Through Waters Deep (15 page)

But how long had they been kissing in that glorious blue haze? A split second . . . or a week?

Mary eased back.

Slowly, Jim opened his eyes. Never had she seen them so close—the brown mixed with green, the tiny golden rays, the intelligence and humor and thoughtfulness she adored.

Oh dear. What would he say? Her breath caught and her lips wouldn't move, swollen by the kiss. Should she apologize? Should she blurt out her love for him? What?

One corner of his mouth bent up. “Just a friendly kiss, eh?”

So that's how they'd handle it. “What kind of friend would I be if I let those men tease you?”

Then he gave her the grin she loved, but fuller than ever, and he tipped his cap to her. “Till I return.” Up the gangplank he went, his stride long. At the top, he turned and waved at her.

She waved back, her own grin bursting forth. Oh goodness, it wasn't her imagination, not at all. Something was happening—something
had
happened.

Only then did she realize no one was chanting or laughing or staring at her anymore. How strange that she'd dissipated the attention by accepting it and stepping into the limelight for one blissful moment.

Mary hugged herself and bounced on her toes. Oh, what one kiss could do.

Like a pretty red beacon on the wharf, Mary grinned and waved.

With great effort, Jim resisted the urge to race back to her. It had really happened. She
had
kissed him. She had
kissed
him. If that was how she said good-bye, he couldn't wait to say hello.

Only one problem.
She
had kissed
him
. Why hadn't he initiated that kiss? After all, she invited him, gave him permission, but he'd just stared at her like an imbecile until she'd been forced to act.

At least he'd had the presence of mind to kiss her back. He'd have to make up for it when he returned. His smile returned, he gave her one last wave, and he stepped onto the deck of the
Atwood
.

Arch leaned against the bridge superstructure. “Well, well, well. Jim Avery has suddenly acquired a taste for quiet brunettes.”

Jim tried to look noncommittal. “Just a friendly kiss, she said.”

“Friendly? She didn't kiss me like that.”

“Guess you're not her friend.”

Arch laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. “It's about time, old man.”

Yeah, it was. Joy erased his noncommittal façade. “I'd better get to my station.”

“Me too. The engines won't run themselves.”

Jim headed forward, where he'd help the executive officer, Vince Banning, with the deck gang as they hauled up lines for shoving off.

In the narrow space alongside the superstructure, Jim squeezed past Mitch Hadley heading the opposite direction.

“What do you know?” Hadley said. “Jim Avery even floats with the dames.”

The muscles in Jim's neck went taut. “You don't know anything about the situation.”

“I know the poor girl had to kiss you, because you don't have the guts.” He stuck out that thick jaw of his. “You have no initiative at all.”

“Excuse me. I have a job to do.” Jim continued on his way before he took the initiative to sock the jerk in the chin.

His arms swung hard by his side. No initiative? No initiative?

Jim's lips set in a solid line. That was going to change.

Twirling on the sidewalk in front of the Bunker Hill Monument wouldn't be mature. Not at all, so Mary indulged in a touristy gaze upward at the white granite obelisk, circling to view the charming neighborhood. There. She'd twirled without twirling.

Why shouldn't she twirl? Jim had kissed her.

Well, she had kissed him, but he didn't seem to mind. Her chest expanded, and her eyes drifted shut. Oh, the look of wonder on his face afterward.

Even if he wasn't falling in love with her, at least he was attracted. Maybe the kiss had awakened something. Maybe that was the first time he'd seen her as a woman, not just as a friend. Either way, it was bliss.

Mary strolled down Monument Avenue toward her apartment. “Bring him home soon, Lord,” she whispered, but guilt pricked her conscience.

Jim had important work to do. If the
Atwood
could scare off the U-boats, the lives of countless merchant marines could be saved, and thousands of tons of valuable supplies could be delivered to Britain.

Her prayer needed editing.
Lord, help him do
his job well and bring him home safely—in your
time.

The tune of the new song “Yours” flowed up inside her and out of her mouth. For once, she didn't care who heard her singing. An older woman passed by and gave her an appreciative smile. Mary closed her eyes. She refused to let praise do its harm, but she also refused to let fear silence her song.

She climbed the stairs to her apartment and swung open the door.

“Mary! There you are!” A beloved voice, a beloved face, a beloved pair of arms enfolding her in a hug.

“Quintessa?” Mary hugged her back. Relief surged through her that Jim wasn't there, but how could she be so selfish? Thinking only of herself?

