When Tides Turn

by Sarah Sundin

  The entrance to the State Street Station lay tucked inside the historic building without a sign to direct newcomers. Thank goodness Mary had warned her the first time she came downtown, or Tess would still be wandering the streets.

  She raised her hand to push open the door, but a gentleman jogged up ahead of her and opened it for her.

  “Fancy meeting you here, Mademoiselle Beaumont.” It was Jean-Auguste.

  She smiled, but narrowed her eyes. “Yes, fancy that.” Had he been following her? Ridiculous. He came from the west, while she came from the east. The incident at North Station had spooked her.

  Jean-Auguste closed his umbrella and followed her into the building. He was handsome in a waifish way that didn’t appeal to Tess. “It was good to see you at the meeting yesterday. Yvette said you were sick. I’m glad you’re better now.”

  “Thank you.” She headed to the ticket booth.

  “I know you and Yvette are friends, but I am glad you are no longer her roommate. It isn’t safe.”

  Tess paid her fare, her chest tight. “If she hasn’t been arrested by now, I doubt she’s a suspect.”

  “I hope you are right. I wasn’t in town that night, so I only know what Solange and Madame Robillard saw.”

  They’d seen a woman in a red beret on a bicycle, but did that woman throw the bomb? And was that woman Yvette? Tess gave Jean-Auguste a good-bye nod.

  “You must be busy with your work. I admire you WAVES.” He purchased his ticket. “What exactly do you do?”

  Apparently she had a travel companion. “I’m in charge of war bond sales at the Navy Yard, plus I supervise enlisted WAVES in other departments.”

  “Ah, yes. Professor Arnaud mentioned seeing you at MIT. I didn’t know the WAVES worked there too.” Jean-Auguste motioned for her to lead the way down to the platforms.

  Tess frowned and descended the stairs, but that information wasn’t classified. “We’re everywhere.”

  “Professor Arnaud’s work sounds fascinating, all that research into . . . oh, what’s it called again? I’m afraid I was miserable at science.”

  Time to change the topic. “So was I. That’s why I went into business.” She strolled onto the platform and found a place to wait for the train.

  “Between you and me . . .” Jean-Auguste stepped closer. “Do you ever worry about Professor Arnaud?”

  “Worry?”

  “He is doing research—military research, am I right?”

  Tess didn’t like how he was fishing for information. “I’m not familiar with his work.”

  He shrugged his slight shoulders. “Well, I’m sure he has access to military secrets—new weapons and such. But he also has a history of sneaking letters into Nazi-occupied territory.”

  “I’m sure a man as intelligent as the professor knows how to keep secrets.”

  He rubbed his jaw. “I hope so. He could damage the Allied cause. You mustn’t forget about the spy in our midst. If the professor made even the tiniest slip . . .”

  Tess’s stomach felt sour. Even worse—what if the professor were the spy? He worked at the Rad Lab where vital radar research was conducted. Wouldn’t the Nazis love to know about Allied technology?

  “Well, it was a pleasure as always.” Jean-Auguste tipped his hat. “My train is on the other platform. Bonsoir.”

  “Bonsoir.” Tess stepped back as her train pulled up. Tonight she’d write up that conversation for Agent Sheffield.

  Maybe her reports helped and maybe they didn’t, but she’d do her duty.

  29

  East of Newfoundland

  Tuesday, March 23, 1943

  The frustration in the Bogue’s wardroom was as thick as the grits in Dan’s bowl and as bitter as the coffee.

  “I hope we get our planes aloft today.” Clive Sinclair took a bite of bacon. “Our second cruise simply must be better than our first.”

  Dan concealed his smile by taking a mouthful of grits, not the favorite of an Ohio boy, but warm and filling. “You said our, not your.”

  “I’ll gladly become a Yankee if it means bacon and . . .” He gestured to his plate.

  “Pancakes, griddlecakes, flapjacks, hotcakes—take your pick.” Dan scooped out a grapefruit section. “The United States Navy believes in feeding sailors well.”

  “If only the Royal Navy followed suit.”

