by Sarah Sundin
Just when Mary didn’t want her face observed, but she obeyed and sat on the couch.
“He’s a good man, isn’t he? He always was, but I was young and stupid and only wanted a handsome, charming football player, so I never looked twice at poor Jim. But now I know the worth of a good man.”
All Mary had to do was nod, but her swollen throat made the act torture.
Quintessa leaned back in the chair, looked out the window, and fiddled with the lace curtain. “When I think of how Jim used to look at me with complete and utter adoration—oh my. Feelings like that, feelings so deep, don’t truly disappear.”
No, they didn’t. Mary’s vision blurred. She’d seen his face when Quintessa’s name was mentioned. His feelings for her hadn’t changed. They never would.
“Mary?” Vulnerability softened Quintessa’s voice. “Do you think he could care for me again?”
Something green and cruel and selfish inside wanted to say no, but she couldn’t lie, couldn’t be cruel to the one person who had offered her friendship when she was an outcast, couldn’t envy the one person who had always encouraged her, a person who had been miserable for two years and deserved happiness again.
Yet her voice didn’t work. She traced the rim of the glass, cold to her fingertip, and she forced herself to nod.
Quintessa’s face lit up. “Do you really think so? That would be marvelous. I knew I should take a chance and come to Boston, take a chance on Jim. Maybe he’ll take a chance on me.”
And Mary’s chances dribbled away.
25
Off the Coast of Newfoundland
Tuesday, September 30, 1941
Thank goodness Jim never got seasick.
Since the gun director sat high on top of the bridge superstructure, the motion there was the greatest. Swaying a good twenty degrees from side to side, Jim scanned out the porthole with his slewing sight for ships on the horizon.
The Atwood stood on Condition Three, with only one gun and the director manned, and with assistant gunnery officers trusted to control the weaponry. This close to Newfoundland, the Royal Canadian Navy and US Navy aircraft helped deter U-boats.
Jim glanced to both sides at Task Unit 4.1.5—four other American destroyers, the Babbitt, Broome, Leary, and Schenck. All but the Atwood were “four-stackers” built during the last war. Along with four funnels, the older destroyers had lower fuel capacity, which might cause problems if they faced storms. Or battle.
“There! Straight ahead.” Juan Dominguez, the director pointer, looked through his prismatic telescope, his white “Dixie cup” cover perched on the back of his head.
Jim trained his telescopic sight on the horizon, where a line of dark shapes emerged. “I see them. Our first convoy.”
Convoy HX-152, fifty-five cargo ships steaming from Halifax, Nova Scotia, escorted by the HMCS Annapolis, one of the old US destroyers transferred to Canada a year earlier under the destroyers-for-bases deal with Britain.
Dominguez adjusted a dial on his telescope. “They’ll be ours for over a week, huh, sir?”
“We’re supposed to reach the MOMP on October 9.” At the Mid-Ocean Meeting Point south of Iceland, British warships would relieve the Americans and escort the ships the rest of the way to Liverpool.
“Then we get to see sunny Reykjavik.” Dominguez tipped up his brown face. “Work on my suntan.”
Jim laughed. “I doubt we’ll get off the ship much. Word is the citizens of Iceland aren’t so keen on the American invasion.”
“They invited us, didn’t they?”
“Only under British pressure.” He gave Dominguez a mock scowl. “Let’s not make them long for Nazi occupation.”
“Not me, sir.” The pointer raised one hand as if taking an oath. “Nothing stronger than milk for me, and I’m true to my girl. Mama would know if I strayed. She’d know, and she’d swim all the way from Los Angeles to whip me.”
“She would too.” Bert Campbell, the director trainer, looked up from his telescope next to Dominguez’s. “Once, back when we were with the Pacific Fleet, Juan and I had liberty in LA. Saw that woman light into him for cussing. Ain’t never heard him cuss since.”
Dominguez nudged his buddy. “Watch your grammar too. She’ll get you.”
Nothing like the camaraderie of men who served together. Jim smiled and studied the cargo ships ahead, their shapes becoming more distinct each minute. “Let’s see if I remember. Mostly British ships, some Dutch, Norwegian, Swedish, Greek, and one American ship heading to Iceland.”
