by Sarah Sundin
Yet her fingers clenched the envelope. That night, she’d fled before he could respond. This was his response. If she loved him, she’d listen to every painful word.
Tess changed into pajamas and gathered handkerchiefs. If she was going to cry herself to sleep, she might as well be prepared.
She sat on her bed and pulled the covers over her lap. Then she bent her head over the letter. Lord, please use Dan’s words to humble me. Show me how to be selfless.
With a long ratcheting breath, she pulled out two sheets of stationery, covered front and back. Oh dear. For a man of few words, he’d certainly found his fair share.
Dear Tess,
I owe you many apologies, but let me start with my major regret. I’d planned a speech to explain my change in heart. I hadn’t planned the kiss. If I’d followed my plan, I wouldn’t have hurt you and I apologize for that. On the other hand, someday both of us will be grateful for that mistake. The kiss revealed why our romance never would have worked. Better we found out now than later.
Second, I apologize for calling you beautiful. While true, it was unkind. I know exactly what the word means to you, and I’m grieved that my careless words undermined what you’ve worked for these past months.
Since I was unable to explain myself that night, now I’ll relate the speech. I’d planned to say I wanted to ask you out after I received a transfer and was no longer under Mr. Randolph’s thumb.
I anticipated the confusion you voiced. For a decade, I avoided romance. At the Academy, I dated a girl named Joanie. She resembled you in a superficial way—attractive, gregarious, and full of life. That’s where your similarities end. Joanie whined when I chose to study rather than see her. She manipulated me. She cried when I mentioned going to sea, saying if I loved her I’d never leave her.
Admiral Howard saw how my work suffered, and he gave me a stern lecture. He was right. Joanie distracted me from my goal, so I ended the relationship.
However, the admiral was also wrong. A dedicated bachelor himself, he saw all women as a distraction to the serious officer.
For ten years, I followed his advice. Then you came along. Although I found you attractive, I set you in the same category as Joanie and ignored you.
However, working with you changed my opinion of you and of Admiral Howard’s teaching. You encouraged me in my career, helped me toward my goal, and cheered when I went to sea. I began to wonder if the right type of woman would be more help than hindrance.
When Admiral Howard died with no family to grieve him, I was shaken. I was no longer content to be alone. I wanted someone in my life. And I wanted that someone to be you.
Over the last few months, I wrestled with my final reservations. And when the Navy reversed policy last month, I decided to pursue you.
The speech was part of my plan. The kiss wasn’t. I had guarded my feelings while I fell in love with you, and I knew it wouldn’t be fair to lower that guard all at once. Now we see how right I was.
When you asked me why I kissed you, my brain was addled by the kiss. The long list of reasons I loved you boiled down to one concept—you are beautiful inside and out. That’s the single word that fell out of my mouth.
Here’s what I should have said. I love how you want to be useful. I love how you’ve challenged yourself in the WAVES and have dedicated yourself to something important. You bring energy, intelligence, creativity, and generosity to your very worthwhile work. You have my respect.
I also love how you care about your friends and family, and how you’ve encouraged me. Your kindness, pushing, and teasing have helped me become more balanced as a man. You have my affection.
But there’s also something about you that I struggle to describe. You add color to my black-and-white life. When you’re around, I feel lighter and see clearer and have deeper perspective. Tess, you have my love.
I didn’t plan to tell you I loved you that night. I knew it would be too much. But since this is the last time I’ll speak freely to you, I want you to know the truth. You doubted—with good reason—that I cared for the real woman inside. Only by revealing my love can I hope to erase those doubts.
Before you get the notion that this grumbling, bumbling oaf is trying to win your heart, rest assured that I have called off the pursuit.
Part of me wants to apologize for ruining our chance at love. The fact that you accepted my kiss shows you had some romantic interest in me.