  Dan nodded. “The seas seem smoother this morning. Perhaps we’ll be able to launch.” The Bogue and her destroyers had left Argentia, Newfoundland, on March 20 to join Convoy SC-123, but foul weather had confined the planes to the hangar deck. Commander Lewis had allowed Dan another cruise, since the first hadn’t been a fair test, but Dan doubted he’d be granted a third chance.

  Sinclair glanced around the wardroom and sipped his coffee. “These men want to fight.”

  “So do I. It’s time we strike back.” The U-boats had inflicted horrific losses in the past few weeks. Convoy HX-228 alone had lost four cargo ships and a destroyer, with the attack starting only hours after the Bogue group had detached. At least the escorts had sunk two U-boats in return. But could the losses have been avoided if the Bogue group had remained with the convoy? Could they have added to the count of sunken subs?

  Dan mopped up the last of his maple syrup with his final bite of pancake. Around the tables in the wardroom, officers were beginning to rise. Dan checked his watch—0745. “I’d better get going.”

  “You’re meeting with the captain at 0800, are you not? Might I make a suggestion?” Sinclair held up his bowl of grits with a pathetic expression. “Please, sir? Might I have another bowl of sea duty?”

  Dan chuckled. Mimicking Oliver Twist wouldn’t impress the CO. “I’ll take that into consideration.” He went his way up to the captain’s office.

  Begging for a transfer would backfire, of course. But silence wouldn’t advance him to his goal either. Lord, please give me a natural opportunity to state my case.

  In the captain’s office, Dan saluted Capt. Giles Short and sat in a chair at the end of the captain’s desk.

  “We hope to get some findings for you today.” Captain Short flipped through papers. “The aerologist forecasts favorable weather, although not ideal for flight operations.”

  “The radar plot officer said we had some radar contacts before dawn—icebergs?”

  “Icebergs.” The captain cracked his wide smile. “We don’t expect to sight any U-boats until we reach the ‘air gap’ between Greenland and Iceland. That’s where the wolf packs are.”

  As Dan had suspected—the Allies had regained their main source of intelligence. “With more B-24s based in Newfoundland, the air gap will shrink, and auxiliary carriers will eliminate it.”

  Captain Short cocked his head to one side. “In time. The Bogue is still the only auxiliary carrier in the northern hemisphere.”

  “At least we’re going in the right direction. I was encouraged by the results of the Atlantic Convoy Conference.” The British, Canadians, and Americans had met in Washington in early March and had agreed to more auxiliary carriers and long-range aircraft. They’d also delegated the North Atlantic convoy route to the British and Canadians, with the Americans taking responsibility for convoys across the Central Atlantic. The Bogue group remained on loan in the north until the British could send out their escort carriers.

  However, Captain Short’s time was too valuable to waste on small talk. “Do you have any general observations you’d like me to include in my reports, sir?”

  The captain tapped a pen on his desk. “My biggest frustration has been the weather, but we can’t do anything about that. If the weather continues to prevent the destroyers from refueling, we’ll have to detach from the convoy again.”

  Dan winced. “I understand, sir. Anything else?”

  “In the center of the convoy we don’t have the speed and maneuverability we need to launch aircraft, and it takes time to drop out of the convoy for flight operations.”

  Dan nodded as he wrote. “So we ca
n’t launch quickly in an emergency.”

  “If we had a larger destroyer screen, we could keep station behind the convoy at all times.”

  “Preferably with longer-legged destroyers—or the new destroyer escorts.” Dan posed only a few more questions. Since they hadn’t seen action, no observations could be made about weaponry, radar, or air tactics.

  “Thank you for your time, sir.” Dan stacked his papers and stood. “I’m looking forward to our next meeting.”

  “So am I.” The captain leaned back in his chair. “How’s our resident desk jockey holding up at sea?”

  Dan’s grip tightened on his portfolio. Just the opportunity he’d prayed for. “Actually, sir, I’m in my element. I have salt in my veins.”

  Heavy eyebrows rose.

  “This is my first desk job, sir. And my last, if I have my way. I served on the Vincennes for several years, up until February of ’42. Engineering, navigation, gunnery—I loved it all.”

  “The Vincennes? I’m sorry.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Dan’s voice thickened. Over three hundred of his shipmates had perished in the Battle of Savo Island.

