by Sarah Sundin
“Snaps at you?” Mary said.
“Yes. Snaps at me.”
Quintessa rested her chin in her hand. “If only we had another clue.”
“We don’t.” Which wasn’t good for Mr. Kaplan.
“They’re trying to lull us into complacency.” Quintessa lifted her chin high. “But no, not us. We will not be lulled. We will be vigilant.”
“You’re wasting your talents at Filene’s.” Mary took another bite.
“Not at all. I love my job. For a whole year, I get to explore every department as a salesgirl so I understand how a store is run. After that, I can put my business degree to work in management. I do hope they like me.”
Mary gave her a fond smile. “How could they not?” Not only was Quintessa smart and charming, but she had a way of making everyone feel special. “Everyone likes you.”
“I hope Jim does.” Quintessa’s smile turned dreamy. “Every time I look at his service portrait or reread one of your letters about him, I fall a little more in love.”
The bit of beef turned to stone in Mary’s throat, and her eyes watered. If only she could enjoy Quintessa’s company without hearing Jim’s name.
Quintessa frowned at Mary. “The other day, I had a horrible thought. You and Jim have been such good buddies recently. I hope you don’t think I’m stealing your friend.”
Mary sipped her coffee to clear her throat. “No. No, of course not.”
“Because I won’t. We can double-date. You said his best friend is single, right? And you know I’m not one of those jealous sorts who won’t let her boyfriend talk to another girl.”
“I know.” Mary grabbed her plate and headed for the sink. Not only did she need to hide her face, but she couldn’t eat another bite.
“You talk as if it is fait accompli,” Yvette said.
Quintessa’s laugh bubbled up. “I do, don’t I? I don’t mean to sound arrogant. I don’t, but Jim simply adored me in high school, and now I’m wise enough to appreciate him.”
Mary scraped her plate over the trash can, her vision blurry. In six months of friendship, Jim had never fawned over Mary as he had over Quintessa. He’d never shown any true interest in her. The moments she’d interpreted as romantic could easily be interpreted as friendly or chivalrous. She’d deluded herself.
And the kiss? The more she thought about it, the less romantic it seemed. If he’d wanted a kiss, he would have kissed her himself. Sure, he responded to her kiss, but he was a man. Any red-blooded male would respond to a kiss. For heaven’s sake, Arch had kissed a complete stranger.
The egg timer dinged.
“Oh, Mary!” Quintessa called. “Look at the time. You need to leave for choir.”
She blinked away the haze in her eyes and glanced at her watch. “Oh dear, I do. I hate to leave a mess.”
“But it’s Thursday,” Quintessa said. “My day to cook and clean. Don’t you worry about a thing. Go use your lovely voice and have fun.”
Mary worked up a smile, blew her friend a kiss, grabbed her coat, and left.
As she rode the El downtown, her thoughts descended underground with her. Mary drew her coat tight. Part of her wanted to tell Quintessa how she felt about Jim, to fight for the man she loved. Quintessa would back down, mortified that she’d interfered in Mary’s romance, and she’d wish Jim and Mary every happiness.
But a scene played like a movie in Mary’s mind. Jim returning from sea, mounting the stairs to her apartment with that grin, Mary throwing herself into his arms. Then, over Mary’s shoulder, Jim would see Quintessa, the woman he’d always loved. Something would pass between Jim and Quintessa, the spark of mutual attraction. But Jim would feel compelled to date Mary and would pass up his chance with Quintessa, his dream.
Mary turned to the window and rubbed away more tears. Confessing her love to Quintessa might be honest, but in a selfish, mean-spirited way. What could be crueler than coming between two people who longed for each other?
Quintessa was already falling for Jim, and she hadn’t even seen him yet—the brilliance of his smile and his mind, the depth of his voice and his heart. Once she did, she’d be lost in love.
Mary pressed her fist to her mouth. She owed her best friend so much. Quintessa could have chosen any girl in Vermilion to befriend, but she’d chosen Mary, the school outcast. Mary could still see her in the schoolyard in her pink drop-waist dress, her bobbed blonde curls shimmering in the sun, her fists planted on her hips, chastising the other girls for picking on her friend.
