When Tides Turn

by Sarah Sundin

  “But their uniforms aren’t as cute.” Ada Sue drew out the last word with music only a Southerner could muster.

  The ladies ambled down a path toward the auditorium. Ahead of them, a lady walked alone, wearing a dowdy gray suit. She looked familiar. “Nora?” Tess called.

  The engineer turned, gave Tess a wave, then hurried on her way.

  Tess frowned. Why hadn’t Nora waited up for them?

  In the auditorium, Tess couldn’t find Nora among the nine hundred women in their class. At least she could sit with Kate and Ada Sue.

  After half an hour of chatting, they were called to order, and the commanding officer was introduced, Captain Herbert Underwood, who had returned from retirement to run the USS Northampton, the Naval Reserve Midshipmen’s School at Smith College. He had a grandfatherly look about him with his white hair and kind eyes.

  Captain Underwood welcomed them and told them what to expect—physical fitness and drills, lessons in naval etiquette, recognition of rank and ratings, naval history, and more.

  The ladies were enlisted as apprentice seamen. If they passed the first three weeks of training, they’d be appointed reserve midshipmen. If they passed the final four weeks, they’d be commissioned as ensigns.

  Tess didn’t like the “ifs,” but she understood. This was the real Navy, as Dan had reminded her. Hard work, discipline, not much time for fun.

  He didn’t think she could handle it.

  How she wanted to prove him wrong.

  8

  Off Hampton Roads, Virginia

  Saturday, October 24, 1942

  At sea at last. Dan drank in the brisk morning air and savored the gentle roll of the destroyer USS Wilkes as she navigated the waves off the Virginia Capes.

  Finally he could learn the destination of this enormous convoy of warships. He entered the bridge superstructure and trotted down the ladder to the wardroom, where many of the destroyer’s officers were gathered. Dan nodded at Admiral Howard seated near the head of the table, and then sat near the foot with the other junior officers.

  Excitement coursed through every vein. All he knew was they were going into combat, and it would be big.

  At the head of the table, Commander Edward Durgin, in command of the destroyer division, greeted the officers and spread out a map.

  North Africa.

  Dan’s pulse skipped a beat, and he scanned the map. The Allies were invading French Morocco and Algeria, both controlled by Vichy France. Just yesterday, British General Bernard Montgomery had launched a major offensive against the Germans at El Alamein in Egypt. By landing additional troops to the west, the Allies could trap the Germans in the middle, securing the Mediterranean and safeguarding Britain’s supply of oil from the Middle East.

  “Operation Torch,” Commander Durgin said, and he outlined the basic plan. The Western Task Force was sailing from Hampton Roads, Virginia, and Casco Bay, Maine, to Morocco, where over one hundred ships would deposit thirty thousand American soldiers.

  Meanwhile, the Eastern and Center Task Forces would sail from Britain into the Mediterranean to land seventy thousand British and American troops in Algeria at Oran and Algiers.

  Murmurs rose around the table.

  Dan let out a quiet whistle. The Western Task Force was steaming 4500 miles across the Atlantic to conduct a surprise night amphibious landing, unsure whether the French would welcome the Americans or shoot them.

  Nothing like this had been done before. Ever.

  And training had been minimal and hasty.

  It could be either a raging success or a historic disaster.

  Dan caught Admiral Howard’s eye down the length of the table, and his mentor raised a smug smile. Yes, Dan owed him for arranging this.

  He’d prefer to serve on the bridge or in the gun director or in the engine room, but serving as an observer and advisor placed a close second.

  Commander Durgin briefed them on the composition of the task force and the plan for the two weeks they’d be at sea. Later briefings would cover the specifics of the invasion and the role the Wilkes would play.

  When the briefing concluded and the officers departed, Admiral Howard motioned Dan to his end of the table and the map.

  “Thank you, sir.” Dan couldn’t contain his smile.

  “I knew you’d like this. First major American amphibious landing in the war.”

  “Other than Guadalcanal.”

  “This is five times bigger. The Western Task Force alone is almost double the Guadalcanal force. You and I are here because of the U-boat threat.”

