When Tides Turn Read online

  For the next half hour, Dan described the incidents and the ASWU analysis. In an attack by a single Avenger torpedo bomber on the French sub Méduse, the pilot had made a beam attack, a poor angle for an approach. He’d dropped only one depth bomb and from too high an altitude. The sub had received minor damage but had beached herself and was destroyed by other aircraft two days later.

  In another attack, four Avengers used clouds to shield their approach, and they came in from a better angle and altitude, dropping four depth bombs each. The fourth TBF pilot held his bombs when the Sidi-Ferruch went into her death throes.

  In his slides, Dan compared the altitude, angles of approach, and number of bombs dropped, using diagrams to back up the statistics.

  Dan clasped the pointer behind his back. “As the Bogue joins the Battle of the Atlantic, we at ASWU are looking forward to data from many attacks on U-boats—and plenty of sinkings. Working together, we can refine our tactics and bring the Allies to a speedy victory.”

  After the applause died, Dan answered questions. His previous talk on surface radar had also gone well, and he was anticipating his future talks, especially the one on upcoming technology.

  The captain and admiral stood as Dan approached.

  “Excellent job, Mr. Avery,” Captain Short said. “Very informative.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  The captain crossed his arms and inclined his head. “Say, the Bogue will be the first US auxiliary carrier to escort convoys. We’ll be pioneers, but we’ll also be guinea pigs. I hope ASWU will put someone aboard.”

  “Like our Mr. Avery?” Admiral Howard chuckled. “Sorry, Captain. I have plans for this young man.”

  “Too bad. You’d be welcome.”

  Dan’s chest felt full with the dual compliments. “Thank you, sir. I’m honored.”

  “Come. I want to show you the catapult today.” Captain Short led them out of the ready room, outside, and up a ladder onto the catwalk that ran along the hull. Another ladder led up to the flight deck.

  “Go ahead of me. You’re young and spry.” Admiral Howard gazed up the ladder, his face pale. Sweat glistened on his forehead despite the icy breeze.

  “Are you all right, sir?”

  “Of course I’m all right. Up you go, young man. Let’s go see that catapult.”

  Dan obeyed. Snow fell, nice and steady, and his feet crunched in the thin layer on the flight deck.

  A smile pulled at his mouth. Would he ever be able to look at a snowfall again without picturing Tess Beaumont twirling among the flakes?

  Honestly. Would he ever regain control of his emotions? He knew better. He knew to avoid distractions as Admiral Howard always told him.

  Where was the admiral?

  Dan looked over his shoulder.

  The admiral crouched at the top of the ladder with his hands flat on the deck, struggling to pull his knees up under him.

  “Sir? Are you—”

  “I’m fine,” he snapped. “Just have a cramp in my arm.”

  Helping him wouldn’t be wise, but Dan had to grip the lining of his coat pockets to resist.

  At last Admiral Howard straightened to standing. “Wait and see, son. If you live to be my age, you’ll have aches and pains as well.”

  “Yes, sir.” Dan gave him a fond smile, then turned to Captain Short. “Tell us about the catapult, sir.”

  The captain headed toward the bow of the ship. “I know neither of you are aviators. An aircraft needs a certain amount of speed for takeoff, and the Bogue’s flight deck isn’t long enough. Even if the ship is travelling at a full sixteen knots, we need a boost from the wind. If the air is too still, we can’t launch. That’s why we need the catapult.”

  A thump sounded behind Dan.

  Admiral Howard lay crumpled on the deck.

  “Admiral!” Dan rushed to him and dropped to his knees.

  “Perry!” Captain Short yelled. “Call for the medical officer. On the double.”

  The admiral clutched his arm, panting, his eyes enormous. “I—I—”

  He was having a coronary, wasn’t he? They never covered that in first aid training. What should he do?

  “Help is coming, sir.” Dan loosened the admiral’s scarf, feeling as helpless as when Lillian had stepped in an animal trap. Dan had released his sister from the trap, but he’d been powerless to save her leg.

  Captain Short leaned over the admiral. “Sir? Is there anything we can do?”

  “Coat . . . nitro . . .”

  Nitroglycerin. It was his heart, just as the doctor on the Wilkes had feared.