Mary pushed back and held her best friend by the shoulders. “My goodness! What are you doing here? I wasn't expecting you.”

Quintessa's golden-green eyes sparkled. “I wanted to surprise you, sweetie.”

“You did. Oh, it's so good to see you.”

“Don't you look swell?” Quintessa stroked the sleeve of Mary's dress. “I've never seen you wear red, and it's marvelous
on you. And I love your hair like that. A little longer, isn't it? So is mine. We have to stay with the times, don't we?”

“We do.” Mary fingered her friend's shoulder-length blonde curls. “Oh, it's good to see you. But what brings you here? How long—listen to me. I haven't even invited you in yet.”

“I'm already in.” Quintessa raised that infectious smile of hers.

Mary laughed and motioned her to the couch. “When did you arrive?”

“Right before noon.” Quintessa sat and smoothed the skirt of her yellow dress, patterned with swirls of pale green leaves. “Your friend Yvette recognized my name, said you talked about me all the time—you sweetheart—so she let me in. When she said you'd be gone all day, I took the El downtown, looked around, and . . . met my new boss.”

Mary blinked. “Your new . . .”

“Yes.” Quintessa's shoulders lifted. “Oh, I was miserable in Chicago. Yes, I needed to get away from Vermilion—I can't stand seeing
him
with
her
—but I was so lonely in Chicago. I liked my job at Marshall Fields, but I got to thinking. I can do this job in any city in America. Why not with my very best friend in the world? So I applied to Filene's, and they were impressed with my business degree, and they hired me. I'll have to work the floor in sales for a year, but then they promised to move me into the business offices.”

Mary gripped her friend's hand. “You're staying in Boston?”

“I'm so excited. I haven't been this happy in over two years.”

“Wonderful. Wonderful.” It took every grain of effort to keep selfish disappointment from marring her face. Quintessa would still be here when Jim returned.

“Do you suppose . . . I hate to spring this on you, but Mr. Garrett at Filene's said finding an apartment in Boston is
near impossible with the shipyards booming. Do you suppose . . . ?”

“You could live here?” It was difficult to swallow and smile at the same time. “My room is plenty big. We could fit another bed, another dresser, but of course I'd have to ask Yvette.”

“She loves the idea. In fact, she's the one who suggested it. Cut the rent, you know?” She winked, cute as ever.

“This is wonderful.” Mary built it up in her mind. She'd finally have a dear friend in town to do things with, to—“Oh! Now I can show you my notebooks for the Case of the Shipyard Saboteur.”

“I can't wait.” Quintessa clasped her hands together. “I couldn't stand how you were having this delightful mystery adventure without me. You've been having all the fun this year. And with Jim Avery in town too.”

Jim Avery, who had a lifelong infatuation with Quintessa Beaumont.

Mary's heart deflated. “He shipped out an hour ago.”

Quintessa pressed her hand over her mouth. “He did? When will he be back?”

How could she face Quintessa and talk about Jim? She went to the kitchen, since she had to make dinner anyway. She grabbed her favorite apron from the hook by the kitchen door and tied it around her waist. “I don't know how long he'll be gone. A month or so, I imagine.”

“Oh, bother.” Quintessa followed Mary and untied the apron from behind. “Don't you dare make dinner. I'm taking you out. I was hoping Jim would be here too, but oh well.”

Mary studied her golden friend in her golden dress. “He'll be happy to see you.”

“Do you think so?” Quintessa patted her throat. “Pardon me, but may I have something to drink? I'm so thirsty.”

“Would you like some iced tea?” Mary opened the refrig
erator and pulled out the pitcher she'd made this morning, before Liberty Fleet Day. Before the kiss.

Pain squeezed her heart, and her hand squeezed the pitcher handle.

“Did you forget something?” Quintessa asked.

Yes, she'd forgotten how gold outshone silver. She lifted a smile. “The glasses are in the cupboard behind you.”

Quintessa spun around and pulled out two glasses, always thinking of others, and she set them on the table.

With a deep breath to steady her hand, Mary poured the iced tea. “Sugar?”

“No, thank you.”

“Come, let me show you something.” Mary led her friend back to the living room. “Sit in that chair, lean toward the bay window, and look up the street.”

Quintessa did so, brushing aside the lace curtains. “Oh, look! You can see the Bunker Hill Monument. How thrilling.”

Only minutes earlier, Mary had wanted to twirl in its shadow. Now she stood behind her best friend to conceal her face. “It's my favorite spot.”