“That’s a lot of cargo,” Campbell said.
“Tons and tons.” Oil, grain, sugar, peanuts, scrap metal, tobacco, and mail. “Britain needs that cargo, and we need to keep it safe, plus the merchant marines and a couple hundred passengers. This isn’t a drill.”
“No, sir,” Dominguez said, “and I’m glad, ’cause I’m sick of drills.”
Jim remembered his brother Dan’s warning that someday these men might long for drills. Lord, keep the U-boats away, but if they must come, let us do our jobs well.
Only two weeks earlier, President Roosevelt had commanded US ships to shoot on sight any German or Italian vessels in US waters or any vessels attacking ships under American protection.
“Neutrality?” he muttered. Only on paper—and in the eyes of the folks back home. Even if the civilians didn’t know it, the United States was already at war.
HX-152 was the third Halifax-to-Liverpool convoy escorted by American warships. So far, no cargo ships had been lost under their care—but no attacks had occurred either. How long could that last?
Jim’s fingers stiffened on the dials of his sight as he studied the steel ships coming his way in a square grid of ten columns, each ship in an assigned, numbered position. How many of them would be sunk on the way to Iceland? To Liverpool?
The Atwood veered to starboard.
“Looks like we’re taking station.” The destroyers would keep station on the perimeter of the convoy, with one at each corner of the square and one sweeping in front of the convoy. Since the destroyers steamed faster than the cargo ships, they could patrol back and forth if U-boats were suspected in the area, and they could dart out toward sound contacts. To attack.
The Atwood plowed through the waves, driving toward her destination, heedless of the wind or current. Reminded him of that passage in Isaiah 43 Mary recommended. “Thus saith the Lord, which maketh a way in the sea, and a path in the mighty waters . . . Remember ye not the former things, neither consider the things of old. Behold, I will do a new thing; now it shall spring forth; shall ye not know it?”
A sense of determination poured into Jim. God had made a way. God was doing a new thing. Jim would choose his path and charge forward, here at sea and—if he returned safely—in Boston with Mary Stirling.
Mary with the silvery eyes and the soft lips.
Was he falling in love? He didn’t feel at all like he did in high school with Quintessa. But that was a one-sided crush. What he had with Mary felt real, steady, deep—and quite mutual.
He could still feel her weight sagging into him, still see her eyes, bleary from the kiss, her lashes low. Why on earth hadn’t he marched right back down that gangplank, kissed her again, declared his feelings, and sealed her for himself?
Jim shook his head hard. Why on earth wasn’t he paying attention to his job?
One corner of his mouth edged up. Wasn’t distraction a symptom of falling in love?
South of Greenland
Sunday, October 5, 1941
For the first time in his life, Jim had been seasick.
On the darkened deck just before midnight, Jim clutched the lifeline with both hands as he made his way to the bridge for his turn as junior officer of the watch. Everyone had gotten sick tonight, even the hardiest sea salt among them.
Waves towered above the Atwood in the darkness, and rain stung Jim’s cheeks and froze. The bow punctured a wave, and seawater gushed over the forward section of the deck. Jim brac
ed his feet, turned his back, and gasped as icy water sloshed over his feet. He’d never seen so much “green water,” waves breaking across the deck, as he had the last few days.
Two giant steps and he reached the door to the superstructure. In he went and up the ladder, timing his steps to the motion of the waves, keeping a firm grip on the handrails. At the top, he burst into the pilothouse and slammed the door behind him.
“Look what the sea washed in,” Captain Durant said. “Another drowned rat.”
“Yes, sir. Junior rat of the watch reporting for duty.” Jim shed some of his outerwear, took the towel offered by one of the seamen, and wiped himself down.
In the red light required to preserve night vision, the bridge equipment glowed—the helm, engine telegraph, gyrocompass, and communication equipment. For the past half hour, Jim had rested in a darkened room to develop his night vision. If only he could have slept, but the seas interfered as badly with sleep as they did with digestion.
