by Sarah Sundin
“What about the—the ships in our sector?” Her voice quivered more than it should have.
“The destroyers have been magnificent.” Gwen’s eyes glowed silver. “They’ve closed the beaches, guns ablaze.”
Magnificent. Dorothy’s mouth relaxed. “Thank you, Gwen.”
“The latest dispatch, ma’am.” A Wren rating handed Dorothy a weather report.
Dorothy made notations, then carried the dispatch to Commander Pringle. “The latest meteorological report, sir. By the way, I’m relieving Third Officer Hamilton for the Omaha sector. She’ll remain in the Utah sector.”
“Very good.” He skimmed the dispatch.
While he read, she studied the wall map. The scale was too large to show any but the command ships, but she could picture the destroyers close to shore. How shallow were the waters? Had they been swept for mines?
She rested her fingertips on one of the ship cutouts. Lord, I know Wyatt is safe in your hands forever, but please—please let him live.
“Those Yank destroyers.” Commander Pringle shook his head. “Running around like gangsters, shooting willy-nilly, closing the beach recklessly.”
Dorothy offered him a smile. “Aren’t we glad they’re on our side?”
A wry smile rose. “Only if they win. At this point it’s in doubt.”
“The troops broke through here, didn’t they, sir?” She pointed to the spots on the map.
“In the wrong places. They’re supposed to take the draws first, and too few troops have ascended the cliffs to do any good.”
Dorothy knew little about military tactics, but couldn’t the troops on the bluff seize Vierville and its draw from behind? If they could only get enough men up that path.
She knew the path behind her house. She’d climbed it often enough.
Something hardened inside her, but in a good way. If the Germans had placed artillery in that house, Wyatt and his friends had better pummel it.
All the houses in the area, more than a dozen, and outbuildings too.
This was no time to be sentimental. The house would live in her memory and in countless of her paintings. The house and the tree and the . . .
Dorothy’s blood stopped cold. And the shack. The ugly, old, new shack.
She’d painted it black. Because she’d missed it. Because it didn’t belong.
Of all the aerial photographs, only the latest had shown the shack, and the one prior had shown a darkened area Dorothy had interpreted as a shadow.
What if she had been correct? What if the shack was indeed brand-new, built to look old? What if Wyatt had been correct? What if the Germans had built it to conceal a gun?
Commander Pringle moved down the map, where he talked with Commander Marino.
She oughtn’t to be impulsive. On the other hand, perhaps this was the precise time to be impulsive.
She approached the men. When they addressed her, she turned her clipboard to face them. “Sirs, I’m concerned about this area where the soldiers are climbing the bluff. Do you remember last month when we spotted a shack under a tree in this location? I’m convinced we’d never seen it before because it actually is brand-new. I’m convinced the enemy is using it.”
The men exchanged a glance.
A flat smile crossed Commander Pringle’s round face. “Thank you, Second Officer.”
“Can we target it, sir? Can we send word to our—”
The commander held up one hand. “Wireless silence. We only break it when absolutely necessary.”
Everything in her said this was absolutely necessary, and her mouth opened.
“We have several ships in that sector,” Commander Marino said, his dark eyes warm. “If the Nazis are using that shack, our boys will blast it to smithereens.”
She chewed her lips, then stopped. “Do you happen to know which ships are there?”
“Fire Support Area Three . . .” He narrowed his eyes. “The Carmick, McCook, Oglesby, and Thompson are covering the western sector of Omaha.”
Dorothy’s chest filled with light and hope. “The Oglesby? Wyatt Paxton’s ship.”
The American’s dark eyebrows rose. “That’s right.”
“Simply smashing. He’ll understand, sir. If we send him the coordinates, he could—”
“Can’t do that.” Commander Marino shook his head. “If we transmit coordinates and then our ships fire on those coordinates, the Germans can use that to break our code.”
Dorothy winced, but then hope returned. “Sir, tell him the shack is black.”