“To tell you the truth, Jim is one of the reasons I came to Boston.”

“Oh?”

Quintessa swirled the tea in her glass. “You said the two of you are only friends—you know I'd never interfere in a budding romance—but your letters got me to thinking. He was madly in love with me in high school, but of course I overlooked him because I had a boyfriend. But now . . . if he's turned out as well as you say he has, he sounds like a real catch. If he adored me then, he might adore me again. I thought to myself, why not?”

“Yes,” Mary choked out. “Why not?”

Quintessa turned and took her hand. “Do sit down, sweetie. I want to see your lovely face.”

Just when Mary didn't want her face observed, but she obeyed and sat on the couch.

“He's a good man, isn't he? He always was, but I was young and stupid and only wanted a handsome, charming football player, so I never looked twice at poor Jim. But now I know the worth of a good man.”

All Mary had to do was nod, but her swollen throat made the act torture.

Quintessa leaned back in the chair, looked out the window, and fiddled with the lace curtain. “When I think of how Jim used to look at me with complete and utter adoration—oh my. Feelings like that, feelings so deep, don't truly disappear.”

No, they didn't. Mary's vision blurred. She'd seen his face when Quintessa's name was mentioned. His feelings for her hadn't changed. They never would.

“Mary?” Vulnerability softened Quintessa's voice. “Do you think he could care for me again?”

Something green and cruel and selfish inside wanted to say no, but she couldn't lie, couldn't be cruel to the one person who had offered her friendship when she was an outcast, couldn't envy the one person who had always encouraged her, a person who had been miserable for two years and deserved happiness again.

Yet her voice didn't work. She traced the rim of the glass, cold to her fingertip, and she forced herself to nod.

Quintessa's face lit up. “Do you really think so? That would be marvelous. I knew I should take a chance and come to Boston, take a chance on Jim. Maybe he'll take a chance on me.”

And Mary's chances dribbled away.

Off the Coast of Newfoundland
Tuesday, September 30, 1941

Thank goodness Jim never got seasick.

Since the gun director sat high on top of the bridge superstructure, the motion there was the greatest. Swaying a good twenty degrees from side to side, Jim scanned out the porthole with his slewing sight for ships on the horizon.

The
Atwood
stood on Condition Three, with only one gun and the director manned, and with assistant gunnery officers trusted to control the weaponry. This close to Newfoundland, the Royal Canadian Navy and US Navy aircraft helped deter U-boats.

Jim glanced to both sides at Task Unit 4.1.5—four other American destroyers, the
Babbitt
,
Broome
,
Leary
, and
Schenck
. All but the
Atwood
were “four-stackers” built during the last war. Along with four funnels, the older destroyers had lower fuel capacity, which might cause problems if they faced storms. Or battle.

“There! Straight ahead.” Juan Dominguez, the director
pointer, looked through his prismatic telescope, his white “Dixie cup” cover perched on the back of his head.

Jim trained his telescopic sight on the horizon, where a line of dark shapes emerged. “I see them. Our first convoy.”

Convoy HX-152, fifty-five cargo ships steaming from Halifax, Nova Scotia, escorted by the HMCS
Annapolis
, one of the old US destroyers transferred to Canada a year earlier under the destroyers-for-bases deal with Britain.

Dominguez adjusted a dial on his telescope. “They'll be ours for over a week, huh, sir?”

“We're supposed to reach the MOMP on October 9.” At the Mid-Ocean Meeting Point south of Iceland, British warships would relieve the Americans and escort the ships the rest of the way to Liverpool.

“Then we get to see sunny Reykjavik.” Dominguez tipped up his brown face. “Work on my suntan.”

Jim laughed. “I doubt we'll get off the ship much. Word is the citizens of Iceland aren't so keen on the American invasion.”

“They invited us, didn't they?”

“Only under British pressure.” He gave Dominguez a mock scowl. “Let's not make them long for Nazi occupation.”

“Not me, sir.” The pointer raised one hand as if taking an oath. “Nothing stronger than milk for me, and I'm true to my girl. Mama would know if I strayed. She'd know, and she'd swim all the way from Los Angeles to whip me.”

“She would too.” Bert Campbell, the director trainer, looked up from his telescope next to Dominguez's. “Once, back when we were with the Pacific Fleet, Juan and I had liberty in LA. Saw that woman light into him for cussing. Ain't never heard him cuss since.”