  Lord, help me, help me. Dan plunged his hand into the admiral’s coat pocket. There! A tiny glass vial. Fool thing wouldn’t open. He yanked off his gloves, unscrewed the little metal lid, and dumped small white tablets into his palm.

  But he sensed a void. A stillness.

  Admiral Howard’s blue eyes stared to the side, to the north. Unseeing.

  “No, no, no!” Dan shoved a tablet between the admiral’s lips. The medication would work. It had to.

  Captain Short stooped and worked his fingers under Admiral Howard’s scarf.

  Dan waited, praying, his hand freezing.

  The captain shook his head.

  “No.” No, it wasn’t too late. It couldn’t be.

  An officer and two pharmacist’s mates jogged down the deck with a medical kit and a stretcher.

  “Dr. Mote,” Captain Short said. “Admiral Howard collapsed.”

  Dan scooted aside on his knees. “He has high blood pressure. He looked pale today, sweaty. He said he had a cramp in his arm. Then he collapsed. He asked for his nitroglycerin, so I gave him a tablet.”

  Dr. Mote unbuttoned the admiral’s overcoat and worked his stethoscope under his service jacket.

  Dan clutched Admiral Howard’s hand, willing his own heartbeat, his own health to flow to this man he cared for. Don’t take him from me, Lord. Please don’t.

  After a minute, the physician pulled the admiral’s coat lapels together.

  Melted snow soaked through Dan’s trouser legs. Why wasn’t the doctor doing anything?

  Then Dr. Mote rested his hand over Admiral Howard’s bright blue eyes and closed his eyelids.

  “No . . .” Dan’s voice came out in a low, animal groan. He’d never see that blue again, never hear the admiral’s gruff voice and wise words.

  “I’m sorry,” Dr. Mote said. “It was too late. There’s nothing anyone could have done.”

  Captain Short stood. “I’ll notify his family.”

  “He has none.”

  “None?”

  Dan’s head shook heavily. “Only child. Never married.”

  “What a shame,” the doctor said.

  The admiral’s hand felt limp. Dan had never held the man’s hand before, never hugged him, never called him anything but “admiral” or “sir.” Yet Admiral Howard said Dan was almost a son to him. Dan was the closest thing he had to family.

  The pharmacist’s mates laid the stretcher on the deck and rolled the admiral onto it.

  Dan’s compass needle spun. The admiral had died alone. No one to truly mourn him, only his naval colleagues. No one to carry on his name or his legacy, only Dan as his protégé.

  The pharmacist’s mates covered Rear Admiral Aloysius Howard with a blanket.

  Captain Short laid a hand on Dan’s shoulder. “Mr. Avery?”

  It was time to let go. Dan released his mentor’s hand, stood, and raised a sharp salute.

  They carried the admiral away, and Dan held the salute in the falling snow. He was the only one who could carry on the man’s legacy, and he’d do the best he could. He’d stay the course and have the sterling career the admiral had envisioned for him.

  The letter.

  How could he be so hard-hearted to think of himself at such a time?

  Yet it was still January. Had Admiral Howard written that letter recommending Dan for a transfer to the Pacific Fleet? Even if he had, he’d said he wou
ldn’t mail it until February 1.

  The ocean swelled beneath him. The tide that had been carrying him to sea shifted and betrayed him.

  24

  Boston

  Sunday, February 7, 1943

  “A bomb?” Dan charged toward Tess and Nora on the sidewalk in front of Park Street Church.

  Tess groaned. She hadn’t planned to burden him with that, not when he was finally home after two weeks away, not when he had to be reeling from the death of Admiral Howard. She saluted. “Good morning, Mr. Avery. Welcome back to Boston.”

  “I—” Dan gave his head a little shake, then returned Tess and Nora’s salutes. “Good morning, Miss Beaumont, Miss Thurmond. A bomb? Lillian just told me.”

  At least she wouldn’t have to relate the whole story. “Someone threw a bomb through the window of the bakery during a meeting, but no one was hurt. The police and FBI are investigating.”

  “Agent Sheffield was assigned to the case,” Mary said. “He worked on my sabotage case too. Oh! I’d better get to choir.”

  The group headed up the granite steps to the main door, framed by white pillars against the brick façade.