“The shack—”
“Is black, sir. It doesn’t make sense to you, nor will it make sense to the Germans, but Lieutenant Paxton will know exactly what it means.”
The men exchanged another glance, then both gave her that amused, long-suffering look reserved for silly but otherwise intelligent women.
Commander Pringle inclined his head at her. “Thank you, Second Officer. Carry on.”
“Aye aye, sir.” No other reply was allowed.
She returned to her station. If only she could shout across the Channel. Wyatt wouldn’t give her that amused, long-suffering look. He’d listen. He’d blow that shack into little black bits.
“Lord,” she whispered. “Only you can tell him.”
43
USS Oglesby, Omaha Beach
The Oglesby circled to seaward, reversing course, but Wyatt studied the area where Dorothy’s house had stood. Where were the Germans?
“Any contact with SFCP?” Captain Adams asked. “One more minute, and we’ll return to the D-1 draw.”
“CIC here. No contact with SFCP,” Jack said on the intercom.
How could Wyatt leave the job unfinished? He could still see Dorothy drawing a big old bull’s-eye on the house, nibbling on a pencil and frowning at the black shack.
The shack. He grabbed the map. They’d never taken the shack seriously as a target. Too small. But what if Dorothy saw inside to a black heart?
A loud whine overhead, then seawater spouted one hundred yards astern. A big shell.
The Ogie rode the wake and made a hard turn to port to throw off the Germans’ aim.
Captain Adams called out a westerly course back to the Vierville draw.
Not now. “Director to captain, I have the target sighted, a shack near the house we destroyed.”
“We’re taking fire from the battery at grid coordinate 654912. Target it.”
Wyatt located the battery on the map. That position had been silenced earlier in the morning, but the Germans must have manned it again. The battery perched on the edge of the bluff halfway between their current position and the D-1 draw.
The ship cruised fifteen hundred yards offshore, heading west.
“Captain, suggest we target the shack first. We can zip in, fire a few salvos, then swing around to the battery.”
Silence on the intercom. Had he angered the captain or made his point?
“Split fire.” The captain’s voice was brisk. “We’ll charge straight in. Fire forward guns at shack, aft guns at battery. At nine hundred yards offshore, sharp turn to starboard, all guns target battery.”
“Aye aye, sir.” Adrenaline and purpose warmed his veins.
“Left full rudder,” the captain ordered.
“Aft guns on director control, forward guns to local control, rapid continuous fire.” While the ship turned toward the shore, Wyatt called out coordinates for both targets and flipped switches releasing the number one and number two guns from the computer.
Tucker and Zaneti spun their hand wheels, lining up the director with the big battery. Down in the forward 5-inch gun compartments, each individual gun’s pointer and trainer would line up the shack in their sights.
Wyatt stuck his head out the hatch so he could watch both targets.
“Plot here. We have a firing solution.”
“Number one on target.”
“Number two on target.”
“Commence firing,” Captain Adams ordered. “S
teady on course, two-thirds speed.”
The Oglesby bounded over the waves. The forward guns pumped shells straight ahead at the shack, and the aft guns fired to starboard at the battery.
Acrid brown smoke filled Wyatt’s nostrils.
Although he hadn’t been named after Wyatt Earp, he felt like that famous lawman riding into town with his six-shooter. The wind buffeted his face, and his Texas blood galloped. “Yee-haw!” he yelled.
Back to work, back to the slewing sight. He brought the demolished house into focus, the tree, the shack. Branches snapped off in a cloud of leaves, and the shells fell lower. Bits of lumber arced into the air, then the shack exploded, a ball of fire and smoke.
No fooling, something had been in there.
He whooped again, then spoke into the intercom. “Forward target destroyed. Forward guns to director control.” He flipped switches to reconnect them to the computer so they could target the battery as well.
A loud whine, then two big splashes, one to port and one to starboard. A straddle! The Germans were getting their mark.
