D-day they’d have to make dozens of decisions like this—where to fire, when to fire, when to hold fire.
For the sake of those men on the ground, he couldn’t afford to fail.
“Lieutenant Paxton?” a talker called. “Wireless, sir.”
“Thanks.” He grabbed the phone. The Shore Fire Control Party on the beach had called in coordinates, and Wyatt studied his map. Right where he’d predicted a gun position.
“Let’s blow that gun to kingdom come.” Wyatt grinned. Today he wouldn’t fail.
20
Allied Naval Expeditionary Force Headquarters
Friday, March 31, 1944
Gwen Hamilton leaned over Dorothy’s desk and patted a folder. “Aren’t you supposed to deliver this to Lieutenant Commander Eaton?”
Dorothy groaned. “I’ll wait until he leaves at five. I should have delivered it when he was away at lunch, but I forgot.”
Gwen perched her hip on the edge of the desk. “It’s been two weeks.”
Two weeks since she’d looked him in the eye. She waited until he was out of the office to place reports on his desk. When it was necessary to discuss something with him, she fixed her gaze on the documents, her voice cool and professional.
For the first week he’d seemed just as eager to avoid her, but this past week he’d tried to engage her. If he wanted an apology, she refused. She hadn’t done anything wrong. She’d told him she didn’t want to fly, and he’d ignored her.
Dorothy flipped through the folder, avoiding Gwen’s gaze. The only thing she’d done wrong was to fail to be the woman Lawrence wanted.
On Tuesday evening, she’d had tea with Johanna Katin and blurted out the entire mortifying story. Johanna thought it might be for the best. Her sweet friend thought Dorothy deserved a man she didn’t have to playact with. But Johanna didn’t understand the decade-long hold Lawrence had on her heart. She didn’t know what it was like not to be lovable as she was, not even to be loved by her own father. Playacting was her only hope.
“I’m still here, Dorothy.” Amusement colored Gwen’s voice.
“I’ve noticed.”
“Well, do you want to give it another go with Lawrence or not?”
Dorothy sighed and pushed the folder away. “Of course I do, but he—”
“But he wants a woman who is daring and sophisticated, and you’re acting like a mouse.” Gwen picked up the folder and shoved it in Dorothy’s face. “Hold your head high and deliver this with that darling droll smile of yours.”
First Officer Bliss-Baldwin passed and stopped to talk to Stella Dodds, not ten feet away.
This was ridiculous, the pining, the jealousy, the intrigue. Something hardened inside her. “No more of this,” she whispered. “I’m a Wren. I’m not here to win a man but to win a war.”
Gwen wiggled the report. “All the more reason to deliver this, oh brave warrior princess.”
Dorothy’s chin edged forward, and she snatched the folder. “I shall.”
She marched through the door into intelligence. Instinctively, she glanced to the worktable, but Wyatt wasn’t there, of course. He’d been gone almost two weeks now. A pang in her chest—again. She was surprised how much she missed him at headquarters and this past Sunday.
She’d almost skipped church, but the thought of Wyatt’s gentle reprimand led her to attend alone. Something else had drawn her too, a disconcerting tug inside. The sermon, the hymns, the Scriptures—they had an odd calming effect, a strange stirring, not unlike when Wyatt had prayed in the Tube during the air raid.
But right now she didn’t have the time or inclination to explore those emotions. She had duties.
Dorothy steeled herself, entered Lawrence’s office, and laid the folder on the desk before him. “The latest reports, sir.”
He looked her full in the eye, but she didn’t waver. She kept her expression strong but not one bit droll. She was here to work, not to flirt.
“Very good.” He stood and closed the door. “I’m glad you came. I’ve wanted to speak with you privately all week. I owe you an apology.”
Her mind stalled, and her lips parted.
Lawrence leaned back against the door and crossed his arms. “Time has a chastening effect on me. Yes, even on me.”
Dorothy let one corner of her mouth rise.
He frowned and tilted his head. “I’m afraid I allowed the . . . incident to color my opinion of you, which wasn’t right. It didn’t occur because of a weak will. Indeed, you agreed to fly despite your fears, which shows great strength of will. Rather, it occurred because of a weak stomach, and it wasn’t fitting of me to hold that against you. I acted the cad, and I apologize.”
A few pounds lifted from her shoulders. “Apology accepted.”
“Thank you.”
“And I apologize for ruining what should have been a lovely evening.”
“Apology accepted but unnecessary.” His gaze reached to her, beseeched her. “Do I dare hope you’ll honor me with your company again?”
The last bit of weight fell away. “Oh yes. I’m free this weekend.”
He winced and glanced away. “I have plans.”
Oh dear. Why did she always have to be so impulsive and eager?
“Perhaps next weekend?” he asked.
“I’m afraid I have plans,” she said in a bored tone. And now she’d lied, just so she could look sophisticated.
“Another time, then.” He stepped away
from the door and opened it. “I do hope it’s soon.”
To leave, she had to squeeze between him and the open door. She looked up into those handsome hazel eyes that promised excitement and thrills. “We’ll see.” She lifted one eyebrow, perfectly droll, and swung away—
And she almost bumped into First Officer Bliss-Baldwin.
The woman’s face went pale, and her gaze darted between Lawrence and Dorothy. “Why are you here, Second Officer?”
Although her heart raced, Dorothy kept her expression nonchalant. “I delivered a report, ma’am.”
“May I help you, First Officer?” Lawrence asked, warm and welcoming.
“I do have something to discuss with you.” Blissy brushed past Dorothy and into the office, shutting the door behind her.
Dorothy blew out a stiff breath and strode through intelligence. That could have been a disaster. At least Old Blissy’s reaction would show Lawrence the need for discretion.
For the first time, she wished he were stationed elsewhere.
Back at her desk, she finished the last of the day’s work. The French Resistance was becoming bolder each day, and they provided more and more intelligence about German fortifications, increasing and refining the details on Dorothy’s diagrams and maps.
So many of the sweet homes in the Vierville area had been demolished by the Nazis, to open the line of sight for their guns and also to ransack the lumber. Yet her holiday home stood, perhaps because it was built of solid ancient stone.
At five o’clock, Dorothy straightened her materials, grabbed her handbag, and headed out into the main passageway.
The door to intelligence opened, and Lawrence stepped out and smiled at her. “What fortuitous timing.”
She gave him a warning look. “Not if my commanding officer sees me.”
Lawrence strolled beside her, his overcoat draped over his arm. “Nonsense. I reminded Julia of what I told her at the start. You and I are old family friends.”
Did he kiss all his family friends the way he’d kissed her? Jealousy twined inside, but she unwound it. He’d made his opinion quite clear. A teasing smile rose. “I thought you found jealous women tiresome.” Oh, just the right amount of lilt in her voice.