Dominguez nudged his buddy. “Watch your grammar too. She'll get you.”

Nothing like the camaraderie of men who served together.
Jim smiled and studied the cargo ships ahead, their shapes becoming more distinct each minute. “Let's see if I remember. Mostly British ships, some Dutch, Norwegian, Swedish, Greek, and one American ship heading to Iceland.”

“That's a lot of cargo,” Campbell said.

“Tons and tons.” Oil, grain, sugar, peanuts, scrap metal, tobacco, and mail. “Britain needs that cargo, and we need to keep it safe, plus the merchant marines and a couple hundred passengers. This isn't a drill.”

“No, sir,” Dominguez said, “and I'm glad, 'cause I'm sick of drills.”

Jim remembered his brother Dan's warning that someday these men might long for drills.
Lord, keep
the U-boats away, but if they must come, let
us do our jobs well.

Only two weeks earlier, President Roosevelt had commanded US ships to shoot on sight any German or Italian vessels in US waters or any vessels attacking ships under American protection.

“Neutrality?” he muttered. Only on paper—and in the eyes of the folks back home. Even if the civilians didn't know it, the United States was already at war.

HX-152 was the third Halifax-to-Liverpool convoy escorted by American warships. So far, no cargo ships had been lost under their care—but no attacks had occurred either. How long could that last?

Jim's fingers stiffened on the dials of his sight as he studied the steel ships coming his way in a square grid of ten columns, each ship in an assigned, numbered position. How many of them would be sunk on the way to Iceland? To Liverpool?

The
Atwood
veered to starboard.

“Looks like we're taking station.” The destroyers would keep station on the perimeter of the convoy, with one at each corner of the square and one sweeping in front of the convoy. Since the destroyers steamed faster than the cargo
ships, they could patrol back and forth if U-boats were suspected in the area, and they could dart out toward sound contacts. To attack.

The
Atwood
plowed through the waves, driving toward her destination, heedless of the wind or current. Reminded him of that passage in Isaiah 43 Mary recommended. “Thus saith the Lord, which maketh a way in the sea, and a path in the mighty waters . . . Remember ye not the former things, neither consider the things of old. Behold, I will do a new thing; now it shall spring forth; shall ye not know it?”

A sense of determination poured into Jim. God had made a way. God was doing a new thing. Jim would choose his path and charge forward, here at sea and—if he returned safely—in Boston with Mary Stirling.

Mary with the silvery eyes and the soft lips.

Was he falling in love? He didn't feel at all like he did in high school with Quintessa. But that was a one-sided crush. What he had with Mary felt real, steady, deep—and quite mutual.

He could still feel her weight sagging into him, still see her eyes, bleary from the kiss, her lashes low. Why on earth hadn't he marched right back down that gangplank, kissed her again, declared his feelings, and sealed her for himself?

Jim shook his head hard. Why on earth wasn't he paying attention to his job?

One corner of his mouth edged up. Wasn't distraction a symptom of falling in love?

South of Greenland
Sunday, October 5, 1941

For the first time in his life, Jim had been seasick.

On the darkened deck just before midnight, Jim clutched
the lifeline with both hands as he made his way to the bridge for his turn as junior officer of the watch. Everyone had gotten sick tonight, even the hardiest sea salt among them.

Waves towered above the
Atwood
in the darkness, and rain stung Jim's cheeks and froze. The bow punctured a wave, and seawater gushed over the forward section of the deck. Jim braced his feet, turned his back, and gasped as icy water sloshed over his feet. He'd never seen so much “green water,” waves breaking across the deck, as he had the last few days.

Two giant steps and he reached the door to the superstructure. In he went and up the ladder, timing his steps to the motion of the waves, keeping a firm grip on the handrails. At the top, he burst into the pilothouse and slammed the door behind him.

“Look what the sea washed in,” Captain Durant said. “Another drowned rat.”

“Yes, sir. Junior rat of the watch reporting for duty.” Jim shed some of his outerwear, took the towel offered by one of the seamen, and wiped himself down.

In the red light required to preserve night vision, the bridge equipment glowed—the helm, engine telegraph, gyrocompass, and communication equipment. For the past half hour, Jim had rested in a darkened room to develop his night vision. If only he could have slept, but the seas interfered as badly with sleep as they did with digestion.

“I'm afraid you'll have a tough night.” Durant nodded to Jim and to Lt. Vince Banning, who was scheduled to serve as officer of the deck. “Keep in close contact with your lookouts. In seas like this, we haven't been able to relieve them every two hours as we should. Make sure they're awake and alert and reporting.”