The Oglesby swung hard to starboard, kicking up a wave, and the 5-inch guns swiveled to port to keep the battery targeted. Wyatt clutched the rim of the hatch to keep his balance.
Those were big shells the Nazis were firing, and that battery would be thick reinforced concrete. The Ogie might be able to silence the battery, but they couldn’t destroy it.
Unless . . . A strange idea, but it might work. “Director to—”
That whine again, and the Ogie lurched. Once. Twice.
Wyatt dropped. The back of his helmet banged the hatch opening, his shoulder banged the rangefinder, and his knees banged the deck.
He cried out, but his voice was drowned by a blast of noise, then another. The concussion pitched him forward, and he flung up his hands and grabbed the base of the slewing sight so he wouldn’t smash his face.
Ears ringing, he picked himself up. They’d been hit, but how badly? “Anyone hurt?” he called out.
Tucker clutched his left arm. “I’m fine.”
Blood trickled from Zaneti’s nose. He groaned but then shook himself. “I’m fine too.”
Dabrowski, Jacoby, and Ruiz reported only minor injuries as well.
The Ogie had slowed and was dragging low in the stern.
His left shoulder felt hot, and he inspected it. Good-sized gash, mighty sore, but not much blood. His helmet and headphones had been knocked askew, and he righted them.
Urgent voices. Damage in the aft fire room, the aft engine room. Flooding. Two German shells had found their mark.
Wyatt peered out the hatch and up over the back of the director. Heavy black smoke roiled near the aft funnel.
He called down to the guns for reports. Both aft guns had been knocked off their training rings and were unable to rotate. Both crews reported injuries.
But the forward guns were undamaged, and the crew had only cuts and bruises.
More whines, and two more German shells splashed to port. The Oglesby made a creaky starboard turn.
Wyatt glared at the battery. The concrete was pockmarked but intact, and big chunks of earth had been knocked out underneath. His original idea flew back into his mind.
“Director to captain. Suggest we resume fire with forward guns.”
“No time. We have to abandon ship soon.”
Abandon ship? It wasn’t that bad, was it?
But the bow of the destroyer tipped up at about a fifteen-degree angle. Wyatt pressed up on his toes to see over the director. The stern was awash.
“Handling room four flooding!” sounded in his ears. “We’re evacuating.”
Wyatt grimaced. “Very well. Gun four, gun three, evacuate.”
Another whine, but softer, then a blast on the shore. The Germans had written off the Oglesby and were firing at the soldiers on the beach.
He could take out that battery. Everything in him wanted to stretch out his hand and protect the GIs.
But if he and his gun crews stayed behind after the order to abandon ship, he might condemn them to death.
His mind flashed to the ravine in Texas, to grasping for Oralee’s hand. This impulse to protect—was it nothing but pride?
The ship slowed, and the bow rose to a twenty-degree angle.
If he wanted to act, he had to do so now, before the order to abandon ship.
He clutched the rim of the hatch. Lord, what should I do?
With his eyes shut, he could picture Oralee tottering on the footbridge. What if he hadn’t reached out? She still would have fallen, but Wyatt would have had to live with the knowledge that he hadn’t even tried.
His eyes flew open. “Director to captain. Request permission to stay with ship, with forward gun crews.”
“We’ve lost computer control.” The intercom crackled. “We’re about to lose electrical power.”
“Please, Captain. I know how to destroy that gun. Please, sir.”
A long pause. “Very well. But no heroics. Get those men out of there.”
“Aye aye, Captain. I will.” He flipped the switch. “Guns one and two, stay at your stations even when the abandon ship order comes. Captain’s orders. Switch to local manual fire. Aim a few yards below the battery. We’re going to knock out its foundation. Commence rapid fire when ready.”
“Aye aye, sir.” Worry colored the gun captain’s voice.
The klaxon clanged. “All hands abandon ship.”
Wyatt yanked off his helmet and headphones. “Get out of here, boys. I’ll see y’all in England.”