  “And you want to return to sea.”

  “Yes, sir.” He tossed up a quick prayer of thanks and another for guidance. “Admiral Howard placed me in ASWU. He thought it would be an excellent step on the way to command.”

  “Has it been?”

  Dan shifted his weight from one leg to the other. “Yes, sir. What I’ve learned about radar and weapons and tactics is invaluable.”

  “Admiral Howard said he had plans for you.”

  “Yes, sir.” He’d said that the day he died. “But Commander Lewis doesn’t want to spare me.”

  “The curse of doing a job well.” The captain grinned and gave a nod, ending the meeting.

  “Thank you, sir. Good day.” Dan closed the door behind him, and his mind raced over the conversation. It sounded good. So why did Dan feel depleted?

  Later that morning, Dan stood on his usual sponson across from the bridge. Three 20-mm machine gun crews kept him company in the wind and cold.

  Ensign Harry Fryatt was coming in for a landing. His was the only Avenger that had launched that morning. The Bogue did not make a welcoming runway, pitching and rolling in the rising seas.

  The TBF’s wings rocked, then leveled, and the plane bumped lower and lower. Just as the tail swung over the flight deck, the Bogue’s stern dipped low.

  Dan held his breath. The Avenger’s tail hook skimmed past the first of the nine arresting wires, then several more. “Come on, Fryatt. Get her down.”

  The Avenger barreled forward, but the deck plunged away as if the plane were poisoned.

  “Come on!” Dan yelled. “Bring her down.”

  “Lower!” a gunner cried behind him.

  Dan clutched the rim of the flight deck, ducking low and peering over the edge. The TBF zipped past the last arresting wires. Only the three net barriers remained. “Come on, Fryatt!”

  The Avenger suddenly dove, aiming for the deck just aft of the barriers. But the Bogue pitched upward. The plane’s wheels bounced off the deck.

  Dan cried out, echoed by crewmen all around him. The TBF soared in an arc before him, up over the barriers, down over the bow. He’d crash into the sea!

  The deck gang raced toward the bow, and Dan climbed halfway up the ladder, craning to see.

  A tubby gray-and-blue plane lurched into the air. “He made it!”

  Cheers erupted, and Dan joined in.

  Fryatt’s torpedo bomber gained altitude, then circled to port for another landing attempt.

  Dan dropped back down to the sponson, his pulse galloping. The gunners grinned and clapped each other on the back. Thank goodness. After all the fruitless patrols, the crew didn’t need the tragic loss of a plane and three good men.

  The Bogue aligned with the wind for Fryatt’s next attempt.

  Those arresting wires and barriers were meant to save the planes from careening off the deck. Dan had seen the regulation forbidding Navy men from marrying WAVES as a barrier that protected him from careening into the unknown.

  Now the Navy had lowered that barrier. When he’d heard the news after the Bogue returned to Argentia after her first cruise, Dan had been stunned, thrilled, terrified.

  Elation surged through him once again. He was free—free to soar, free to pursue Tess. Without the Navy’s prohibition, Commander Lewis was certain to remove his censure.

  Dan had lowered the second barrier on his own. Yes, the wrong woman would hold Dan back, but the right woman would spur him on. Tess Beaumont was the right sort of woman.

  Pursuing her seemed like another step toward balancing his life of straight lines and duty.

  Dan gripped the ladder rung in his gloved hands. The third barrier remained—Tess. Was he the right man for her? How could someone so full of life fall for a stick-in-the-mud like him?

  Would he even know what to do? He hadn’t been on a date in a decade, hadn’t flirted, hadn’t kissed a girl. His natural brusqueness was off-putting enough in everyday dealings with women, but in romance? He was utterly incompetent.

  Then there was Lt. Cdr. Stanley Randolph. If he knew Dan loved Tess, he could make accusations and have her reprimanded and relieved of duty. Dan knew better than to hand his enemy so lethal a weapon.

  He clamped his eyes shut. Lord, show me what to do.

  Down by the stern, the Avenger came in for another approach. The seas hadn’t improved. The Bogue continued to pitch. Should Fryatt take the chance?

  How could he not? Conditions wouldn’t improve, and time was short. If he didn’t act, all would be lost.

