Hannah's Moon (American Journey Book 5)

by John A. Heldt

  He held onto that happy thought until he heard footsteps and a laugh. He knew Tony Giordano had come to greet him even before he turned around.

  "I thought you didn't smoke," Tony said.

  "I don't," Ron replied. "I'm holding this for the captain."

  Tony chuckled.

  "Then you had better light another one. Cap won't go for that stub."

  Ron smiled.

  "I imagine he won't."

  "You have the next watch?" Tony asked.

  Ron nodded.

  "I just came out here to clear my head."

  "What are you thinking about?"

  "A better question is: What am I not thinking about?"

  Tony smiled.

  "You're thinking about your girl, aren't you?"

  Ron threw his cigarette overboard.

  "I think about her all the time. I wish I had a picture to show you. Hannah has a smile that could melt icebergs."

  "She sounds like a doll," Tony said.

  The time traveler turned toward his friend, who looked like a sailor out of Central Casting in 2017 or real life in 1941. Like Ron, the coffee vendor from New York City wore dungarees, a crisp denim shirt, a white pillbox hat, and sturdy black boots.

  "How are things with you?" Ron asked. "You haven't said much since we left Chicago. Is everything all right between you and Carla?"

  "No," Tony said.

  "I don't understand. She came to graduation."

  "I know."

  "So what happened?" Ron asked.

  "I asked her to marry me."

  "Did she turn you down?"

  Tony nodded.

  "She said she had to think about it."

  "Are you serious?"

  "I am. She said she doesn't like the idea of long separations. She's not sure she wants to marry a Navy man."

  Ron realized now that there were worse things than graduating from boot camp without your family in attendance. Getting rejected by your girlfriend was one of them.

  "So are you done? Did she break up with you?"

  "No," Tony said. "That's the thing. She didn't break up with me. She just wants to think things over for a while."

  Ron smiled.

  "I'd like to tell you that women make sense, but I can't."

  Tony chuckled.

  "Don't let your wife hear you say that. She might take your kid and run."

  Ron laughed.

  "Claire wouldn't do that. She'd give me a chance to repent first."

  Tony smiled and tossed his cigarette.

  "You're a lucky man, Ron Rasmussen. I hope someday to have what you have."

  "You will, Tony. I'm sure of it," Ron said. He put his hand on his friend's shoulder. "Now let's find something to do before someone else finds it for us."

  CHAPTER 51: CLAIRE

  Chattanooga, Tennessee – Wednesday, July 18, 1945

  Two days after learning that Ron was on a ship that would sink in shark-infested waters in less than two weeks, Claire sat at her dining table and asked herself what she had done to deserve so much misfortune.

  Had she killed anyone? No. Had she cheated anyone? No. Had she ruined anyone's reputation on social media? No to that too. In all her years, she had done little more than play by the rules and treat people kindly. Yet here she was, seven months after delivering a stillborn baby, facing another heart-wrenching trial.

  Claire thought about the unfairness of it all until she heard a sound in the kitchen. She turned her head just as her brother carried two mugs of coffee into the dining room.

  "Did you check Hannah?" Claire asked.

  David nodded.

  "She's sleeping soundly with Raggedy Ann."

  He handed his sister a mug.

  "Thanks," Claire said.

  "You're welcome."

  Claire watched with sadness as David claimed the seat to her right, set his mug on the table, and stared blankly at the wall. She knew he blamed himself for this particular mess and was wrestling with a boatload of guilt, remorse, and anxiety.

  "You can't continue to blame yourself," Claire said.

  "Why not?" David said. He turned to face his sister. "I'm the genius who urged Ron to take the plea deal. I'm the one who advised him to join the Navy. If he had fought the charges in court or joined the Coast Guard, he wouldn't be in this spot."

  "You don't know that."

  "I do though."

  Claire touched her brother's arm.

  "I don't want to fight. I don't want to dwell on our mistakes. I want to save Ron's life. There must be something we can do to help him."

  "I don't think there is," David said. "We've gone over this."

  "Then let's go over it again," Claire replied. "Let's talk about this until we're blue in the face. We still have time to find answers. Let's not waste that time."

  David nodded.

  "OK."

  Claire sipped her coffee.

  "Let's start from the beginning. We know Ron is on the Indy. An officer at Mare Island said as much Monday night. We can also conclude from Ron's last letter and his last phone call that he has no idea his ship is going to sink. Do you agree?"

  "I do," David said. "Had he known the history of the ship, he would have never boarded it. I'm sure of that."

  "Then we have to warn him. We have to bring him up to speed."

  "I agree."

  "So how do we do it?" Claire asked.

  "I don't know."

  "Are you sure about the ship's itinerary?"

  David nodded.

  "Like I said yesterday, the Indy will stop at Pearl Harbor to refuel and at Tinian to unload the bomb. Then it will proceed to Guam to pick up supplies and sailors. I'm pretty sure that Guam is the only place Ron will even have a chance to escape."

  "Then let's focus on Guam. When does the ship get there?"

  "It arrives on the twenty-seventh, three days before the sinking. If I remember correctly, it stays in port for only a few hours. Guam is a token stop."