Quintessa saved Mary from a youth full of misery and isolation. If Mary loved her best friend, she’d want her to be happy. Only a little while ago, Mary had wished she could do something, anything to make Quintessa happy again, and now she had her opportunity.
And Jim? A sob gurgled in her throat, but she shoved it down. If she truly loved Jim, she’d want him to be happy. She’d want to help him fulfill his dream. She’d make any sacrifice for his sake.
How could she do otherwise?
Sandwiched between Bertha and Edith, Mary let the music comfort her. When Jim returned, the Lord would see her through. She was doing the right thing, she knew it, and the Lord would reward her with peace.
The final song finished, and Mary took her seat.
Mrs. Gunderson tapped the music stand with her baton. “As you know, the Christmas pageant is only two months from now, and it’s time to announce parts.”
In the row in front of Mary, Claudia Richards scooted forward in her chair and smoothed her red hair.
Bertha nudged Mary and smiled at her. The two sisters had dared Mary to try out with them for the parts of the three angels, and she’d accepted. What fun it would be to sing with these two sweet friends. And the angels sang from up in the gallery. Behind the congregation.
Mrs. Gunderson lifted a sheet of paper and adjusted her glasses. “The part of Joseph will be played by Ed Fanarolli, Mary by our very own Mary—Mary Stirling—Gabriel by—”
After Claudia gasped, Mary’s ears shut out everything else. Quintessa’s pot roast turned green in Mary’s belly and threatened to reappear. No, no, no. She couldn’t be cast as Mary. She couldn’t. She hadn’t even tried out for it. She didn’t want it. She wouldn’t take it. She refused.
General motion and conversation let her know Mrs. Gunderson had finished the cast list and choir was dismissed. Bertha and Edith were congratulating her, but the words jumbled together.
Claudia dashed to the choir director. “There must be a mistake. I tried out for the role of Mary, not for an angel, and I sang quite well that evening.”
“Yes.” Mrs. Gunderson raised a stiff smile. “You sang angelically.”
“But—but I’ve played Mary five years in a row.”
“And it’s time someone else had a turn.”
Now was the moment. Mary scrambled over, almost knocking over two wooden chairs. “Please, let Claudia have the role. I don’t want it.”
Claudia jutted out her chin. “See?”
“This is how it will be this year.” The choir director gathered her papers and tapped them into a neat stack on the music stand. “Mary, you’ve done so well on Sundays. You’re ready for something more.”
“Yes.” She wrapped her arms around her stomach. “Like an angel.”
Mrs. Gunderson peered at Mary and Claudia in turn over her glasses. “My decision is final.”
Claudia’s face turned cherry red, and she stormed out of the choir room.
“Come with me.” Mrs. Gunderson took Mary’s arm and led her to the corner of the room. “I thought you’d recovered from your stage fright.”
Her eyes burned. “I—I have. But a starring role? As Mary? I can’t. Please let Claudia—”
“No. I prayed about this all week. For several reasons, I feel this is what the Lord wants.” Mrs. Gunderson’s eyes were so soft and encouraging. “First, you have a lovely voice, and a little push would be good for you.”
This wasn’t a push but a shove. She hugge
d herself harder, willing the nausea away.
“Second, you’re right for the role. Mary needs to be a young soprano, and I only have two. For the past five years, I haven’t had a choice, but this year I do. The mother of our Lord was the essence of humility and gentleness, just like you.”
Mary shook her head, blinking hard. If only the choir director knew how she struggled with pride and selfishness.
“Third, and this is just between you and me.” Mrs. Gunderson glanced over Mary’s shoulder and lowered her voice. “Claudia is a gifted singer, but she’s proud and divisive. She doesn’t represent our church well, and she definitely doesn’t represent our Lord. You may notice she hasn’t had a solo for some time. I’ve been featuring the men and the altos.”
Mary nodded. She’d heard Claudia complain about that several times.
Mrs. Gunderson stashed her music in the cabinet. “I’ve decided to remove Claudia from the limelight for her own sake and for the sake of the church. Pride is a nasty, destructive sin.”