  A chilly breath swirled in Dan’s open mouth. Conditions with Tess wouldn’t change. Time was short. If he didn’t act, all would be lost.

  The Avenger dropped lower and lower.

  “Come on,” Dan muttered. “You can do it, Fryatt.”

  The wheels inched closer and closer. The stern of the Bogue rose to meet the Avenger, as sweet and gentle as a kiss. The tail hook snagged, and the TBF screeched to a halt.

  The crew cheered, but Dan laughed out loud, full and hearty. He’d never had a stranger answer to prayer. Or a clearer one.

  30

  Boston Navy Yard

  Saturday, April 10, 1943

  At the Boston Navy Yard, Tess held open the door to Building 22 as her friends filed out. “I sure appreciate you ladies giving up your Saturday to help me hang posters.”

  Lillian eased her way down the steps, then turned and saluted. “Anything to aid the war effort.”

  “Me too.” Mary was especially helpful because she knew which buildings to target. She pointed toward Boston Harbor. “Next down—Building 24—riggers and the sail loft. Tess, why don’t you go there with Nora? Lillian and I will take care of the restaurant in Building 28.”

  “All right.” Tess passed a roll of posters to her friend.

  Tess and Nora headed along Dry Dock 1, circling past machinery and workers building two destroyer escorts. Boston Navy Yard was busy with three shifts around the clock, churning out new ships and repairing others.

  In Building 24, Tess separated a poster from the roll. “Let’s put them here by the entrance.”

  Nora helped her flatten the first poster on the wall, Norman Rockwell’s “Freedom of Worship.”

  Tess tore off a piece of tape and anchored the top left corner. She was glad the Second War Loan Drive was using Rockwell’s “Four Freedoms” paintings. They portrayed exactly what the Allies were fighting for.

  Another piece of tape on the top right. People of many faiths, bowed in prayer, free to worship as they chose.

  A smile worked at Tess’s lips. The poster gave her the perfect opening. “We’ve missed you at church lately. Will you come with us tomorrow?”

  Nora pressed the bottom corner of the poster to the wall. “I’d like to visit another church this week.”

  Since Nora had praised Dr. Ockenga’s preach
ing, her decision probably had nothing to do with the church itself. “Because of Bill?”

  Nora glanced at her, brown eyes wide. “No, of course not. I just . . .”

  Tess gave her a skeptical smile.

  “All right.” Nora heaved a sigh. “Yes, I’m avoiding him. I’m afraid he’ll ask me out, but I don’t want to hurt him.”

  “Hurt him? How would you hurt him?”

  Nora raised her eyebrows as if shocked by Tess’s ignorance. “By saying no.”

  “I thought you liked him too.”

  “I do. He seems very nice, but . . .” She shook her head. “But no.”

  Tess unrolled the next poster, “Freedom from Fear.” How appropriate. “Do you remember when we practiced first aid together?”

  Nora squinted at the poster of a mother and father tucking their children in to bed. “What does that have to do—”

  “I was trying to make friends, and you told me to stop pretending to be nice. You said you wouldn’t give me a chance to hurt you.”

  “I’m sorry. I—”

  “Understood and forgiven.” Tess smoothed the poster into position. “But I think you’re doing the same thing with Bill.”

  Nora braced the poster in silence, and Tess let her think while she secured the corners.

  “I—I don’t know what to make of him.” Nora’s voice wavered. “Men never pay me any attention.”

  When they’d met, Nora’s dowdy clothing and hairstyle made Tess think she was ten years older, but now a cute uniform and haircut made her shine. “Bill’s paying attention.”

  Nora’s forehead wrinkled.

  Tess nudged her. “And he doesn’t need help with his math homework.”

  A shaky laugh escaped. “I suppose not.”

  “You’re afraid.” She patted the poster. “But you can’t live that way.”

  “Oh dear.” Nora leaned her forehead against the wall. “You don’t understand. I’ve never been on a date. I wouldn’t know how to behave.”

  Tess swallowed her surprise, then squeezed her friend’s shoulder. “Maybe you should tell Bill a bit of what you told me. Be honest and open. It’s only fair.”