Through Waters Deep (10 page)

Thursday, July 3, 1941

The El train shivered its way out of the City Square Station in Charlestown. The Boston Navy Yard passed by on Mary's left. What fun to have an afternoon off to shop with Yvette.

The southbound Winter Line train clattered across the Charlestown Bridge, and steel girders flashed by Mary's eyes.

“Now do you believe me?” Yvette whapped a headline in the
Boston Globe
. “The Nazis are here, and they are dangerous.”

“I know.” All week Mary had been reading every news article she could. In New York City, the FBI had arrested thirty-three members of the Duquesne Spy Ring, most of whom had been born in Germany and had become American citizens.

“Do you see?” Yvette bowed her head over the paper, and the feathers on the front of her hat bowed with her. “They worked at defense factories, on passenger ships—and on the docks.”

“I know.” The train pulled into North Station. Dozens of people disembarked, and dozens more boarded.

“Why not Boston?” Yvette's golden-brown eyes beseeched her. “The FBI found thirty-three, but—”

“How many more? And are there any at the Navy Yard?”

“They put a bomb on your friend's ship.”

Mary crossed her legs and rearranged the skirt of her blue-and-yellow floral shirtwaist dress. “We know someone put a bomb on the ship, but we don't know who.”

“Pssh.” Yvette folded the newspaper. “We don't know the names, but they are the
Boche
.”

“The Germans? Possibly.” A good detective, even of the amateur variety, needed to keep her mind and her eyes open.

“Possibly? Pssh. If it is not the
Boche
, I will . . . I will . . .”

“Eat American cheese?”

Yvette's thin brown eyebrows sprang high. “Never again. Not even if the Nazis conquer America and we have no other food. I will starve.”

Mary laughed and patted her friend's hand.

The train went down an incline and entered the subway system. Lights flashed by in the dark tunnel.

“See? You must stop.” Yvette rapped Mary's hand. “No more notes.”

“I have to.” Mary raised her voice to be heard over the magnified train sounds. “We have to catch the saboteur before anyone gets hurt. If I can help in any small way, I must.”

“The FBI told you to stop. You must obey.”

“I'm not breaking the law. They're afraid I'll do something stupid and interfere with their investigation, but I won't.”

“They want you to be safe, and so do I.”

Mary raised a satisfied smile. “Then I must help. No one is safe until the saboteur is caught.”

Yvette mumbled a long string of French words, none of which Mary understood.

They each had their code language. Yvette had French, and Mary had shorthand. She kept her notes about Yvette
in shorthand and didn't type them up. Rumors circulated around Yvette because she was a foreigner, and some of the things she said might sound incriminating to someone who didn't know her. A solid record could protect her friend in case of accusations.

Mary gazed out the window to the platforms of the Haymarket Station. Unlike Yvette, Jim encouraged her investigation, and that meant so much to her. Whenever she prayed, she felt a sense of stirring rightness. Unless that changed, she'd continue.

In her letters home, she hadn't mentioned a word to her parents or sisters—they'd think her sleuthing was silly. But Quintessa was delighted and full of questions and ideas. If only her dear friend were here to puzzle over the mystery.

Mary sucked in a breath. But then Jim would forget Mary existed. In Quintessa's brilliant presence, Mary faded away. In the past, Mary preferred it that way, but now she didn't want to fade away in Jim's sight.

All her life, she'd avoided attention, but now she wanted attention—from Jim.

At the Devonshire Station, more people exchanged places, and Mary sorted out her views. Seeking attention usually stemmed from pride and selfishness, but not in this case. She cared for Jim and hoped he'd return her affections. Love wasn't a selfish goal when both people benefitted.

The whole thing was more complex and nuanced than she'd led herself to believe.

If only she could see him. Jim hadn't had liberty since his first weekend back in Boston, and neither had Arch. Gloria called Mary every day, sounding more frantic with each call, and Mary soothed her each time. No, Arch hadn't forgotten her. The men were hard at work.

“Here we are.” Yvette stood and made her way down the aisle.

Mary followed and stepped off the train onto the underground platform, keeping her purse clutched to her stomach as they pushed forward.

Up the stairs and through the tunnel they went, then down some steps straight into Filene's Basement. Yvette charged into the crowd, but Mary hung back to get her bearings.

Upstairs, Filene's carried eight stories' worth of gorgeous goods, but down in Filene's Basement bargains reigned.

For Bostonians, it was a game and a gamble. Products came downstairs with low prices, then were marked down 25 percent after twelve days, 50 percent for six more days, 75 percent for six days, and then donated to charity. The longer you waited, the greater the bargain—and the greater the chance someone else would snatch it up.

Mary searched until she found a bin of summer dresses in her size. Half a dozen women pressed around, grabbing dresses, examining them, thrusting them back. One woman stripped off her dress, down to her slip, and tried on a green-and-white striped dress.

If only the bargains came with dressing rooms.

Mary's eyes were drawn to a short-sleeved sailor dress, and she held it up. How sweet—white with blue trim around the collar and sleeves, and with a darling princess-seamed cut and a flared skirt.

Wouldn't she look smart walking next to Jim in his naval uniform? Or would she look like she was angling to be a sailor's girlfriend?

She grumbled, reached to put it back, then stopped. Someone else might grab it. She should at least try it on.

A flash of red blurred by her face as a woman tossed a dress back into the bin.

A bold red dress, yet in a silky fabric and softened with passementerie trim on the bodice. A year ago, she would have adored a similar dress in blue, but never in red.

Now she grabbed it, her heart quickening. How silly. She wasn't doing anything heroic, just trying on a red dress.

At a nearby table, Yvette riffled through a pile of blouses.