How well Mary knew. She could still feel the swell of pride in her chest, the weight of the blue robe on her shoulders, the pressure in her bladder, the warmth gushing down, the clammy cloth stuck to her legs, the sharp cold of nakedness and humiliation, the darts of laughter. She could still hear the crash, see baby Jesus shattered before her, one glass eye staring at her accusingly.
“I can’t,” she said. “I can’t do it. You don’t know what you’re asking of me.”
Mrs. Gunderson squeezed Mary’s arm. “When the mother of our Lord heard the angel Gabriel’s announcement, I imagine she felt the same way. How could a simple peasant girl—and not yet married—raise the Christ as her own child?”
Mary swiped at the tears tickling her cheek. “I can imagine.”
“What did Mary say? ‘Behold the handmaid of the Lord; be it unto me according to thy word.’”
According to his word? This was God’s will? Yes, it was. It was punishment. Somehow, without even knowing it, she’d let pride worm its way back into her life—in choir, in her investigation, with Jim—and this was her punishment.
She had to relive the most humiliating moment of her life.
27
South of Iceland
Monday, October 20, 1941
An eerie stillness hung in the frozen air, and Jim gripped the lifeline. Oil slicks stained the water black, and wreckage littered the waves. Something macabre inside him scrutinized each lump in the water to see if it was a body. He’d already seen two.
Convoy SC-48 had passed through these seas on her way to England. From October 15 to October 19, U-boats had sunk nine freighters and tankers, a British destroyer, and a British frigate. Three American destroyers had been diverted from escorting Convoy ON-24 to help. On October 17, a U-boat torpedoed the USS Kearny. Although she remained afloat, eleven American sailors had perished, the first to die in this war.
Jim gave his head a sharp shake and moved on. He was scheduled to relieve the torpedo officer, Ens. Reggie Parkinson, for the afternoon watch at 1200. While waiting at the Mid-Ocean Meeting Point for Convoy ON-26 to arrive from Liverpool, the Atwood had been sent to search for survivors from the slaughter of SC-48. They hadn’t found a soul, and the crew tensed, scouting for U-boats.
Jim headed amidships, where the quintuple torpedo tube mount sat between the two funnels like five fingers, ready to point to starboard or port to fire at enemy vessels.
Reggie waved Jim over with his customary grin on his long face, and he briefed Jim on his station’s condition and readiness. Since U-boats often remained in the area after a battle to prey on rescue ships, the Atwood stood at Condition Two, prepared for attack. Like Nehemiah’s men, they had one hand at work and one ready to fight.
Reggie motioned toward the stern. “I was about to check on the fellows down at the depth charge racks and the Y-gun.”
“I’ll take care of that. Go get some rest.” Jim clapped him on the back and sent him on his way. With calm seas for now, the men were stocking up on food and sleep.
“Ahoy!” Up on the wing of the bridge, a lookout yelled and pointed.
Jim’s heart jolted, and he followed the lookout’s line of sight to port. Without binoculars, all he could see was a gray shape in the water. Wreck or U-boat?
On the bridge, Durant joined the lookout, peered through his binoculars, then returned to the pilothouse.
The general quarters gong sounded, and Jim froze along with everyone else on board, waiting for the signal to specify the drill.
The bugle sounded “Assembly,” and the boatswain’s mate’s pipe sounded “Away fire and rescue party.” A rescue operation.
The Atwood made a sharp turn to port, heading for the hulk. The harder Jim squinted, the more he could make out what looked to be the upside-down stern of a ship. The rescue party gathered by the whaleboat, and the deck gang prepared to lower the boat by its davits to the water.
Jim made his way to the stern. He didn’t have specified duties during a rescue drill, but he needed to make sure the depth charges were ready in case of attack.
He passed the Y-gun, already loaded with two 300-pound depth charges, which could be propelled starboard and port. The gun crew was alert and ready.
Down at the stern, 600-pound depth charges lay in two angled racks. Hydraulic controls allowed a man on the bridge to flip the release lever and drop one “ash can” at a time.
The talker was speaking into his microphone, so Jim joined him. He saluted Jim. “Good day, sir. The captain wants us to prepare to drop a pattern at 100 feet, 150, 200, and 250, at five-second intervals.”
