Anchor in the Storm Page 17

  Arch’s upper lip tingled with cold sweat. How could he go below decks during an attack? He couldn’t. But wasn’t he the officer? Couldn’t he order the repair party down there while he stayed topside, claiming other duties?

  The repair party stared at him, awaiting his orders. What was he thinking? That would be dereliction of duty. Abject, unforgivable cowardice. If he gave such an order, he’d have no choice but to resign his commission.

  Lord, be with me. He forced out a choppy breath. “Let’s go, men.”

  Ralph Lynch led the way down the hatch. Hissing steam and shouts rose from the depths of the fire room. Just below them to port, a jagged hole showed where the shell had entered.

  Arch paused on the ladder to trace the shell’s path—and the damage it had done. A torrent of steam spewed from the underside of the giant pipe leading up from Boiler 3 to the funnel. The pipe from Boiler 4 was intact.

  “Shut down Boiler 3!” he shouted below.

  “Already done.” That was Jim’s voice.

  A smile trembled on his lips. If he had to die, at least he wouldn’t be alone. He assembled his crew on the catwalk. “Once that steam dies down, get to work on the pipe. Lynch, let’s see if there’s any other damage.”

  He and Lynch scrambled down the ladder, through the heat and humidity. A muffled roar from the 5-inch guns, and the ladder shook beneath his feet. Down on the lower level, Arch swiped at sweat rolling down his temples, his movements stiff and jerky.

  Jim’s shirt was drenched. “Minor damage, minor injuries. Could have been much worse. Must have been a dud.”

  “Let’s hope we don’t take any more shells.” Arch scanned the pipes and valves and gauges he knew by heart. “Wish you were still in gunnery. We wouldn’t have had that delay.”

  “Thanks.” Jim squinted up toward the main deck. “I hate being blind in battle.”

  And trapped. Arch shoved out a breath. “Okay, let’s see what we have.”

  He and Jim inspected Boiler 3, closing valves and taking measurements from gauges, the familiar, ordinary actions like a drug.

  “Mr. Avery, sir,” the fire room talker called. “The U-boat—she’s going down. Either we sunk her or she’s diving. She left a dozen men in the water.”

  Arch and Jim exchanged a heavy glance. The captain would drop depth charges. He had to. The Germans were known to play possum, even abandoning their own men, and then slip away to torpedo range and sink the attacking ship. Buckner knew better than to fall for that ploy.

  But the men in the water? The depth charges would kill them instantly.

  A loud low whump sounded, sending shivers through the ship and Arch’s soul. The first depth charge. Then another, and a third.

  Regardless, he had work to do. “Carson! Engelman! What’s the word?”

  “Lot of popped rivets in the pipe, sir,” Carpenter’s Mate Bud Engelman shouted down. “And it wrenched loose from where it exits the boiler. Still too much steam to work on it.”

  “As soon as it’s safe. We need to run this boiler.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  Droplets fell in Arch’s face from the condensed steam, and he wiped them away with the sleeve of his mackinaw. “Lynch, let’s join the repair party. See any damage down here?”

  “No, sir. We took a lucky shot.” He whistled.

  Thank goodness it was a dud.

  Arch’s vision swam, and he felt light-headed. And hot. So hot. He needed to get out. He climbed the ladder as fast as he dared. The steam made the steps and the chains slippery, and his shaking hands didn’t grip properly.

  A scream above him, and his foot slid off the rung. He caught himself, but his pinky finger jammed in a chain link.

  Arch winced. “What happened?”

  “Carey, you idiot,” Engelman said. “I told you not to touch it.”

  “What happened?” Arch continued his climb, protecting his sore finger.

  “I just wanted to see if it was still hot,” Carey cried.

  “He put his hand in the hole. Cut and burned himself.”

  Up on the catwalk, Carey clutched his hand to his chest, blood staining his life vest.

  “Get to sick bay,” Arch said. If only his sore finger qualified as an injury as well.

  “Aye aye, sir.” The seaman groaned, hunched around his injured hand.

  “Mr. Vandenberg, sir,” the talker called up to him. “Mr. Odom wants you on deck if you can be spared. They’re launching the whaleboat.”

  “Thank you. Tell him I’m coming.” Arch followed Carey up the ladder.

  If they were launching the whaleboat, they must be certain the U-boat was sunk. They were searching for survivors.

  On the main deck, Arch rested his hands on his knees and gulped down cold, fresh, free air. He was alive. He wasn’t trapped. They hadn’t been sunk.

  But he had no better control of his nerves than before. None.

