The Sea Before Us

by Sarah Sundin

  “Been a while?” He straightened his tie and gave her a soft smile.

  “Ages.” Maybe his mother was correct. Although Dorothy felt limp, somehow she felt stronger.

  His mouth twitched up on one side, then he broke into a full smile. “You have freckles.”

  She gasped and covered her cheeks. Her powder! She’d cried it off.

  “Looks cute,” he said. “Looks right. Redheads ought to have freckles.”

  “Nonsense. They’re dreadful things.” She stuffed her handkerchief into her handbag, pulled out her compact, and turned her back on him and the platform. “Please pardon my manners. I simply can’t be seen like this.”

  “Don’t see why not. God made your freckles.”

  She dabbed powder on her nose and cheeks. “The Lord must have dreadful taste.”

  “Then so do I. Always liked freckles.”

  Dorothy checked her image in the tiny mirror, patted on more powder, and pinned up a loose strand of hair. Thank goodness Lawrence hadn’t seen her like that—crying, freckled, undone. She could imagine the disdain warping his features, and her stomach shriveled.

  She angled her mirror toward Wyatt. He gazed down the platform, hands in his pockets, with a hint of a smile. No disdain. Only acceptance.

  Dorothy snapped her compact shut. It wasn’t fair to compare Lawrence to Wyatt. Lawrence had his faults, but he was everything she wanted in a man and he wouldn’t steal her away to the Wild West.

  She returned her compact to her handbag, spun around with a smile, and grabbed her valise. “Shall we be on our . . . wait. Why are you here?”

  He chuckled and picked up his attaché case. “I’m delivering papers to Southwick House.” He pronounced it “South-wick.”

  “Suth-ick,” she corrected him.

  Wyatt shook his head as if scolding a small child. “Y’all really know how to mangle the English language.”

  Her laugh came out shaky. “The bus stop is this way.”

  He fell in step beside her. “So where have you been?”

  “London. Lawrence persuaded First Officer Bliss-Baldwin to grant me leave each weekend to see Papa.”

  “That was right nice of him.”

  “It was.” Papa had been so touched, he’d finally asked her to invite Lawrence to dinner. But she frowned at Lawrence’s true motives.

  Regardless, she whipped up a smile for Wyatt. “Are the papers about the training exercise? How was it?”

  He looked as if a cold wave had slapped him in the face. “Reckon you haven’t heard.”

  Appalled, she hung back a distance from the half-dozen people at the bus stop. “Oh dear. What happened?”

  “Don’t know how much I can tell you.” He sent her a cautious look. “It was bad. Men died—a lot of men. I couldn’t protect them, couldn’t save them.”

  Dorothy hugged his arm, his need for comfort overriding her need to smother her attraction. “I’m so sorry. It wasn’t your fault, was it?” Please, Lord. Please don’t let it be his fault.

  He drew a long breath. “Honestly, no. I just wish . . . but it was too late.”

  Questions crowded her mind, questions she didn’t dare ask. He’d probably told her too much already. “You’ve had a perfectly frightful week, you poor thing.”

  “You have no idea.” His voice sank to the cellar. “Got a letter from my dad.”

  From the despondency in his eyes, she knew the news wasn’t good. How dare that man! Wyatt was so sweet, so contrite. “He hasn’t forgiven you?”

  “No, he did. He did forgive me. So did Mama. But my brothers . . .”

  The bus pulled to the curb, and Dorothy and Wyatt boarded. She found a quiet seat toward the back, then coaxed the story out of him, how grief-stricken Adler had run away from home and how Clay hadn’t been able to become a doctor.

  “Now all three of you are over here.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “All three will fight on D-day.”

  “On the sea, in the air, and on the ground.” Wyatt sagged in the bus seat. “It’s all my fault.”

  “You mustn’t say that.”

  “But it’s true.” His face was too close, too unbearably sad. “If I hadn’t done what I did, Adler would be working at Paxton Trucking. He’s older than Clay, so he’d still be deferred. And Clay would be in college, also deferred because he’d be studying medicine.”

  “Oh, Wyatt.” She clutched his arm again. How awful. He’d been determined to forgive himself and stop punishing himself, and now this.

  “Don’t see how they can ever forgive me. Even Daddy said it’ll take a miracle.”

