by Luanne Rice
“Maybe it meant stay safe, stay alive.”
“Yeah,” Tim said, glancing over, wondering how Neve could so quickly decipher O’Casey-speak. “I wonder whether he said the same thing to Frank. I doubt he had to—he could have come right out and talked straight about the war. Frank would come home from the barn, telling me about Grandpa’s stories. All about World War II, the thrill of battle, and what happened right here, off the end of the jetty.”
“With the U-boat?”
Tim nodded. “Frank said U-823 was personal for my father, because he’d seen what happened to the Fenwick. My son was sensitive and perceptive; he’d get that.”
“What else did your father tell him?”
“Well, that he was commander of the USS James—a destroyer escort, part of a hunter-killer group with two Coast Guard frigates, another DE, and the destroyer Crawford. He’d assumed his command very young—that’s how it was in wartime. He had an awesome responsibility….”
Neve listened. Tim could almost feel her wanting to steer him back to Frank, to how Frank must have related to a grandfather who had become a naval commander when he wasn’t much older than he was, to what had happened to Frank, but Tim couldn’t let her. He had to keep talking about his father, because if he didn’t, he’d think of his son. Neve being here had somehow brought Frank back, closer to home—and Tim almost couldn’t stand it.
“The warships were on their way back to the Charlestown Naval Base, after escorting a convoy of merchant ships to New York City. The James just happened to be closest to the Fenwick when she was attacked, and right away my father picked up the U-boat on radar, at a distance of about fifteen hundred yards.”
“So close,” Neve said.
“Yes,” Tim said. “He had her compass heading, and he looked at the chart, and he figured she had to be making southeast for a steep shoal, just off Block Island. My father explained to Frank—who explained to me—that typical U-boat strategy was to duck into deep holes and avoid sonar contact.”
“So he wanted to head them off…”
“That’s right. He called the other warships, and they formed a patrol line, three abreast, to start searching the sea. It was a race to keep them from getting to the shoal, getting away.”
“Back to Germany,” Neve said.
Tim nodded. “The James was in the lead, and my father and his crew used everything they had. They had code-breakers, and they used HF/DF—high-frequency direction finding, what they called ‘huff-duff.’ The Cubzac, the other DE, made first contact—sound contact—just a few miles west of here, off Watch Hill. They blasted it with hedgehogs.”
“Hedgehogs?”
“Antisubmarine weapons. Small mortar bombs that exploded on contact—instead of working on a fuse, like depth charges. The spigots looked like hedgehog spines.”
Neve nodded.
Tim watched her for a few seconds. She stared at the water, and seemed steeled to hear the rest of the story. “It’s stupid,” Tim said. “Cute names like ‘huff-duff’ and ‘hedgehogs.’ You know?”
She didn’t reply, or take her eyes off the spot where the waves kept breaking.
“Anyway, after three attacks, the Cubzac lost the target. An hour later, my father picked it up—right here. The ships had been continuing their sweep, and my father reestablished sonar contact.”
“Right here?”
“Yes. They must have been sitting on the bottom, trying to stay still and silent as long as they could. My father’s ship passed too close, and the U-boat commander must have figured it was just a matter of time. U-823 came to the surface, fired ten rounds of three-inch fifty cal at the James.”
“Was anyone hurt?”
Tim nodded. “Two crewmen. They died here, right off Refuge Beach. No refuge for U-823 after that.”
“Your father fired back?”
“Yes, and the U-boat submerged again. My father started dropping a circular pattern of depth charges, all around the bubbles. It didn’t take long; that’s when oil began rising to the surface. Then charts, and pieces of wood. Finally a German officer’s hat. They didn’t stop attacking—my father kept it up all through the night, until dawn. Divers confirmed the kill.”
Neve was silent, and so was Tim. He stared out at the open water where so many men had died.
“Snow was falling, he told Frank. My father stood on the bridge and looked over here at the beach, and it was all covered in white. It was spring, April. And there was a flock of swans. Hundreds of them, he said. Just huddled in the shallow water along the beach, waiting for the snow to stop.”