  Dan traced the course. “Over four thousand miles of submarine-infested ocean.”

  “Then we’ll have to worry about U-boats off Morocco during the landings and while unloading.”

  “Once they realize what we’re doing—”

  “They’ll come running. The past few weeks, the U-boats have been devastating the North Atlantic convoys off Greenland.” Howard shifted his finger to the tip of South Africa. “They’ve also been wreaking havoc off Cape Town.”

  “I know.” As soon as the Allies plugged one hole, the Germans drilled a new one.

  “This is to our advantage.” Blue eyes pinned him. “Dönitz has concentrated his forces thousands of miles from our convoy, unaware of the prize slipping through his grasp.”

  Dan studied the map. “They always patrol off the Straits of Gibraltar to catch British convoys to the Mediterranean.”

  “Yes, and it won’t take them long to reach Morocco. Plus, the Vichy French have fleets at Casablanca and at Dakar, only a few days away.”

  “So we could have a fight.”

  “We’re prepared. Most of the destroyers are the modern Gleaves and Bristol classes, many equipped with SG centimetric radar.”

  “And we have auxiliary carriers.” Ugly things—merchant ship hulls with flight decks tacked on top—but their potential was more important than their looks.

  “The pilots are poorly trained.” Howard shook his head. “Most are fresh out of flight school, but they’re eager.”

  Dan would accumulate plenty of data for the civilian scientists to play with.

  “That’s all for today.” The admiral pulled out a small wooden box. “But now is as good a time as any to give this to you.”

  He’d seen the box many times on Howard’s desk. He knew what was inside. “You don’t mean—”

  “I do.” Howard flipped open the lid and slid the box across the table to Dan. “This is the compass my father gave me when I graduated from Annapolis. A Navy man himself. I want you to have it.”

  Dan fingered the engraved brass casing. “But this is . . . it should stay in the . . .”

  “In the family?” He raised an eyebrow. “I have no children. But you—you’ve become like a son to me. I want you to have it.”

  Dan lifted the compass and cradled it in his hand. His throat felt tight enough that he didn’t trust his voice. He gave a sharp nod to loosen his vocal cords. “Thank you, sir. I’ll cherish it always. Someday I’ll pass it on . . .”

  To whom? He’d chosen not to marry, chosen not to have children.

  Why did it feel like a kick to the gut? This wasn’t a surprise. He’d made an informed decision for his legacy to be naval rather than familial.

  “I’m glad you like it.” The admiral’s voice sounded husky, and he averted his eyes.

  Like a son. Dan’s chest filled with emotion and pride. “Thank you, sir. In many ways, you’re—well, you’re like a father to me.”

  “Let’s not start talking like drippy-faced females.” Howard shoved back his chair. “Back to work with you.”

  “Aye aye, sir.” Dan restrained a smile as his mentor grumbled his way back to his cabin.

  Like a father.

  A father he could actually emulate.

  Sure, everyone in Vermilion, Ohio, thought the world of George Avery, a master craftsman and a kind and thoughtful man. The other Avery children adored him.

  But when
his father had failed in the family’s two greatest crises, Dan was the one who had held the household together. Twice. As a child.

  Because his father was dreaming and drawing and playing with wood.

  Dan snapped the compass case shut. Thank goodness the Lord had given him another man he could look up to.

  Northwest of Madeira

  Wednesday, November 4, 1942

  The seas had picked up. Dan took his morning constitutional on the deck of the Wilkes under an iron-gray sky. A chill wind bit at his cheeks, and he dug his hands into the pockets of his mackinaw. A gale was coming, he could feel it.

  Adm. Kent Hewitt, commander of the Western Task Force, would have to make a difficult decision.

  If the weather reports were right, the landing craft could face twelve-foot waves at the Moroccan beaches. The French wouldn’t have to shoot, because the surf would smash the American invaders to bits.

  But if they waited offshore for better conditions, they’d lose the element of surprise and allow the enemy to build up defenses.

  Dan studied the enormous convoy on the rising seas, over one hundred warships and transports in an area twenty miles by thirty miles. The lives of thirty thousand soldiers and just as many sailors depended on one man. Lord, help Hewitt make the right choice.