  Dan stuck by Tess’s side. “Any arrests?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Suspects?”

  In the oval-shaped foyer, twin staircases spiraled up on either side. “Everyone suspects everyone else. Yvette and Henri are the top culprits because they didn’t arrive until after the attack, but . . .”

  “But what?”

  Tess gripped the dark wood curlicue at the base of the banister and waited for the others to climb out of earshot. “After the bombing, Agent Sheffield told me Yvette was clear.”

  “So the gun—”

  “He won’t tell me why she’s clear, but he says we have nothing to fear.”

  “Good.” Dan took off his cover and smoothed his dark hair. “I’ve been concerned about Lillian and Mary rooming with her. And about you.”

  “Thank you.” She busied her fingers unbuttoning her overcoat so she wouldn’t play with the wayward curl over his forehead. “I didn’t tell Mary or Lillian about the gun or about going to the FBI.”

  “I agree. No need to worry them.” He motioned for her to lead the way. “How are you?”

  “I’m fine.” Tess ascended the stairs. “No one was hurt. The paper said the bomber didn’t use much explosive. Either he just wanted to scare us, or he didn’t know how to build a bomb.”

  “But how are you?”

  She wanted to give a cheery answer, but such a warm and personal question deserved an honest answer. “I feel awful. I started the whole thing.”

  “You?” A train could run along the tracks across his forehead.

  “Mm-hmm. After I went to the FBI, the agents questioned Madame Robillard and the others. The spy must have gotten riled up and—”

  “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

  Tess waited for him on the landing. Another pair of staircases spiraled up to the gallery where the choir sang. “I went to the FBI for the wrong reasons. I wanted to be a sleuth, to do something important. I wanted attention. I was—”

  “Attention?” Dan glared down at her. “I was there when you decided to go. Attention had nothing to do with it. You had information the FBI needed. And don’t you see? The bomb proves something is wrong in that group—a spy or a troublemaker. You didn’t cause the problem. It was already there. Don’t doubt yourself.”

  She gave him a small smile. “Thank you.”

  He stepped closer, and the glare dissolved to tenderness. “Will you continue to report to the FBI?”

  That look? How could she bear it? She glanced away to all the people who didn’t have to worry about spies and bombs and the FBI. “I don’t know.”

  “Tess . . .” His voice rumbled so low and soothing.

  She resisted the magnetic pull to his arms, certainly not what he intended, and she made her voice light. “Hmm?”

  “Only the Navy can give you a direct order, not the FBI. But I urge you not to let fear win. Be careful, yes, but don’t let fear win.”

  Truth drew her gaze back to his strong face. Here was a man not only willing to face Nazis and bombs and the raging sea—but he longed to do so, drove hard to do so. Her breath caught on the way in. “I did take an oath to protect the nation.”

  “You did.” His mouth twitched into an approving smile more exhilarating than starry-eyed adoration.

  Then he tilted his head toward the sanctuary.

  Tess gathered herself, and they filed into a pew beside Lillian, Arch, Nora, and Bill Bentley, a recent Sunday regular.

  Dan pulled the hymnal from the pew rack, studied the board at the front of the sanctuary listing the hymn numbers, and located the pages. So like him, planning ahead.

  Organ music washed over her, calming her heart, and Tess set her purse under the pew and removed her scarf and gloves.

  “Here,” Dan said in a low voice. “First hymn, second verse. It’s for you.”

  His hazel eyes were so warm and close, and his message so sweet. She whispered a thank-you.

  He held the hymnal open, his palms wide and strong and capable, and he tapped Hymn 236, “All the Way My Savior Leads Me.”

  She started reading, but then Dr. Harold Ockenga approached the pulpit. After the opening prayer, the organ played the introduction to the hymn. Tess joined in, relishing the choir’s sublime singing above and behind her, and Dan’s off-key bass beside her.

  All the way my Savior leads me—what have I to ask beside?

  Can I doubt His tender mercy, who thru life has been my Guide?

  Heav’nly peace, divinest comfort, here by faith in Him to dwell!

  For I know, whate’er befall me, Jesus doeth all things well.

  All the way my Savior leads me—cheers each winding path I tread,

  Gives me grace for ev’ry trial, feeds me with the living bread.