Mary worked her way over. “I'm going to find someplace less exposed and try these on.”

“You are too modest.” Yvette gestured at the women in their slips all around her. “Not all Americans are.”

Mary gave her a wink. “I'm from Ohio.”

Yvette gasped and touched the red dress. “
C'est bon!
”

“The dean of my secretarial school told us never to wear red because it excites the men.”

“Isn't that what you want?”

Perhaps she did. Just a little. “I'll try it on. I might not like it.”

“Oui, oui
.”
Yvette waved her to the corner.

Mary found a spot behind a rack, where she could be as prudish as she wanted. She unbuttoned her shirtwaist dress and quickly slipped the sailor dress overhead and pulled up the side zipper.

It fit perfectly. She gathered her things and found a mirror, waiting her turn to catch a view of herself. Oh yes, she loved it. So summery.

Someone jostled her out of the way, and Mary returned to her secluded spot. Off with the sailor dress and on with the red.

No one stood by the mirror now, and Mary studied her unfamiliar reflection. The fit flattered her figure, and the red—why, it brought out pink in her cheeks and a glow in her hair.

She only needed one new dress. Both appealed to her for different reasons. Both suited her. Both were marked down 25 percent. Which should she buy?

For heaven's sake, she was choosing a summer dress, not a husband. Mary darted back to her spot and changed back into the safe floral dress her mother would approve.

Yesterday, a letter had arrived from home. Mother was concerned about Mary's decision to join the choir. Wouldn't that lead her down the same road of temptation? A good Christian girl should be humble and not flaunt herself. She should put others above herself. She should avoid praise at all cost, because praise led to conceit and all sorts of vain foolishness.

Mary did up the buttons. Her mother was only partly right. Humility was a great virtue, but did humility require hiding in the corner? Nonsense. The Lord had given her gifts, and he wanted her to use them for his purposes. Not for herself, but for him. As long as she kept her priorities straight, she would be fine.

Mary held up the two dresses and studied them until a decision made her smile. She'd buy both.

Off the Coast of Maine
Tuesday, July 15, 1941

“Target sighted. Action starboard. Target is barge, bearing three-zero. Start tracking.” Up in the gun director on top of the bridge, Jim looked through the telescope of the slewing sight through a porthole. Above the tops of the waves, the outline of an old barge rhythmically flashed into and out of view. The Navy had anchored the barge a hundred miles off the Maine coast for target practice.

Beside Jim, the director trainer cranked his hand wheels, rotating the whole gun director on its giant ball-bearing ring, changing the flow of the breeze. “On target.”

Meanwhile the pointer adjusted his equipment for elevation. “On target.”

Behind Jim, the range-finder operator peered into a thick horizontal tube that connected the two optical range-finders
and computed the distance to the target. “Range five-one-double-oh.” Fifty-one hundred yards.

Electrical signals from the trainer, pointer, and range-finder were transmitted to the mechanical computer in the plotting room, which would calculate a solution and automatically elevate and rotate all four 5-inch guns to bear on the target.

“Mr. Reinhardt, target angle three-zero. Target horizontal speed double-oh.” Jim spoke on the intercom to the Interior Communications and Plotting Room, several decks below. Sweat trickled down his breastbone.

Reinhardt repeated the message, to verify with Jim and to relay the input values to the computer operators. A short pause. “Solution computed and transmitted to guns.”

“Thanks. Captain, do we have permission to fire?” The intercom connected Jim to the bridge directly below.

“Yes, Mr. Avery. Commence firing.”

Jim hauled in a breath. This was the first time he'd been in command of the director for a gunnery drill, and he needed to make it count. “Aye aye. Fire salvo.”

Down on the main deck, two guns on the bow and two on the stern craned their barrels skyward. Rings of orange fire, belches of gray smoke, a thunderous noise, and the deck beneath Jim's feet heaved. Better than the Fourth of July.

Except now he didn't have Mary Stirling next to him in a red dress, her eyes lit up by the fireworks over the Charles River, her narrow waist begging for his arm to circle it. He'd come close. His heart keeping tempo with Arthur Fiedler and the Boston Pops, Jim had placed his hand on the small of Mary's back to guide her through the crowd at the Hatch Shell. But then he'd let go, unsure whether embracing her would be suave or foolish or welcome.

He shook his head and counted the eight seconds it should take the target projectile to reach the barge. Maybe Dan was right about women distracting an officer from his work.

Through the slewing sight, he followed four orange tracers streaming behind the projectiles and converging on the barge. Spouts of water rose, about one hundred yards short.

“Up one-double-oh, bearing true.” Jim wiped sweat from his upper lip. Firing a naval gun required skill. Both the destroyer and its target could change location, speed, and direction—and the motion of the sea constantly altered the angle of the guns. The Mark 37 gun director had a mechanical computer and a stable element to compensate for all the variables, but gunnery remained as much an art as a science.

“Mr. Avery, we have a new solution,” Reinhardt said on the intercom.

“Thank you.” Jim eyed that old barge, determined to land a sand-filled projectile right on top. “Commence firing.”

The guns fired their shots.

Jim planted his hand on the steel wall of the enclosure so he wouldn't lose his balance, and then he trained his sight on the target and counted off the seconds. Plumes of water, just aft of the barge, about five degrees.

He made a face. “Right zero-five.” In today's drill, the
Atwood
maintained the same speed and bearing, the target was stationary, and the weather was sunny and mild. They wouldn't have conditions like that in battle.

And battle loomed nearer each day. Only a week earlier, US Marines had occupied Iceland, relieving the British troops guarding the strategically vital island from German invasion, and the US Navy had taken joint responsibility with the Royal Canadian Navy in escorting convoys from Canada to Iceland.