  Someday, Lord willing, Dan might be in a position to make similar decisions. He prayed he’d do so wisely.

  Someday, Lord willing, he’d be Admiral Daniel Avery.

  Admiral Danny, Tess had called him.

  His mouth twitched as he passed a group of sailors chipping flammable paint off the bridge superstructure in preparation for combat. What was it about that woman? She’d be a good month into training by now. Was she thriving, or had she washed out?

  She’d taken some hard blows recently, being dumped by her high school boyfriend, finding out her next boyfriend was married, and being treated poorly by her boss at Filene’s. She needed a break. Lord, let her pass.

  Why? So she wouldn’t return to Boston? Oh, brother. What a self-centered prayer. Good thing Tess had better people than him praying for her.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Avery.” An officer approached near the number one gun turret toward the bow of the destroyer. “May I have a word with you?”

  “Of course, Dr. Stern.”

  The medical officer cringed from a blast of wind. “I heard you and Admiral Howard are close.”

  Dan did enjoy that reputation. He aligned his body to block Dr. Stern from the wind. “He’s taken me under his wing.”

  “Do you have any influence with him? I’m worried about his health.”

  “His health?” He couldn’t keep the alarm from his voice.

  “I’m concerned about his heart. His blood pressure is high, he doesn’t watch his weight, and he never rests.”

  “He’s a hardworking man.”

  “Too much so.”

  “Is that possible?” Dan injected some humor into his voice.

  Dr. Stern smiled and pulled his mackinaw up to his prominent chin. “It is. Our bodies are designed to need periods of rest.”

  A significant design flaw, but Dan nodded.

  The doctor narrowed his brown eyes. “Are you a religious man, Mr. Avery? Do you keep the Sabbath?”

  Dan drew back a bit. “I do. So does Admiral Howard. We always attend Sunday services.”

  Dr. Stern shook his head. “Keeping the Sabbath is about more than attending services. The Lord commanded us not to work. Don’t you find that odd?”

  “I—I never really thought about that.”

  “I find it fascinating. We think of idleness as a sin, and it is. But in the Ten Commandments, the Lord didn’t command us to work. He commanded us to rest. Why, do you think?”

  Dan gazed around, as if the clouds held the answer.

  The doctor raised one gloved finger. “He knows us. He knows we’ll work too hard.”

  Restlessness tugged at Dan’s feet. “We’re at war.”

  “All the more reason to rest when we can, so we’re at our best when it’s required of us.”

  Time to end this conversation. “Thank you for the advice, Dr. Stern.”

  “Will you have a word with Admiral Howard?”

  “I will. Good day.” Dan continued his constitutional, up to the bow of the destroyer. The sharp prow struck the gray waves, raising plumes of white foam to each side.

  Concern squirmed inside. Could the admiral’s heart be in danger? And would rest benefit such a driven man—or annoy him?

  The doctor’s words about rest clashed with everything Dan knew. He repeated his favorite verse, Philippians 3:13–14: “This one thing I do, forgetting those things which are behind, and reaching forth unto those things which are before, I press toward the mark for the prize.”

  How could a man press toward the mark if he rested too much?

  Before Dan talked to the admiral, he had some reading to do.

  9

  Smith College

  Friday, November 6, 1942

  “That’s it. Smile. Look intelligent and interested.”

  Tess smiled. She tried to look intelligent and interested. She and Kate and Ada Sue stood on the pier on Paradise Pond, while an exceptionally handsome lieutenant with sleek black hair stood on the deck of a little sailboat and pointed to the rigging.

  Flashbulbs popped. “That’s it. One more. You, the blonde on my left. Reach over and touch the sail.”

  Tess fingered the white canvas. This would make a charming recruiting poster or brochure. Three pretty WAVES in their new blue uniforms, learning how to sail. Except they weren’t. They were just taking photos.

  “That’s all, ladies.” The photographer and his assistant packed up their equipment.

  Kate lunged for her overcoat and burrowed inside. “Oh, this weather. It isn’t even fifty degrees.”