However, it was only a matter of time. I am brusque. My words have often offended you. No matter how hard I tried to change, I would have continued to offend you, even inadvertently. You need a man who will shower you with sweet words, softly spoken. I am not that man, and I never will be.
The second half of the problem is the way you walk away and refuse to listen when you’re offended. I need a woman who will listen to my explanations and allow me to apologize. All men—all people—deserve the opportunity to apologize when they’ve hurt someone. No one should have to resort to writing a letter that will probably be ripped to shreds without being read.
May I offer one piece of advice? I urge you not to condemn the next man who calls you beautiful. Like it or not, the word applies to you. To expect a man to sift through a dictionary while he’s holding the woman he loves in his arms is too much to ask. Don’t do it again.
The last matter to address is how we shall act when I return. I intend to act as an officer and a gentleman, with polite military distance, and I will not pursue you again. I only ask for a measure of courtesy in return.
Sincerely, Dan
Tess let the tears dribble down her chin. What could he say that she hadn’t already said to herself? Only that he’d fallen in love with her.
She doubled over from the pain of it. He’d fallen in love with her? He loved her?
When he kissed her, he hadn’t been carried away at the sight of a pretty face. No, he’d kissed her because he loved her, all of her.
She brushed her eyes against her sleeve and gazed at the blurry words. “This—this is what I could have had.” If she hadn’t pitched a childish fit.
But she had. His righteous anger seeped out at the end of the letter, and she was glad he didn’t hide it. Otherwise, she could have deluded herself into believing she could change his mind.
She couldn’t. She’d gained his love, only to lose it forever.
39
Londonderry, Northern Ireland
Wednesday, May 12, 1943
The dive-bomber plunged, engines whining, guns chattering, and the Bogue’s machine gunner ducked out of the way, breaking his fire.
A dozen other gunners burst into laughter, but Dan shook his head.
“Nice shootin’ there, Ray! What do you call that? Duck hunting?”
“Aw, pipe down,” Ray said. “It looks real.”
“Precisely.” The Royal Navy gunnery instructor flipped on the lights inside the dome teacher.
Dan blinked as the film being projected inside the huge concrete dome faded to pale gray.
A Women’s Royal Naval Service technician carried a film can to the projector, and she changed reels.
The instructor strode forward, hands clasped behind his back. “The dome teacher is designed to look and sound real in order to train you for combat. The natural instinct is to duck, but the consequences in battle would be dire.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” Ray said.
“You will learn to curb your natural impulse, and next time you will do better. Next?”
“Beecher, that’s you. Kill that duck.”
Beecher grinned at his buddy and took his place behind the dummy gun.
The instructor showed him how to operate the device. “When you press the trigger, you will project an image of a gunsight on the dome. Don’t forget to aim off. I believe you Americans call it ‘leading,’ but ‘aiming off’ is a more accurate term.”
To Dan’s left, two of the Bogue’s gunnery officers nudged each other. Since the carrier had docked at Belfast on May 2, t
he men had engaged in spirited discussions with their Royal Navy brethren, comparing British and American terminology, tactics, training, and technology.
The Wren fed the last bit of film through the projector and turned it on. Out went the lights.
The film played on the inside of the dome as in a planetarium. The footage had been shot on a ship in convoy, complete with sounds of battle.
An enemy aircraft appeared low on the horizon, and Beecher lined the gun up with the target and kept the projected gunsight well in front of the plane’s nose, aiming for the spot where the plane would be when the bullets arrived.
The bomber zoomed overhead, and Dan sucked in his breath on instinct. But he didn’t duck, and neither did Beecher. Then a dive-bomber came into view, and Beecher swung his gun up to meet it.
For the rest of the afternoon, the gunners took turns, improving with each pass.
Dan’s mind hummed with possibilities. Although antiaircraft gunnery had nothing to do with antisubmarine warfare, Commander Lewis had asked Dan to observe training in the dome teacher. The concept was excellent—simulating combat conditions while minimizing danger and damage.