  Somehow she had to elevate his spirits. “Would a good cry help?”

  A smile crept up, fanning around his eyes. “Only works for girls.”

  “Well, if you ever change your mind . . .” She kept her voice light and patted her shoulder.

  Gratitude deepened his smile, and he squeezed her hand. “Thanks.”

  Oh dear. Anyone watching would think they were an item. She gave his arm one last hug and returned her hands to her lap where they belonged.

  If only it were as easy to return her emotions where they belonged.

  28

  Lyme Bay off Slapton Sands, South Devon

  Thursday, May 4, 1944

  From the gun director high on the bridge superstructure of the USS Oglesby, Wyatt stuck his head out the top hatch. A southerly force 3 wind roughened his face and the waters off Slapton Sands.

  Under an overcast sky, five of the ships of Destroyer Squadron 18 steamed toward the beaches to provide fire support for Exercise Fabius. The remaining four destroyers of DesRon 18 remained ten miles offshore in a protective screen.

  Wyatt’s stomach hardened at the memory of the disaster during Exercise Tiger. To avoid another tragedy, the US Navy had provided plenty of warships to escort the convoy from Weymouth the night before.

  Fabius had been planned for May 3, but poor weather had postponed the exercise to May 4. While the weather still wasn’t ideal, it might not be ideal for the actual invasion either. Wyatt agreed with Admiral Kirk’s order to proceed.

  Along with Wyatt in the cramped steel compartment, five sailors were ready for action. Gunnery officer Lt. Wayne Holoch was stationed several decks below in the plotting room with the Mark I mechanical computer.

  The Oglesby and most of her crew hadn’t served in combat, and this was the first time the men of the “Ogie” were working together in an exercise of this size. Even Wyatt hadn’t sat in a gun director in six months. Could be an interesting day.

  Muffled booms rose to the north and south, the opening bombardment by the heavy cruiser USS Augusta and the light cruiser HMS Glasgow.

  A flash in the sky stole Wyatt’s breath. Our planes or theirs?

  No air raid alert had sounded, and US B-26 Marauder medium bombers were supposed to bomb the beaches before the landings. Nine bombers flew west in a V formation. Wyatt glanced at his watch—0705. The B-26s, right on schedule.

  Was Adler up there?

  Wyatt took a steadying breath. No, he wasn’t. Wrong aircraft.

  A letter from Mama had arrived yesterday, as long and emotional as Daddy’s had been short and blunt. Adler had written home not long after Wyatt had, and Mama was thrilled to hear from both her lost boys.

  Adler was indeed a pilot based in England, flying a P-51 Mustang fighter plane. Although concerned for his safety, Mama was elated that all three boys were alive and serving their country. She didn’t mention why Adler had run away, but that was none of Wyatt’s business.

  She’d enclosed addresses for both Adler and Clay and begged Wyatt to write, but he had no inclination to contact them yet. Part of him wanted to avoid their replies—or worse, a lack of reply. Only cold, bitter, unforgiving silence.

  But mostly, he just wasn’t ready. The shock of Daddy’s letter was too fresh, and words failed him.

  The Ogie’s engines slowed, and the gun director rocked slightly forward. They must be nearing the fi
re support area.

  In the cold air, Wyatt adjusted his headphones over his cover. Exercise Fabius closely followed the orders for Operation Neptune. The US Navy’s Force O was landing American troops at Slapton as if on Omaha Beach. Meanwhile, other English beaches were mimicking Juno, Gold, and Sword beaches with Royal Navy Forces J, G, and S landing British and Canadian troops.

  At Slapton, the 1st and 29th Divisions would land in the same order as they would at Omaha. A few miles to the north, the Army Rangers were scheduled to land at Blackpool Beach.

  If only the Oglesby were stationed off Blackpool. Clay had to be there. If Wyatt could protect his youngest brother . . .

  He sighed and slipped back inside the compartment. Once again, he was trying to earn love and forgiveness. It was all up to Adler and Clay and the Lord.

  The general quarters alarm sounded. “All hands to battle stations,” a voice said over the loudspeaker. “All stations report when manned and ready.”

  The gunnery department had been ready for hours, but Wyatt glanced around.

  “Ready, sir,” said the pointer, the trainer, the talker, the rangefinder operator, and the range talker.