  "OK. Let's go with that," Claire said. "Let's assume Ron has a chance to go ashore for a few hours. How do we get a message to him?"

  "We don't."

  "There must be a way."

  "He's on a ship at sea," David said. "He's on a ship at sea during World War II. It's not like we can pick up a cell phone and send him a text."

  "What about Margaret's fiancé? He's stationed on Guam. Maybe we can get a message to Ron through Tom Pennington. We can send him a telegram."

  "You've watched too many movies."

  "What's wrong with my idea?" Claire asked.

  "A lot of things are wrong with it."

  "Give me one."

  "I'll give you several," David said. "Let's start with the obvious. Even if Margaret agreed to help us out, there is no guarantee she could actually get a telegram to Tom. There is also no way she could give him specific instructions without putting him at risk. We know for a fact that censors read every scrap of mail. What do you think the Navy would do with a telegram that encouraged a junior officer to find and detain an enlisted man for the sole purpose of keeping him off his ship?"

  "They would probably keep it."

  "They would probably use it to launch an investigation. I don't think any of us, including Margaret and Tom, want that."

  "You're right," Claire said.

  "I like your logic, but your idea isn't practical. Even if we could get an uncensored telegram to Tom and he agreed to risk a court-martial by helping a stranger break the law, there is no guarantee he would even have access to Ron."

  "So what can we do?"

  "I don't think we can do anything except wait and pray," David said. "I've gone over this a hundred times and can't think of a single thing that would help."

  "What if we send a letter directly to Ron? Is there any way we can get it in his hands before it's too late?"

  "I don't know."

  "What do you mean you don't know?" Claire asked. "Either we can or we can't."

  David took a breat
h.

  "There is no way we can reach Ron before he arrives in Guam, but there may be a way we can reach him when he arrives."

  "What is it?"

  "It is something called V-mail. It's a process where one-page letters are photographed, converted to microfilm, and flown to distribution centers near the war zones. Once there, the letters are printed back to paper and delivered to servicemen."

  "How long does this process take?" Claire asked.

  "It varies. In theory, we could get a letter to Ron in eight to twelve days."

  "We have ten."

  "That's not the problem," David said. "A V-mail letter, by definition, is short. It's the Twitter of the forties. You can't say much in one. It is also heavily censored. Even if we could get a letter to Ron by the time he gets to Guam, we couldn't say anything useful. If the Navy thought we were up to something, it would never deliver the letter."

  "I agree."

  "Then we're back to square one."

  "Maybe," Claire said. "Maybe not."

  "What are you thinking?"

  "I'm thinking about something you said."

  "What?" David asked.

  "You said I've seen too many movies."

  "So?"

  "Your comment gave me an idea."

  "Claire?"

  "I think I can beat the censors."

  "How do you propose to do that?"

  "Let me worry about that," Claire said. She looked at her brother with determined eyes. "In the meantime, tell me how to send one of these letters."

  CHAPTER 52: DAVID

  Saturday, July 21, 1945

  One week after seeing Margaret for what he thought would be the last time, David carried a peach pie onto her porch, knocked on her door, and waited for a reply. He expected a reply because he heard Bing Crosby's "Swinging on a Star" emanate from the living room. Whether he wanted a reply was another matter.

  David had mixed feelings about even walking across the street. On the one hand, he wanted to see Margaret again. He wanted to enjoy her beauty and charm for as long as he could. On the other hand, he did not see the point. He had already mentally and emotionally divested himself of a woman who belonged to another man and would never belong to him.

  David knocked a second time. When no one answered, he stepped back, turned around, and started to walk away. He got as far as the porch steps when he heard the door open.

  "Did you bring me something?" Margaret asked.

  David stopped, turned around again, and saw his friend and fellow educator standing in the doorway. He smiled when she smiled at him.

  "I brought you a pie," David said. "Claire made two this morning and asked me to bring one over. I hope you like peach."

  Margaret widened her smile.

  "I like anything with a crust. Come in."

  David stepped forward and walked through the door. He stopped in the living room and turned to face his neighbor when she shut the door behind him.

  "Where should I put the pie?" David asked.

  "I'll take it," Margaret said.

  "OK."

  Margaret liberated the pie, entered the hallway, and disappeared in the linoleum and Formica haven that was her kitchen. She returned to the living room a moment later.

  "Do you have time to visit?" Margaret asked.

  "I suppose," David said.

  "Then make yourself comfortable."

  "All right."

  David walked a few feet to a brown mohair sofa, sat on the farthest end, and settled in. He watched with interest as Margaret stepped to a console phonograph, traded Bing Crosby for the Andrews Sisters, and started playing "Don't Sit Under the Apple Tree."

  "Do you like my new toy?" Margaret asked.

  "It's nice," David said.

  "It's not new, actually. It's a few years old, but it plays like it's new. I bought it from Mr. Pendleton, our neighbor three doors down. It seems he's moving too."

  Margaret turned away from the phonograph, walked to the couch, and sat next to her unannounced guest. Wearing a shimmering blue swing dress, white heels, and a string of pearls, she looked like a million bucks.

  "You look pretty," David said. "Are you going out?"