  The sky had turned a sickly shade of pale orangey blue. Arch made his way down the deck. The rising sun illuminated chunks of wreckage, dark pools of oil, and bodies. So many bodies.

  “Kill or be killed,” a sailor muttered.

  “Yeah, they started it.”

  “Come to our waters, sink our ships, get what you deserve.”

  Yet the voices were somber, the faces grim.

  By the bridge superstructure, the deck gang lowered the whaleboat into the water by its davits. Lieutenant Odom and Captain Buckner stood nearby.

  Mr. Odom hailed Arch. “Damage report?”

  Arch detailed the damage in the aft fire room. “We should be able to make the repairs while underway. We’ll need further—”

  Buckner held up one hand like a witness on the stand. “We’re returning to Boston. They’ll want to debrief us, and intelligence will want to interrogate any survivors and inspect the bodies.”

  “The bodies, sir?”

  Buckner gazed out at his trophy. “I told them to bring in as many as possible. They might have papers, diaries, documents.”

  “Yes, sir.” His stomach turned. Depth charges did gruesome things to a man. Would the sight of those dead German boys undo the morale boost that came from sinking a sub?

  The makeshift sick bay in the wardroom was quiet. Only a few men had received minor injuries. And no German survivors had been found.

  Phil Carey snored on a cot, his hand bound with white gauze.

  “How is he, Doc?” Arch asked.

  The pharmacist’s mate shrugged. “The laceration isn’t deep, sir. First-degree burn. He’ll recover quickly.”

  “Good.”

  Doc frowned at his patient. “I gave him a low dose of morphine for pain, but it knocked him out cold. And before he fell asleep, he kept saying, ‘I’ve gotta find Fish. I’m almost out.’”

  Arch swallowed hard. “What do you think?”

  Brown eyes fixed on him. “I think he already took some medication. A barbiturate, I imagine. He was groggy when he came in.”

  “We’ve had complaints about his behavior.”

  “This isn’t the first time I’ve heard Fish’s name connected to this affair. These drugs—I think Fish might be the source. He knows people in town, and he goes to the Rusty Barnacle.”

  “The Rusty—”

  “A seedy bar, sir. A lot of our men go there. I think that’s where they buy the drugs.”

  Arch nodded, his neck muscles stiff. Doc seemed to have followed the same leads he and Palonsky had followed.

  “Sir, have you heard anything?” Doc asked.

  “I’m afraid I have nothing to report to you.” That was the truth. “Please let me know when Carey awakens. I’d like to speak to him.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  Arch headed back to his cabin for a nap. If he could sleep.

  He and Palonsky had worked so hard to uncover Fish as the source, but Doc had found him out too. Perhaps they should join forces.

  But he couldn’t shake the suspicion that Doc was involved. If Arch showed his
hand, he’d put Palonsky—and Lillian—in further danger.

  After all, Doc could be the kingpin. Unlike Fish, he had the medical knowledge to craft forged prescriptions that wouldn’t raise the suspicions of druggists. He had access to Navy medical supplies. And he’d told Arch he wanted to treat the men so they could remain on duty.

  In his cabin, Arch shrugged out of his life vest. Why had Doc mentioned Fish? Wouldn’t he want to protect such an important link in the chain? Maybe Fish had crossed Doc, like Hobie had crossed Fish and Kramer.

  Arch sank to the bunk, flat on his back, his eyelids and heart heavy. Lord, please don’t let anyone else get hurt.

  26

  Stonington, Connecticut

  Friday, April 24, 1942

  Lillian gazed out the car window down the tree-lined lane. Meeting new people always unnerved her, but staying a whole weekend with strangers? And a fancy dinner tonight for the Vandenbergs’ closest family and friends, followed by a party for over one hundred? Oh dear.

  Was this how Arch had felt when he’d arrived in Vermilion? Shame gnawed at how she’d disliked him back then, how she’d judged him. Meanwhile, he’d been suffering from the sinking of the Atwood.

  Now the Ettinger had sunk a sub and had been damaged. How was Arch doing? She studied the back of his blond head in the front seat of the car.

  On the train ride, Jim had told the tale with gusto, but Arch remained quiet and kept his hands tucked under the overcoat on his lap.

  For the first time since she’d met him, she longed to get him alone to hear his version. And the thought of being alone with him filled her with diffuse warmth.

  What was she going to do? Everything had changed between them. The past week while he’d been at sea, she’d felt unmoored. How had she fallen for him after all her caution?

  “Here we are,” Arch said.

  The house stretched long and white, trimmed with gray stone and black shutters. And so many windows. Jim had said the estate had a tennis court, horse stables, and a pier for the yacht. Like something in a movie.