  “Director manned and ready,” Wyatt said on the intercom.

  After Wyatt received the ship’s coordinates, he marked his chart and performed his calculations for the assigned target—bearing eighty-five degrees, range fifty-one hundred yards. “Start tracking. Target angle eight-five. Range five-one-double-oh.”

  The pointer and trainer repeated his orders and turned the hand wheels on their equipment. The entire director compartment swiveled on its ball-bearing ring to face the target.

  “On target,” the trainer said.

  “Target sighted.” The rangefinder operator peered through the giant horizontal tube of his instrument.

  The corrected bearing and range were automatically transmitted to the computer down in the plotting room.

  Within a minute, Holoch’s voice came through the intercom. “Firing solution computed and transmitted to guns.”

  Wyatt flipped the intercom switch to speak to the pilothouse right underneath him. “Director to captain. Target sighted. Solution computed and transmitted to guns.”

  “Acknowledged. Stand by.” On the amphibious command ship USS Ancon, Rear Adm. John Hall, commander of Force O, would call the shots.

  Wyatt stood to look out the hatch. The Ogie’s starboard side faced the coast. To Wyatt’s left, guns number one and two rotated toward the target, operated automatically by the computer. To his right past the ship’s two funnels, guns number three and four did likewise.

  Another glance at his watch—0721. The first troops were scheduled to land at 0730, and the naval bombardment needed to finish before then.

  Another minute and the intercom went live. “Commence firing. Two salvos, four minutes apart.”

  “Aye aye, sir. Fire salvo.” He braced himself.

  Bright orange light, and then the boom and concussion shook the compartment. Wyatt grinned. He hadn’t heard the sound of 5-inch guns in months, and it still thrilled him.

  He pressed his eyes to the binoculars in his slewing sight and located the concrete bunker on shore. Plumes of smoke and earth rose slightly inland and to the left, not enough to knock out any guns inside but enough to shake up the gunners—if the bunker had held either.

  “Down oh-three-oh. Right zero-eight.” He called out corrections, and the trainer and pointer cranked their hand wheels. Those movements would transmit electrical signals to the computer, which would make the adjustments.

  “Plot to director, we have a new solution,” Holoch said on the intercom.

  “Acknowledged.” Wyatt counted off the time. “Fire salvo.”

  A giant roar and four more 5-inch projectiles shot toward shore, the last live ammunition the Ogie would fire today.

  More smoke and dirt obscured the target as the shells landed. A bit short, but the bearing was true.

  Wyatt ducked inside and smiled at his crew, kicking himself for not knowing their names yet. “Good job, men.”

  The pointer grinned at him. “We gave our boys a good show, sir.”

  “Sure did.” He looked out the hatch again. On Lyme Bay, dozens of small LCVP landing craft bounced over the waves. The day’s bombardment provided the ships some gunnery practice, but more importantly it acclimated the soldiers to the scream of shells overhead.

  Now the Oglesby waited. After the troops landed, the Shore Fire Control Parties would contact the destroyers to call in targets. Only simulated fire this time, but it would be good practice.

  Wyatt eyed the spectacle. First in the line of assault came the strange-looking duplex drive tanks—tanks fitted with a propeller for propulsion and a canvas shield to keep out the sea.

  “Sure hope those things work,” he muttered. After the warships lifted the bombardment and before the SFCPs could call in naval gunfire, the troops on the ground would depend on tanks for fire support.

  Even though the exercise was only a dress rehearsal, the sight of twenty-five thousand men on the move made Wyatt’s throat clamp shut.

  Ever since the Battle of Dunkirk in June 1940, the British had longed to return to France and drive out the Germans. For over a year, the Allies had made plans for Operation Overlord. And for the past four months, Wyatt had done his bit in the planning. Soon he’d watch those plans come to fruition.

  Dorothy wouldn’t see her work come to pass before her eyes.

  He smiled at the memory of her sorting photographs and plotting her findings on the map, enthusiasm lighting up her pretty face.

  Then came a sweeter memory of that same face pressed to his chest as she wept. Sweet forgiveness, sweet healing tears, sweet intimacy.

  If only that intimacy meant more than friendship. But it didn’t.