“Frank told you?” Neve asked.
Tim nodded. He remembered his son recounting his father’s moment of glory: his blue eyes shining, his fist pumping as he counted the depth charges. Frank had been so proud of his grandfather—and so had Tim. There were moments, growing up as a child of World War II, when Tim had honestly felt his father had saved the world.
“Your father noticed birds, even at a time like that,” Neve said quietly.
“Just like Frank noticed them in Iraq,” Tim said, staring at the cormorants.
“Did you…” she began.
“In Vietnam?” he asked. But he couldn’t reply. Suddenly his throat was too tight, aching. He couldn’t tell her about the beautiful marshes, so watery and green, filled with more herons and egrets than he had ever seen. It had seemed horrific to him, ghoulish dissociation, a nightmare, watching birds while people died. But to think of Frank doing it seemed so beautiful….
Neve seemed to understand. She didn’t finish her question, or ask again. She just sat there on the log beside him, holding the white feather. He’d been positive it came from the snowy owl, but suddenly he wasn’t so sure. What if it had lasted here all this time, a remnant of that flock of swans here on the beach that snowy spring day in 1944?
“You said you don’t like words like ‘huff-duff’ and ‘hedgehogs,’ ” she said softly.
“I don’t,” he said. “They fool you.”
“They hide the brutality of war,” she said.
“Exactly,” he said, looking down at her, meeting her clear blue eyes.
“That’s what your father said about war nicknames,” she said. “Gray Goose, Silver Shark…”
“I don’t believe it,” Tim said. “He and his brother gave those names to each other. He loves them. I’m sure he has one for Frank.” Tim stood up, backing away from the log, staring at Neve with narrowed eyes. “And if he told you what it is, I don’t want to know. You hear me?”
“Tim,” she began.
“I told you—I don’t want to know.”
“I doubt he has one for Frank,” she said in a voice so soft Tim barely heard. Especially because he was running down the beach as fast as he could—away from Neve, the white feather, the jetty, U-823, its crew of drowned sailors, and the memory of his beautiful son.
12
Shane’s mother came home that night. She had been visiting her sister in North Carolina, and she brought him an American flag T-shirt from a shop on the base. She noticed his stitches right away and stiffened up at the sight of them.
“Got hit by your board again, didn’t you?” she asked, and he could tell she was trying to control her voice.
Shane was sitting at the table, eating Cheerios. Mrs. Halloran had fed him well—dinner last night and breakfast that morning—but he hadn’t eaten anything since then, and cereal was all he could find in the house. And he felt strange—shaky and light-headed, from getting hit in the head and learning that the U-boat would be gone by mid-April…and from having spent the night in Mickey’s house.
“No, Ma,” he said. “I didn’t.”
“You want to surf all winter, fine. But don’t expect me to like it! You’re all alone down on that beach until summer comes, and what if something happens? Who would help you?”
“The ranger,” he said. “Mr. O’Casey.”
“Well, he can’t be very happy with you. Not after what you tried to do to that trail
er….”
“It was a truck.”
His mother shook her head, waved her hand. “Whatever it was. You’re on probation, doing community service…. Are you trying to break every law in Rhode Island? Surfing on Refuge Beach is forbidden, and you know it.”
“They’re not going to arrest me—it’s a stupid law, never been enforced.”
“It’s a law for a reason.”
“Everyone does it.”
“Everyone is not on probation! Oh, I wish Aunt Corrie and Uncle Brad lived closer. If Uncle Brad got his hands on you…”
“He’d make me cut my hair, I know. He’d probably burn my surfboard and walk me down to the recruitment office. I’d be doing push-ups in boot camp if he had his way.”
“Well, it’s better than getting hit in the head with your board—in the middle of winter, my God, Shane! You of all people should know what can happen—I think it’s horrible of you to make me worry about you. I should put you on a bus down to Camp Lejeune right now.”