  Tho’ my weary steps may falter and my soul athirst may be,

  Gushing from the Rock before me, lo! a spring of joy I see.

  The verse was for her. She let the truth soak in. Her path wound every which way, her steps faltered, her soul thirsted, but Jesus led her. She needed to stop doubting and to relax in his cheer and grace and joy.

  All the way my Savior leads me—O the fullness of His love!

  Perfect rest to me is promised in my Father’s house above.

  When my spirit, clothed immortal, wings its flight to realms of day,

  This my song thru endless ages: Jesus led me all the way.

  Dan’s voice warbled on the final verse.

  That verse—it was for him. Tess had read in the newspaper about Admiral Howard’s death. Was Dan there when his mentor’s spirit winged its flight?

  Dr. Ockenga preached about comfort in grief, appropriate for a nation at war. Losses continued in unending battles for Tunisia and New Guinea and Guadalcanal, and throughout the world in the air and on the sea.

  She could feel Dan’s heaviness beside her. She should have asked how he was doing. Instead, she talked on and on about her own problems. If only she could undo that mistake. If only she could take his hand or hug his arm, comfort him in some small way.

  After church, Arch suggested a place off Beacon Street that served great clam chowder. A snowy walk through Boston Common would whet the appetite.

  The group crossed Park Street and entered the Common, snow covering the slopes, frosty trees stitching lacework in the gray sky.

  Mary and Lillian and Arch led the way, chatting and laughing. Nora and Bill walked together, which made Tess smile.

  She lagged behind with Dan, determined to make up for her selfishness earlier. “I’m sorry. I heard about Admiral Howard.”

  He walked straight, his gaze on the cleared path. “I couldn’t do anything.”

  “You were there?”

  “He collapsed on the deck. I gave him his nitroglycerin, but it was too late.”

  “I’m sorry. I know what he
meant to you.”

  “He was like a father to me. He—he said I was like a son to him.” His shoulders hunched up. “He had no family. His funeral—just Navy men.”

  “How sad.”

  “It is.” His gaze darted to her, then away before she could read his emotions.

  They passed a silent fountain with a Victorian bronze sculpture in the center, the classical figures dusted with frost. Up the hill to the right, the Massachusetts State House stood with its dignified Federal architecture, its golden dome painted black as an air raid precaution.

  “Wasn’t the admiral going to help you get a transfer?”

  Dan squeezed his eyes shut. “He was. I—I helped sort his papers that day. No letter. He didn’t plan to mail it until February 1, so that means he didn’t write it in time.”

  “Oh dear. But you can request a transfer, can’t you?”

  “Denied. I returned to Boston yesterday and submitted a transfer request to Commander Lewis. He says he can’t spare me. My work’s too important. And he—he’s heard rumors that I’m behind in my duties.” His voice stiffened.

  Tess gasped. “Mr. Randolph.”

  A sharp nod. “I’ll have to wait a few months before asking again. In the meantime, Mr. Randolph will be gunning for me. I—I’m trapped.”

  Tess had never seen him undone like this, and it broke her heart. If only she could hug him, but all she had were words. “I’m sorry, Danny.”

  He hiked up one eyebrow. “Danny?”

  “I know, but when I’m sad and overwhelmed, I feel very little and young. Don’t you?”

  His gaze stretched far across Boston Common. “I haven’t been Danny since I was six.”

  He’d said that before. “Was it because you started school and wanted to act grown up?”

  “No. Because I did grow up. I had to.”

  “Why? What happened?”

  He shot her a hesitant look, unusual for him. “Don’t say a word of this to anyone. They all think the world of my father.”

  “I won’t say anything.” Her voice hushed with the honor of his confidence.

  To the left, the Parkman Bandstand stood empty, waiting for summer’s festivities, and they headed right up the slope toward Beacon Street.

  Dan cleared his throat. “That was the year the twins were born. Mom had a rough time of it and had to stay in bed. And Lucy was tiny and frail. She almost died a couple times. My father was beside himself worrying about Mom and Lucy, and Mom was trying to take care of the babies. She asked me to watch out for my brothers. Rob was four and Jim was two. So every day I made them breakfast and got them dressed before I went to school.”