  "I'm not going anywhere. I'm playing dress up," Margaret said. She smiled. "Laura gave me this dress. She said she can't wear it anymore."

  "Having kids will do that to you."

  "I know."

  David kicked himself.

  "I'm sorry. I didn't mean anything by that."

  "I know you didn't," Margaret said. "You're too kind to do that. But I do wonder what you think of me now that you know I'm a fallen woman."

  "You're not a fallen woman. You're a decent, moral person who made a mistake at an age when we all make mistakes."

  "Like I said, you're kind."

  "I'm truthful," David said.

  "Then thank you for being truthful."

  "So what's on your mind?"

  "There's nothing on my mind," Margaret said. "I just wanted to visit. I haven't seen you all week. In all honesty, I never expected to see you again."

  David smiled sadly. Join the club, he thought. He wondered how much Margaret knew about Ron's situation.

  "Have you spoken with Claire?"

  Margaret nodded.

  "She came over on Thursday to collect the keys to the car and tell me you won't be traveling to California for at least a few weeks."

  "She's right," David said. "We won't."

  "Can you tell me what's going on with Ron? Claire told me only that there's been a change in plans. She said his leave was canceled and that he shipped out."

  "Then you know the important stuff."

  "I just don't know all the stuff," Margaret said. "Is that it?"

  David looked at his neighbor — his kind, thoughtful, inquisitive neighbor — and debated whether to tell her more. He knew there were limits to what he could say, but he felt an obligation to say something. If Margaret could reveal a secret baby, then he could surely tell her more about the status and welfare of a man she clearly cared about.

  "Ron is on a combat vessel headed to a combat zone," David said. "He's on a cruiser headed to Guam."

  "That's where Tom is," Margaret said.

  "I know."

  "Didn't you tell me that Tom was in a safe place?"

  "I did."

  "So . . . isn't Ron also in safe place?"

  "One would think," David said.

  "You're not telling me much."

  "That's because I don't have much to say. All I can tell you now is that he's on a ship steaming across the Pacific and that we probably won't see him again for months."

  "I'm sorry," Margaret said.

  "It's not your fault he's in the Navy."

  "I know, but I'm still disappointed for your family. Believe it or not, I know what it's like to change plans and put off dreams to accommodate a war."

  David smiled sadly.

  "I suppose you do."

  "So what are your immediate plans?" Margaret asked. "Are you going to go back to work? Are you going to remain in Chattanooga?"

  David took a breath.

  "Like Claire said, we will stay in town at least a few more weeks. I'll return to work on Monday, Claire will take care of Hannah, and we'll both stick close to the radio."

  Margaret put her hand on David's knee.

  "You're really worried about Ron. I can see it in your eyes."

  David frowned.

  "I just have a lot on my mind."

  Margaret smiled sweetly.

  "Then let me lighten your burden."

  "What do you mean?" David asked.

  "What I mean, Mr. Baker, is that it would be a shame to let all this music go to waste," Margaret said. She got up from the sofa and looked at him. "Would you like to dance?"

  David weighed the pros and cons before replying. Of course he wanted to dance. He had wanted to dance with Margaret for months. He had wanted to hold her and tell her how he felt about her, but he knew that he co
uldn't. Single men didn't profess their love to women engaged to others unless they wanted to invite a whole lot of trouble.

  "I'd like to, but I should probably go," David said.

  "Do you have to be somewhere?" Margaret asked.

  David smiled weakly as he thought of the many ways he could answer that question. He pondered the matter a little more and then looked at his friend.

  "No."

  Margaret smiled and extended a hand.

  "Then dance with me."

  David nodded and relented. He took Margaret's hand, got up from the couch, and followed her to the middle of the hardwood floor. He knew that dancing with this woman probably was not wise, but he didn't care. He wanted to do something on this otherwise dreary Saturday besides think about brothers-in-law, sinking ships, and sharks.

  "I confess I can't dance," David said.

  Margaret brightened her smile.

  "That's all right. I'll teach you."

  So for the next two hours, she did just that. The teacher from the twentieth century taught a peer from the twenty-first the Jitterbug, the West Coast Swing, and the Lindy Hop. She brought her friend out of his shell and into a place where optimism and smiles replaced pessimism and frowns. She succeeded in making him laugh.

  David welcomed every lesson. Even when he tripped, faltered, or spun into the wall, he insisted on getting it right. He asked questions, repeated steps, and practiced spins until he felt confident enough to lead a dance.

  Margaret seemed to enjoy the experience as well. She laughed when David stumbled, smiled when he improved, and sighed when he looked at her with admiring eyes. When he insisted on dancing to "Chattanooga Choo Choo" at least one time in Chattanooga, Tennessee, she obliged with enthusiasm and good cheer.

  David enjoyed the lessons in part because he saw them as little more than good clean fun. He and Margaret were not crossing any lines. They were laughing, learning, and enjoying each other's company. They were platonic friends sharing a splendid moment.

  But when Margaret slipped off her shoes, put on slower songs, and insisted on changing the pace, he began to second-guess his decision to stay. He felt uncomfortable slow dancing with another man's fiancée and considered calling it an afternoon.