“I’m afraid you’ll have a tough night.” Durant nodded to Jim and to Lt. Vince Banning, who was scheduled to serve as officer of the deck. “Keep in close contact with your lookouts. In seas like this, we haven’t been able to relieve them every two hours as we should. Make sure they’re awake and alert and reporting.”
“Aye aye, sir.” Jim didn’t envy those men out in the wet and dark and cold, expected to keep constant vigilance to prevent collision and to watch for U-boats.
“We’ve been on the TBS all evening.” Durant gestured to the telephone-like Talk Between Ships radio system. “You’d think after two years at war, these merchantmen would value a tight convoy. But they keep trying to spread out, and they keep putting up their lights. Unacceptable. We need to avoid collisions, but we mustn’t attract U-boats.”
Jim planted his feet wide to allow for the thirty-degree tilt of the ship in each direction. The seasoned merchantmen didn’t think too highly of their green American escorts, just as their civilian crews didn’t think too highly of military discipline and order.
Jim peered through the portholes into the darkness. Night was the most dangerous time. The submarines could attack on the surface unseen and undetectable by sonar. How would the storm change things? The heaving seas would make an attack more difficult, but would also make it harder for the convoy to spot the U-boats. And the Germans were aggressive, attacking in coordinated groups nicknamed “wolf-packs.”
Vince Banning leaned over the plotting table. “Where are we at, Captain?”
Durant tapped the navigational chart several hundred miles south of Greenland and briefed them on their current location and bearing and speed and weather, the planned zigzag course for the night, and how the Navy’s “Fox” long-range radio broadcast predicted no U-boats on their course based on direction-finding radio transmissions.
Jim paid careful attention. His duties included making routine entries in the log book, taking stadimeter and range-finder readings, and inspecting above and below decks if weather permitted.
“Any word on the Svend Foyn?” Banning asked.
Jim murmured his concern. The Norwegian ship had straggled behind the convoy four nights earlier in heavy weather. Not only did she carry a crucial load of twenty thousand tons of fuel oil, ten bombers, and two tanks—but she carried 220 passengers. Stragglers were easy pickings for U-boats.
“No word. But also no word of a sinking, so keep those souls in your prayers.” Durant relayed the last bits of information they’d need for their watch, then retired to his cabin behind the pilothouse, within shouting distance if needed.
Banning took his position behind the helmsman, and Jim at the log table. He made the change of watch notations in the log, keeping his handwriting as neat as he could with the ship rolling side to side and pitching bow to stern. Destroyers were lively ships, quick and easy to maneuver, but prone to violent motion in rough seas. Serving on a battleship had been less dramatic, but also less fun.
“Sir?” The talker turned from the telephone to Banning, eyebrows bunched together. “We had a sound contact.”
Jim’s stomach lurched, and not from nausea this time. In the sound room, deep in the lowest section of the bow, the sonar operators listened to the constant ping-ping-ping of the sonar emanating from a dome under the hull. Now something had pinged back.
Vince Banning’s expression remained impassive. “Had a contact?”
“Yes, sir. Norris says he heard what sounded like propeller noises for about thirty seconds, but they disappeared.”
Jim checked the time on his watch and made the proper notation in the log. Why was the executive officer so quiet? What decision would he make?
Banning gazed out the porthole, his arms crossed over his mackinaw. His fingers dug into the thick fabric, and he cussed. “I have no choice. We have to follow Cinclant procedure and stay within two thousand yards of the convoy.”
The Commander-in-Chief of the Atlantic Fleet had issued convoy escort protocols that cautioned against jumping on minor sound contacts and against leaving the convoy for more than an hour to chase U-boats.
“This is insane.” Banning strode to one end of the bridge, wheeled around, and strode back the other way. “What are we supposed to do? Wait for them to attack? We need to hunt them down and kill them before they kill us.”
Jim chuckled to lighten the mood. “That would violate the Neutrality Laws just a smidgen, don’t you think?”
Banning leveled a glare at him in the strange red light. “Our job is to protect this convoy.”