Shane stirred his cereal, took another bite. He tried to read the Cheerios box, just to keep himself sane. His mother was leaning over him now, touching his stitches with cool fingers.
“Why do you do it?” she asked. “Can’t you imagine how it makes me feel, seeing you do the same thing your father did, tempting fate in the same way?”
“I’m doing what I love,” he said.
“That’s what your father used to say. The bigger the waves, the better—he surfed hurricanes, knowing the beaches were closed and South County was being evacuated. He was foolish, Shane. He thought he was so brave and cool, but he wasn’t. He risked his life, and look at us now!”
Shane’s skin tingled with the thrill of knowing his father had done that, wishing he had known his father better, knowing that he, too, would surf every storm surge that came his way.
“You went in after him,” he said, looking up at his mother.
“I was foolish back then, too,” she said. “If I’d drowned, you would have lost both parents.”
“How come you married a surfer, and Aunt Corrie married a Marine?”
“Because only one of us had any sense,” she said, whisking away from the table, opening the refrigerator, putting groceries inside. She must have stopped at the store on the way off the highway.
In spite of the mean way she’d been talking about his father lately, Shane didn’t really mind. He knew how she’d felt about him: it was obvious from all the pictures she had of him, hung all over the house. Shane’s dad on wave after wave—she must have spent most of their time together sitting on the beach with a camera, trying to catch him at that sweet spot, just as the wave started to curl, sun shining through the water as if it were a piece of perfectly blown blue glass, as if he had found true peace.
“Why didn’t you tell me where you were going?” he asked, watching her over the top of the cereal box.
“I did tell you,” she said. “What are you talking about?”
“Well, you said you were going to visit Aunt Corrie,” he admitted. “But you didn’t say you were staying so long, through the weekend.”
“Things happen,” she said.
“Like what?”
She grabbed a yogurt, slammed the refrigerator door behind her. Rummaging through the silverware drawer for a spoon, she frowned as if nothing had ever frustrated her more—and he knew it wasn’t the spoon that was bothering her. It was Shane.
His mother wasn’t like Mrs. Halloran. She wasn’t…well, she wasn’t really that momlike. She was hardly old enough to be the mom of a high school kid, had gotten pregnant when she was only seventeen. She’d fallen in love with his father, eloped down to Cape Hatteras, where swells from a late summer storm were breaking on the Outer Banks. They’d spent their honeymoon with her throwing up and him surfing monsters.
Now Shane’s mother had a business selling jewelry over the Internet; she and her sister made it. Pretty stuff made of silver, glass beads, semiprecious stones, and seashells. Aunt Corrie promoted it down on the base, and it seemed all the military wives bought it for Christmas, birthday, wedding, and shower gifts for one other.
“So, what were you doing down there so long?” Shane pressed. “Something with your jewelry? Did someone have a shower or something?”
“Not exactly,” his mother said. She looked over at him, really sharp, as if in defiance. She had blond hair, freckles on her nose and cheeks, wore clothes that came from the same stores his friends shopped in the mall—young stuff like bell-bottoms and peasant blouses. But tonight she was dressed differently—she wore her usual jeans, but she also had on a red sweater that made her look older, more sedate.
“Where’d you get the sweater?” he asked.
“Someone gave it to me. It’s cashmere….”
“Who?”
“That major I told you about, okay? One of Uncle Brad’s friends. He’s very nice, and he wants to meet you.”
“Cashmere’s expensive, right?” he asked.
“Very.” She smiled.
“What do you mean, are you dating him?”
“Yes,” she said, sounding defensive. “In fact, I’m going back down there next weekend. You’re welcome to come, if you want.”
“Is there surfing at Camp Lejeune?”
“It’s not far from the Outer Banks,” she said. “But for God’s sake, Shane! There are other things to do.”