“Aye aye, sir.” Jim didn't envy those men out in the wet
and dark and cold, expected to keep constant vigilance to prevent collision and to watch for U-boats.

“We've been on the TBS all evening.” Durant gestured to the telephone-like Talk Between Ships radio system. “You'd think after two years at war, these merchantmen would value a tight convoy. But they keep trying to spread out, and they keep putting up their lights. Unacceptable. We need to avoid collisions, but we mustn't attract U-boats.”

Jim planted his feet wide to allow for the thirty-degree tilt of the ship in each direction. The seasoned merchantmen didn't think too highly of their green American escorts, just as their civilian crews didn't think too highly of military discipline and order.

Jim peered through the portholes into the darkness. Night was the most dangerous time. The submarines could attack on the surface unseen and undetectable by sonar. How would the storm change things? The heaving seas would make an attack more difficult, but would also make it harder for the convoy to spot the U-boats. And the Germans were aggressive, attacking in coordinated groups nicknamed “wolf-packs.”

Vince Banning leaned over the plotting table. “Where are we at, Captain?”

Durant tapped the navigational chart several hundred miles south of Greenland and briefed them on their current location and bearing and speed and weather, the planned zigzag course for the night, and how the Navy's “Fox” long-range radio broadcast predicted no U-boats on their course based on direction-finding radio transmissions.

Jim paid careful attention. His duties included making routine entries in the log book, taking stadimeter and range-finder readings, and inspecting above and below decks if weather permitted.

“Any word on the
Svend Foyn
?” Banning asked.

Jim murmured his concern. The Norwegian ship had straggled behind the convoy four nights earlier in heavy weather. Not only did she carry a crucial load of twenty thousand tons of fuel oil, ten bombers, and two tanks—but she carried 220 passengers. Stragglers were easy pickings for U-boats.

“No word. But also no word of a sinking, so keep those souls in your prayers.” Durant relayed the last bits of information they'd need for their watch, then retired to his cabin behind the pilothouse, within shouting distance if needed.

Banning took his position behind the helmsman, and Jim at the log table. He made the change of watch notations in the log, keeping his handwriting as neat as he could with the ship rolling side to side and pitching bow to stern. Destroyers were lively ships, quick and easy to maneuver, but prone to violent motion in rough seas. Serving on a battleship had been less dramatic, but also less fun.

“Sir?” The talker turned from the telephone to Banning, eyebrows bunched together. “We had a sound contact.”

Jim's stomach lurched, and not from nausea this time. In the sound room, deep in the lowest section of the bow, the sonar operators listened to the constant ping-ping-ping of the sonar emanating from a dome under the hull. Now something had pinged back.

Vince Banning's expression remained impassive. “
Had
a contact?”

“Yes, sir. Norris says he heard what sounded like propeller noises for about thirty seconds, but they disappeared.”

Jim checked the time on his watch and made the proper notation in the log. Why was the executive officer so quiet? What decision would he make?

Banning gazed out the porthole, his arms crossed over his mackinaw. His fingers dug into the thick fabric, and he
cussed. “I have no choice. We have to follow Cinclant procedure and stay within two thousand yards of the convoy.”

The Commander-in-Chief of the Atlantic Fleet had issued convoy escort protocols that cautioned against jumping on minor sound contacts and against leaving the convoy for more than an hour to chase U-boats.

“This is insane.” Banning strode to one end of the bridge, wheeled around, and strode back the other way. “What are we supposed to do? Wait for them to attack? We need to hunt them down and kill them before they kill us.”

Jim chuckled to lighten the mood. “That would violate the Neutrality Laws just a smidgen, don't you think?”

Banning leveled a glare at him in the strange red light. “Our job is to protect this convoy.”

Jim had misjudged the situation. With no food in his stomach and a possible U-boat in the vicinity, Vince Banning didn't want jokes. Jim gave the XO a solemn nod. “And we can't protect if we can't fight. Cinclant makes us fight with our hands tied behind our back.”

With one eyebrow lifted, Banning signaled the resumption of his respect for Jim. “As an officer, I must obey the commander of this task unit and of the Atlantic Fleet, but as a man, I tell you, this procedure stinks.”

“Let's hope this procedure doesn't sink.” Jim held his breath. So much for not making jokes.

However, Banning chuckled. “Yes. Let's hope.” He turned to the talker. “Anything else?”