  Just as Mr. Fairfax almost saw Wyatt as a son, Dorothy saw him as a brother. And she was crazy about Eaton. The man might be dating others, but he wasn’t a cad, as much as Wyatt longed to cast him in the role. He’d been plenty kind to Mr. Fairfax, and Wyatt could always depend on the British officer’s competence and fairness.

  In time, Eaton would fall hard for Dorothy. Why wouldn’t he?

  Wyatt’s heart hadn’t accepted it, but his mind had. Even if he did see her again, he’d be transferred after Operation Neptune. Besides, he loved her too much to take her away from her father.

  Just as well she hadn’t fallen for him.

  “Mr. Paxton, CIC’s on the intercom,” the talker said from behind Wyatt.

  “Thanks.” Wyatt flipped the switch to connect to Jack Vale in the Combat Information Center. “Director.”

  “CIC here. We haven’t been able to make radio contact with the SFCP.” Disappointment lowered Jack’s voice.

  “Acknowledged.” Wyatt didn’t need to tell Jack to keep trying. On the beach, the tanks sat silently at water’s edge, according to the day’s plan. GIs scrambled over the sands, dodged beach obstacles, and cut barbed wire. Far inland, P-47 fighter planes strafed targets.

  What if the SFCPs couldn’t make contact on D-day? The destroyers would be blinded, unable to help the men ashore.

  Panicky helplessness gripped his gut, but he prayed it away. He couldn’t control everything. He could only do his part.

  29

  Southwick House

  Thursday, May 11, 1944

  Trees, hedges, and flower beds displayed their spring glory, the blooms bobbing in the warm breeze. But Dorothy didn’t sketch them.

  She sat on the lawn of Southwick House with her feet tucked to one side, a yellowed old sketchbook on her lap, and a tin of colored pencils beside her. Thank goodness she’d indulged in a pencil set before the war broke out, because they were no longer being manufactured and they fit so neatly in her valise.

  She’d skipped lunch to draw. Blissy had been in an infernal mood, and Dorothy wanted to avoid gossiping with her friends. It wasn’t fitting to make sport of her CO, no matter what a tempting target sh
e made.

  What did Lawrence see in her anyway? The woman was a jealous, manipulative harpy.

  Dorothy set aside her green pencil and her green attitude. First Officer Julia Bliss-Baldwin was beautiful, accomplished, well traveled, and she came from a family with titles, land, and money.

  The Fairfaxes had only money, and if the embezzler wasn’t caught soon—or if Papa were the embezzler—they wouldn’t even have that.

  Besides, Dorothy was the one with the date with Lawrence this weekend—even if it wasn’t the type of date she wanted.

  “Hi there.” A man plopped onto the grass beside her.

  “Wyatt!” She grinned. “What are you doing here?”

  He removed his cap, stretched out his legs, and leaned back on his elbows. “Such a nice day. Thought I’d go for a drive along the seashore.”

  She laughed. “Even if you could obtain petrol . . .”

  “Can’t fool you. Took the train and delivered some reports. Your friend—the blonde—she said you were outside sketching.”

  Her cheeks warmed. He came looking for her.

  “What are you drawing?” He sat up and scooted closer. “The house in Vierville again.”

  “Your target.” She grabbed a red pencil and drew a bull’s-eye on the front door.

  “You know I’ll spare it if possible.” Then he tapped the shack. “I don’t remember that in the other painting.”

  “It wasn’t there, because it wasn’t there when I was a girl. Lawrence agrees, but Bliss-Baldwin thinks I made a grave mistake.”

  “I doubt that.”

  Dorothy switched the red for black and filled in the few bare spots on the shack. “It isn’t my fault, but in the last reconnaissance photos, there it was. In the earlier photos, it was shielded by the tree, by shadows. No one saw it.”

  “Maybe the Germans built it to hide a gun. Maybe that’s why they painted it black.”

  “Oh, it isn’t black and it isn’t German. It’s unfinished wood and weathered, from what we can see. It must have been built not long after our last holiday in ’37.”

  Wyatt rested his forearms on his bent knees. “So, why did you color it black?”

  “I don’t know.” She nibbled on the end of the pencil. “I keep trying to change it, but I can’t. Maybe it’s black because it hid from me in the shadows or because I’m ashamed I missed it.”