In the faint light, Dan sketched an idea on the notepad in his portfolio. Perhaps the technology could be adapted to train aircrew to attack submarines. A scaffold with a dummy gun, perhaps a dummy depth bomb release. Film could be projected on the floor.
The past ten days in Belfast and Londonderry had been productive. He’d even spent two entire days with the Huff-Duff experts as they trained the officers and men.
He couldn’t wait to share his reports with his commander.
Dan’s gut contracted. But then it would all be over. The Bogue was scheduled to sail in three days, and in two weeks she’d arrive in Argentia. Orders would be waiting for him—orders to return to Boston only long enough to turn in his reports and clean out his desk. Then he’d catch a train to Washington, DC.
After the gunners and officers grabbed supper in the base cafeteria, they boarded a train back to Belfast. Dan sat in a compartment with the Bogue’s gunnery officers, Lieutenants Chandler, Moody, and Lorenz.
Dan shared their eagerness to return to sea. While escorting Convoy HX-235, they’d conducted flight operations on all but one day, and a TBF had attacked a surfaced submarine. Ricocheting depth bombs foiled the attack and inspired discussion about how to prevent ricochets in the future.
Now the crew had experience and even more training. Now the carrier boasted Huff-Duff as well as radar and sonar. And now the tide of the Battle of the Atlantic was turning, the power swinging at last to the Allies, Dan could feel it. After horrific losses of merchant ships in March, May brought change as fresh as spring. U-boats were going down by the handful, sunk by surface ships and aircraft, often working together.
Perhaps it wasn’t the turning point yet, but it had a momentous quality to it, bearing the weight of Allied production and ingenuity and strength. With the last bit of North Africa expected to fall into Allied hands any day now, defeating Nazi Germany seemed more than possible. It was inevitable.
Soon his fellow officers leaned back for naps, but Dan couldn’t sleep, his mind churning with both purpose and frustration. Irish green hills rolled by, lit by the gold of the sunset.
Tess’s eyes.
Dan grunted and opened his portfolio. At such a time in the war, America needed good officers at sea, not filed in Washington because they’d made enemies with the wrong man. Plenty of officers preferred desk jobs. More and more WAVES were reporting for duty, perfectly capable of performing those jobs. How could the Navy disarm an officer who longed to fight?
Dan’s ambition and indignation wrestled with his helplessness and resignation. It wasn’t like him to surrender. It never had been.
Bad enough he couldn’t fight for Tess. She’d made her wishes clear. He wouldn’t humiliate himself by crawling to her. Nor would he break the promise he’d made not to pursue her. Why would he pursue her anyway? Why would he want to walk on eggshells for the rest of his life?
Dan tapped his pen on the notepad in his portfolio. But his career . . . there had to be a way to fight for it.
If only Admiral Howard had lived. If only he’d written that letter.
The top piece of paper felt thin in Dan’s fingers, yet a single sheet of paper held the power to make a career or shatter one.
What would Admiral Howard have written? Dan could hear his mentor’s voice in his head, gruff but warm.
With his life in shambles, Dan needed to hear those words, so he scratched them on the notepad: The finest midshipman in your class. Not just smart. You have drive and character and presence. The other mids know—you’re the one to watch. . . . Daniel Avery is known for his integrity. Even as an ensign, he exhibits a noble sort of compassion, bearing grievances with a stoicism befitting the greatest admiral. . . . You’re going places. You note problems, analyze them, and envision solutions. . . . I have plans for this young man.
Then Dan scribbled down his accomplishments as Admiral Howard would have described them, focusing on the breadth of experience and depth of knowledge, including the year at ASWU learning technology that would make him an ideal officer in the modern Navy.
What if Admiral Howard had added a warning about Randolph in his letter, a subtle statement to nullify any possible negative evaluations?
Dan stared at the page in the fading light.
This was the letter the admiral would have written, should have written. Indeed, he’d meant to write it and would be grieved to know what had happened to his protégé.