  “I know.” Just for fun, Tess draped her coat over her arm. “I can’t believe how warm it is.”

  Ada Sue buttoned her coat up to her chin. “You Yankees have ice in your veins.”

  “Comes in handy.” Tess headed up the walkway toward the Alumnae Gym. “Hurry up, ladies. We’re missing first aid, and Mr. Rawlings wants to wash me out.”

  Kate laughed. “The Navy won’t let him. They can’t afford to lose their poster girls.”

  A poster girl—was that why the recruiter had accepted her? A sick feeling congealed in Tess’s stomach. Maybe the Navy only wanted her for her looks, not for what she could contribute to the war effort.

  “Say, Tess.” Kate fluffed her brown curls beneath her officer’s cover. “You got two letters this morning. What’s the news?”

  Tess felt bright inside again. “One’s from Mary. She misses me, the sweetheart, but she’s doing well. Her boyfriend, Jim, is back in Boston.” Mary also said Dan had gone to sea and expected to be away for some time.

  Her smile grew. Good. Dan needed to be at sea.

  “And the second letter?” Ada Sue asked.

  Tess kicked aside some damp brown leaves on the walkway. “It’s from Celeste Robillard, the French baker.”

  “Ooh!” Kate nudged Tess’s arm. “Any new clues in the spy case?”

  They turned onto the walkway in front of the library, a grand long building like an Italian palazzo. “Nothing really. Madame Robillard says Yvette is acting suspicious. She wonders if Yvette could be the spy.”

  “Mercy!” Ada Sue said. “How horrible.”

  Something nasty entwined around Tess’s stomach. “It is. I can’t believe it. No one loves France more than Yvette.”

  Kate’s eyes glowed. “Maybe she just talks like that to throw off suspicion.”

  “I refuse to believe it. Besides, I can’t do anything here aboard the USS Northampton. Now, let’s hurry. We’re late.”

  The Alumnae Gym stood before them, a Queen Anne darling with gables and turrets and plenty of ivy. Too bad it was where they were tortured with physical fitness.

  The gymnasium buzzed as hundreds of
female midshipmen practiced first aid.

  Ensign Rawlings approached the three ladies with a frown on his square face. “Late again, I see.”

  Kate handed him the note from the public relations officer. “Doing our patriotic duty, sir.”

  He grumbled. “You’re here to become officers, not fashion models.”

  Ada Sue stood stiff at attention, her face sober. “Sir, mustn’t every officer do her duty, no matter how unpleasant?”

  He turned on his heel and walked away. “Madison, Duncan, right there. We’re on page thirty of your manual. Apply a bandage to the upper left arm, then wrap the right ankle for a sprain. Beaumont, you’ll work with Selby.”

  No doubt, Mr. Rawlings hated her. Greta Selby hadn’t concealed her contempt for Tess since their first encounter during the uniform fitting.

  Tess worked up a smile. “Hi, Greta. Looks like we’re partners.”

  “Swell.” She wouldn’t be that unattractive if she didn’t always wear a smirk or a sneer. Today she’d chosen the smirk. “You go first. I’ll be the patient.”

  “All right.” Tess set down her overcoat and knelt on the wooden floor.

  “The supplies are over there. You should have fetched them first.”

  Or Greta could have told her before Tess sat down. Smile in place, Tess fetched the box and returned to her patient.

  “Hurry up. I’m bleeding to death.”

  If only it were true. Tess pulled out a roll of gauze. “Let’s bandage that arm.”

  “You’re supposed to ask me what’s wrong first.”

  “You just said you’re bleeding to death.”

  “But you’re supposed to ask. Mr. Rawlings said so in the lecture.”

  “I missed the lecture. Now, where are you bleeding?”

  Greta pointed to a spot on her arm. “Must be nice to be excused from class just because you’re pretty.”

  Tess would rather be in class, but something told her to hold her tongue. She wound the gauze around Greta’s upper arm, not too tight, not too loose, and she secured it with a safety pin. “And your ankle?”

  “I didn’t say one word about my ankle.”