Jim returned the salute. “Very well. Tell him the Y-gun is loaded and ready.”
“Aye aye, sir.” He waved over the petty officer, Marvin Hill, and relayed the pattern.
Hill passed on the order. Two seamen got to work with special wrenches to turn dials on the ends of the ash cans to set the depth at which they’d explode.
“Hey, everyone!” one of the Y-gun crewmen shouted. “Survivors.”
Jim jogged over to the rail. Sure enough, half a dozen men sat on what remained of the stern of their ship, waving frantically. “Thank God.” Jim smiled at the glimmer of hope in the middle of the destruction.
The Atwood slowed to a stop, and the whaleboat swung out on its davits, loaded with the rescue party, blankets, and rum. Durant’s voice came over the loudspeaker. “This is the USS Atwood. Stay where you are until the rescue boat comes to you.”
But one of the men stood and jumped into the water.
“No!” Jim cried, echoed by the men around him. The man would die in under twenty minutes in the frigid water, and several minutes would pass before the whaleboat could row to him.
“No!” Durant barked into the loudspeaker. “Do not come to us. We will come to you.”
Jim’s breath froze. “What if they don’t speak English?”
Two more men jumped in and swam toward the Atwood. Vince Banning marched down the deck. “Drop the cargo net. Now!”
The deck gang sprang to work and heaved the net over the side. If only the men in the water could make it to the ship in time. If only the whaleboat could be lowered more quickly.
“Hurry, hurry,” Jim muttered.
The alarm clanged, and Jim whipped around to face the bridge. What now?
“General quarters” blasted on the bugle. “Man your battle stations.”
They must have made a sound contact.
“Oh Lord, not now!” Jim stared at the three men in the water, swimming, each stroke slower than the last in the icy water. The whaleboat hovered just off the gunwale, nowhere near the surface.
“Haul in that boat,” Banning shouted. “Now!”
Everything in Jim wanted to scream his protest. A few more minutes and they might save those men.
But in a few minutes, they could be pierced by a German torpedo. Those three men—and all two hundred men aboard the Atwood—could die.
“Throw them a lif
e raft,” Banning called, but defeat hollowed his voice.
The American naval life rafts were large rings with netting in the center. They kept men afloat but didn’t get them out of the water. They wouldn’t drown, but they’d die of hypothermia.
The destroyer’s engines rumbled, propelling the ship away, smothering the cries of the dying men. Jim squeezed his eyes shut, but the image of three outstretched hands, three panicked faces burned into the backside of his eyelids. Lord, be with them.
Durant had to make a speedy decision. He had to be bold. And he’d made the right choice for the greater good. Nehemiah had done hard things too, rebuking those who did wrong and tossing out those who violated God’s law. Neither man was afraid to be unpopular.
Jim ran down to the stern for the depth charge attack. Could he be like Durant? Like Nehemiah?
“Range five-double-oh,” the talker called out. “Ready charges.”
Five hundred yards. Jim’s breath curled in the air. The destroyer drove forward at about twenty knots. At that speed they’d reach the sub in about two minutes. “Everyone ready?”
“Clear the racks,” Hill called. “Charges ready to roll from the forward to the after detent.”
“Just a second.” A sailor leaned into the narrow space between the smoke generator canisters and the starboard depth charge rack, his arm down through the triangle formed between two depth charges and the lower rack rail. “Dropped my wrench.”
“Get out of there, Ozzie! Now!” Hill grabbed the hem of the man’s mackinaw and yanked.
A click, and the depth charges rolled to the end of the rack.
Ozzie’s scream punctured the air.
Jim leaped forward. “What happened?”
“His hand.” Hill cussed. “It’s caught.”
Ozzie screamed, swore, writhed.
Jim dashed to the other side to get a better look. One of the 600-pound steel drums had smashed two of Ozzie’s fingers against the vertical bar supporting the rails. Blood dripped from tears in his gloves.
Still cussing, Marvin Hill flipped the release lever to manual control, overriding control from the bridge. “Everyone! Roll back the charges. Step to it!”