Perhaps Dan could write it for him.
Nonsense. He yanked down the blackout shade and turned on the lamp. That would be forgery, a crime and grounds for losing his commission.
He closed the portfolio, but his breath came deeper and slower and harder.
Death had stolen the letter from him. Admiral Howard would be furious to see Dan languishing in Washington, his talents wasted.
Randolph was stealing his career from him. All because Dan insisted on being high-minded. Dan should have told Lewis every sordid detail of their time on the Texas and every petty offense at ASWU.
Dan might not be able to salvage his own career, but he could ruin Randolph’s—and for good this time. The man didn’t deserve his commission.
A naval officer needed to be aggressive and fight for what was right.
And this was right.
40
Boston
Saturday, May 22, 1943
“What matinee shall we see?” Mary spread the newspaper on the coffee table in her apartment.
“No men with us this afternoon, so we can pick something romantic,” Lillian said.
With the War Loan Drive over, Tess had her Saturdays free again, but she couldn’t stomach anything romantic.
“How about They Came to Blow Up America?” Mary tapped the paper. “It’s about those German spies who landed in New York and Florida by U-boat.”
Tess made a face. She also couldn’t stomach a spy movie. “Anything else?”
“There’s a new Humphrey Bogart movie,” Lillian said. “Action in the North Atlantic. Oh, probably not.”
Two sets of concerned eyes turned to Tess.
“You poor thing,” Mary said. “I hate to see you so sad and quiet. But cheer up. He’ll be back soon.”
Time to tell her friends the truth, or as much of it as she could. She drew a deep breath. “I’m not sad because he’s at sea. I’m sad because it won’t work between us.”
“What?” Lillian’s hazel eyes widened. “I thought . . . but on his birthday . . .”
Tess tugged at the sleeves of her navy-blue jacket, longing for her new dress whites, for a fresh start. “That night I did something selfish, and we realized it would never work.”
“What happened?” Lillian said.
“I can’t tell you. You’re his sister—and Mary, you’re his sister-in-law. We need to be discreet.”
“Oh, swe
etie.” Mary leaned her shoulder against Tess’s. “You’ve been keeping this to yourself for over a month? But you need to talk to people. And Nora’s gone now. Were you able to talk to her?”
“I told her everything.” Tess’s voice came out strained. “She was still angry with me when she left, and I don’t blame her.”
“That bad, huh?” Lillian’s voice sank low in understanding.
“That bad.” The squirming sensation in her belly—when would it go away? She was writing Dan a letter, but it wouldn’t reach him until he returned. It was so difficult—how could she communicate the depth of her regret without sounding as if she were trying to change his mind?
Tess scooted forward and studied the movie listings. “How about a western? There’s a new one with Dana Andrews and Henry Fonda, The Ox-Bow Incident.”
The apartment door opened, and Yvette entered.
“You’re home early,” Mary said. “I thought you and Henri went away for the weekend.”
Yvette paused with her back to them, her hat perched over the coatrack. “I—we changed plans. I’m moving to New York today.”
“Moving!” Lillian cried. “To New York?”
“Today?” Tess peered over the back of the couch and clamped her lips so she wouldn’t mention the conversation she’d overheard. It wasn’t June yet. What had changed?
Mary stood, concern etched on her face. “But . . . but what about your jobs at the Navy Yard?”
Yvette braced one hand on the wall, fingers wide, and then she pushed back and slipped out of her coat. “I’ll call from New York and quit.”
Her voice sounded odd, and Tess exchanged glances with Mary and Lillian.
Lillian stood. “Why today? What’s the rush?”
“I—I—” Yvette strode to her room. “I have to leave.”
What was wrong? Tess and her friends followed Yvette.
She pulled a suitcase from the closet and flung it onto the bed. Where was the one she’d used for the weekend? Why hadn’t she brought it home?