He followed his men down through the hatch, grabbed a pair of binoculars on the bridge, and scrambled down the ladder to the forecastle deck. A stream of men tightened their life vests and filed to their abandon-ship stations.
Wyatt squirmed past them, climbing the tilted deck to the number two gun, which boomed out its shells.
He flung open the door to the gun compartment. Nine colored men were crammed inside the steel enclosure, pointing and training the gun, sliding projectiles and powder cartridges in the gun’s breech, ramming them into place, and firing the gun.
Wyatt gripped the rim of the door and leaned in. “I’m staying here. I’ll get y’all out in time. Meanwhile, keep on ’em.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
He climbed down the ladder on the side of the gun platform to the main deck and repeated his message to the number one crew.
Sailors pushed past him and climbed down the rope nets to the life rings.
Wyatt braced his feet wide and raised his binoculars. American and German shells crossed midair. The German shells tossed up springs of seawater astern, but the American shells dug into the earth below the concrete, dirt and rock gushing out.
Wyatt leaned into the number one compartment. “That’s the way, men!”
A scraping sound, and the Oglesby vibrated to a stop. She’d grounded in the shallow waters. The bow settled lower, and Wyatt winced. They were running out of time.
Still the two guns fired, faster and faster.
The tilt of the deck lessened, and the water level rose. The men in the number one handling room were below decks—they had to get out now.
He hated to lose that gun, but he couldn’t risk those men’s lives.
Wyatt poked his head into the compartment.
The gun captain’s eyes stretched wide. “Sir, the handling room is flooding.”
“Get them out of there. All y’all. Abandon ship.”
“Aye aye, sir.” Not one sailor argued.
Wyatt stepped over to the number two gun. Since it was elevated above the number one, its handling room was on the main deck with Wyatt.
He peeked inside. Projectiles and cartridges lined racks, and sailors hoisted them to the gun compartment above. “Keep on ’em. It’s working. I’ll get y’all out in time.”
Wyatt raised the binoculars. It was working indeed. The Germans had stopped firing. At the very least, he’d protected the GIs for an hour or so.
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More dirt and rocks flew from below the Nazi gun.
His feet—they felt cold.
A thin stream of water flushed over the deck.
“Please, Lord. Just a few more shells.”
One. Two. Three.
Wyatt groaned. He couldn’t wait any longer. Other than the number two gun crew, not one man remained on the Oglesby that he could see.
And water sloshed into his shoes.
“Come on, men,” he shouted into the handling room. “Get out of there. Abandon ship.”
They hopped through the door and hightailed it to the rails.
Wyatt climbed the ladder to the gun compartment, the rungs slippery under his wet soles. The gun fired, and he lost his grip and fell to the main deck, cold water splashing his face.
“Get out, men! Abandon ship!” He clambered up the ladder and onto the gun platform. “Get out now!”
The men squeezed out the narrow door, and Wyatt clapped them each on the back as they passed. “Good job. We silenced that gun.”
“We did more than that, sir.” One of the sailors raised his thick, dark arm to the bluff, where the battery teetered over a gaping cavern.
A growling, ripping sound, and the battery tumbled down the cliff.
Wyatt gasped. It worked. It actually worked! He waved his fist in the air. “Yee-haw!”
A great creaking shuddered through the ship and pitched her to starboard.
Wyatt’s feet slipped from underneath, and he tumbled over the deck, over the rails, cold water slapping his face, rushing over his head.
Yet only peace flooded his soul. He’d done the right thing and protected those soldiers. He’d done right by his family, and he was right with God. “If I . . . dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea; Even there . . . thy right hand shall hold me.”
Wyatt reached out to grab hold. It was a good way to die.
44
Southwick House
Dorothy signed the document, her head swimming with resignation and exhaustion. The sunlight through the windows of the intelligence office was only now starting to dim at 2130. Other than visits to the lavatory and a brief break at teatime, she hadn’t left her station all day.