Jim had misjudged the situation. With no food in his stomach and a possible U-boat in the vicinity, Vince Banning didn’t want jokes. Jim gave the XO a solemn nod. “And we can’t protect if we can’t fight. Cinclant makes us fight with our hands tied behind our back.”
With one eyebrow lifted, Banning signaled the resumption of his respect for Jim. “As an officer, I must obey the commander of this task unit and of the Atlantic Fleet, but as a man, I tell you, this procedure stinks.”
“Let’s hope this procedure doesn’t sink.” Jim held his breath. So much for not making jokes.
However, Banning chuckled. “Yes. Let’s hope.” He turned to the talker. “Anything else?”
“No, sir. No further sound contacts.”
Jim registered the information in the log book. Most likely, they’d heard a whale—a whale that should be thankful he hadn’t lost a fin to the Atwood’s depth charges. Or it could have been a U-boat, zipping in on reconnaissance, then zipping out to call in his buddies for the slaughter.
Without a doubt, someday soon Jim would be tested in battle. He tugged off his gloves and blew on his hands. His fingers tingled with renewed warmth, and his mind tingled with the determination to be bold, strong, and decisive.
If only that sound contact had come nearer. Jim was ready to prove himself.
26
Boston
Thursday, October 9, 1941
Quintessa set a New England pot roast on the kitchen table between Mary and Yvette. “I feel so Bostonian. It smells heavenly, if I do say so myself.”
“It does.” Mary inhaled the savory scent. “When did you become such a good cook?”
Quintessa took her seat. “I was a single gal alone in Chicago. Cook or starve.”
“Well, thank you for sharing your skills. I’m glad you moved in with us.”
“You’re just saying that because now you only have to cook twice a week.” Quintessa winked.
Mary laughed and winked back. “Now, if we could just find three more roommates . . .”
“Oh!” Yvette pressed one hand to her chest. “Only if they aren’t detectives.”
With bright eyes, Quintessa turned to Mary. “Speaking of detectives, what’s new in the case?”
“Must we?” Yvette shuddered. “This talk of sabotage ruins the appetite.”
“Ten minutes.” Quintessa darted out of her chair, grabbed the egg timer, and set it on the table. “No more than ten. Girl Scout prom
ise.”
Mary waited for a nod from Yvette, then proceeded. “Everything’s been quiet since Mr. Kaplan was arrested, although Mr. Fiske still complains about shoddy work.”
Yvette sliced her pot roast and took a bite, her fork remaining in her left hand in the European style. “I saw the FBI agents today.”
Mary concealed her smile. For someone who claimed sabotage talk destroyed her appetite, she always participated in the conversation and showed a great deal of interest in Mary’s typed-up notes. “They still have an office in my building.”
Quintessa’s eyes danced. “That means they must have other suspects.”
“All Agent Sheffield will tell me is they’re building their case.” Mary divided a perfectly boiled potato. “But when I asked if he meant his case against Kaplan, he just smiled.”
“Ooh! He does have another suspect. Who do you think it is?”
Mary measured her words. “Everyone thinks it’s an interventionist, Mr. Kaplan or one of his buddies, who made it look as if Mr. Bauer planted the bomb.”
“Or . . .” Quintessa gazed at the ceiling and tapped her fork on her sliced pot roast. “Or it could be an isolationist who framed Mr. Kaplan to make it look like he was framing Mr. Bauer.”
Yvette drew back her chin. “That is crazy, as you Americans say.”
But Mary laughed. “As different as you and I are, Quintessa, we do think alike.”
“You are both crazy.”
Mary leaned forward. “No, think about it. Everything about the bomb was so overt, as if to say, ‘Look! An evil Nazi was here.’”
Yvette leveled her brown-eyed gaze at Mary. “An evil Nazi was here.”
“Perhaps.” Mary shrugged and took a bite of tender beef.
“If not a Nazi, who? George O’Donnell?”
Mary stared at the Frenchwoman, who was concentrating on her plate. What a strange leap to make. “Why him?”
“I have been in the drafting room. My friend Henri shows me his work. It is fascinating. But Mr. O’Donnell is angry. I ask about his drawings, but he . . .” She snapped her fingers.