“Ma,” he began. He stared at her, not knowing what he wanted to say. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t ever dated before. But usually the guys didn’t last. She’d meet them through friends, or on the Internet. She’d joined some dating site, and for a while she was going out nearly every weekend. Shane had never minded—he wanted her to be happy, so she’d stay busy and let him alone about surfing.
But this seemed different. She was traveling interstate. Something about the way she’d glowed when she said “that major.” He’d given her a cashmere sweater. This seemed serious in a way Shane hadn’t seen before. She looked excited. Her eyes darted toward her computer—he could feel her wanting to get on there and start IM-ing her boyfriend.
“You’ll like him,” she said.
“Yeah, whatever,” he said.
“You will. Aunt Corrie said so, too.”
Shane started out of the room. Let his mother go online, he didn’t care. His head ached, and the stitches pulled. He’d been about to tell her about Josh hitting him with the log, but now he didn’t want to. Let her think he’d gotten hurt surfing—she’d look at the scar and think of his father.
“You weren’t foolish,” he said, stopping short in the door to his room.
She was already booting up the computer. It made sounds like a whale singing and clicking. But she turned away to look him in the eyes, puzzled.
“What?” she asked.
“To dive into the water and try to save Dad,” he said.
“I know,” she said. “I didn’t mean…”
“And it wasn’t foolish to fall in love with a surfer.”
“Okay, Shane,” she said, sounding funny—as if she was past even thinking about it, beyond thinking it was dumb or not. She was wearing cashmere, and she had someone waiting to hear from her.
Well, so did Shane. He grabbed the phone, went into his room, closed the door behind him. Even through the closed door he could hear his mother’s fingers clicking on the computer keys. Shane turned on his stereo, blasted the Pixies, dialed the phone. When Mrs. Halloran answered, he turned the music down.
“Hi,” he said. “It’s Shane.”
“Are you home?” she asked. “Did you find your mother?”
“Yeah,” he said. “She was visiting her sister. I just…forgot.”
Mrs. Halloran didn’t reply right away. In her silence, Shane could hear her thinking what a loser he was, for forgetting something like that, for having a mother who’d leave him alone for days at a time. She’d never do that to Mickey. But when she spoke again, her voice was quiet and kind, and there was n
o hint at all that she thought he was a loser.
“I’m glad she’s back,” Mrs. Halloran said. “It must be nice for her, having a sister.”
“Yeah,” Shane said. “I guess it is. They have a business.”
“What is it?”
“Jewelry,” Shane said. “They make it and sell it.”
“That sounds really good,” Mrs. Halloran said. “Well, I guess you’re calling for Mickey. Take care, Shane…”
“You too,” he said.
He held the phone, listening more to Mrs. Halloran calling Mickey than to Surfer Rosa, and stared up at the pictures on his wall. There were shots of his father everywhere. Hotdogging it on a short board; proving twin fins were a viable option in Misquamicut surf; getting spit out of a wave on Refuge Beach. Shane stared at them all, knowing his mother had taken them, knowing that he—their little kid—was probably sitting right there beside her on the blanket as she pointed and shot.
“Hey,” he said when he heard Mickey come on the line.
“Hey,” she said.
“What’re you doing?”
“Homework,” she said. “How about you?”
“Nothing much.”
“Shouldn’t you be doing homework?”
Shane didn’t reply. He half wished his mother had asked him that question before going online with the major. He stared at a photo of his father smiling into the sun—king of the waves—and wondered whether he’d be giving him grief about schoolwork if he were still alive.
“You’re coming back to school tomorrow, right?” Mickey asked.
“Yeah,” Shane said. “My suspension’s up.”
“That’s good.”
“I guess,” he said. “Sometimes I think I should just drop out, spend the rest of the year surfing. The beach and the waves won’t be the same once they take the U-boat away.”
“April seventeenth,” she said, sounding empty.
Shane closed his eyes. It was terrible, knowing the exact date his world would change, the waves would die.
“They can’t take it away,” she said. “They can’t.”
“Just because we don’t want them to?” he asked.
“Because of the men,” she said.