  The chauffeur pulled into a circular driveway. Arch opened her door, and she stepped out, trying not to gawk like a country bumpkin.

  A middle-aged couple strolled forward, both as blond and good-looking as Arch.

  His mother embraced him. “Archer! I’m so glad you could come.”

  “I am too. Happy anniversary, Mother. And Father.”

  “Jim and Mary, it’s good to see you again.” Mrs. Vandenberg clasped their hands, then turned to Lillian with a warm smile. “You must be Lillian.”

  She gazed into eyes as blue and intelligent and kind as Arch’s. “Thank you for inviting me.”

  “Come in, come in.” Mrs. Vandenberg ushered them through the front door. “Please make yourselves at home. I’ll show you to your rooms, then Arch can show you around the house and grounds. Dinner is at five, so you have plenty of time.”

  Lillian stifled a gasp. The entry formed a vast semicircle, framed by a pair of sweeping staircases and crowned with a crystal chandelier.

  Mrs. Vandenberg led the girls up the left-hand staircase and down a hallway. “Mary, we put you in the room you were in last time, and Lillian, right this way.”

  In her room, Lillian set her purse on the bed with its ice-blue bedspread. “It’s lovely.”

  Men’s voices trailed behind them. Mr. Vandenberg laid her garment bag on the bed, and Arch brought in Lillian’s crutches and suitcase.

  “After you’re settled, meet us in the sitting room,” Arch said.

  “All right. I won’t be long.”

  After he left, Lillian opened the garment bag and removed the gown from her pharmacy school graduation, a floor-length princess-cut dress with short puffed sleeves and a sweetheart neckline, in a frothy pale green chiffon.

  “Lillian?” Mrs. Vandenberg touched her arm. “Arch said you’d refuse any offer of help. But I wanted you to know that if you need anything, I’m here for you. Please don’t hesitate to ask.”

  How could she not like this woman who offered both hospitality and dignity? “I have to admit, I need help with the buttons up the back of this dress.”

  Mrs. Vandenberg laughed. “Why do they design gowns like that?”

  “Thank you for serving as my bodyguard.” Arch stood too close in the crowded ballroom, his hands clasped behind his back. “Protecting our nation’s officers is vital war work.”

  Lillian giggled. “I hardly think Bitsy Chamberlain is a threat to national security. She was nice to me at dinner.”

  “I’m sure she was.” Sarcasm darkened his voice. “By the way, you held your own. And Dr. Detweiler was impressed with you.”

  “He’s the nicest man. I have to thank your mother for seating me next to him. And next to your Grandpa Archer. He’s adorable.”

  “Caroline Archer Vandenberg is a master at seating arrangements.”

  Lillian gazed around the spacious room on the second floor of the Vandenberg home. One wall curved out over the grounds, set with a dozen tall windows, the drapes drawn to meet the new dim-out regulations. A small band played elegant music, and couples danced, the women in gorgeous gowns and the men in tuxedos or in uniform.

  None as handsome as Arch. She’d never seen him in dress whites before, and when she’d come downstairs for dinner, she couldn’t breathe.

  No man had ever looked at her that way. She’d seen her father look that way at her mother—and at his sailboats—with deep appreciation and gentle ownership lighting up his eyes.

  Once again, joy and terror wrestled inside her.

  “When do you think they’ll get married?” Arch said.

  Lillian blinked away the memory. Jim and Mary danced to “Rose Room,” he in dress whites and she in a long satiny sky-blue gown. “They’ve only been dating about four months.”

  His face sobered. “Uh-oh. Three enemy warships approaching, bearing two-seven-zero.”

  “What are you talking about?” All she saw was three young ladies.

  “Bitsy’s best friends. But no sign of Bitsy. I smell a rat.”

  “You’re too suspicious.”

  He shot her a “you’re not suspicious enough” look, then raised a smile to the ladies. “Trudy, Helen, Pauline. Always a pleasure.”

  A tall, sturdily built blonde offered Arch her hand. “Yes, always a pleasure. Was it only last month you and Bitsy and Trudy and I danced the night away in Boston? Seems like ages.”

  “Ages indeed.” Arch clasped her hand. “May I introduce Miss Lillian Avery? Lillian, I’d like you to meet Miss Helen Whipple, Miss Trudy Sutherland, and Miss Pauline Grayson.”

  “I’m pleased to meet you,” Lillian said.

  “Charmed.” Helen’s cold blue eyes didn’t match her words.

  “Where are you from, Lillian?” Trudy fiddled with a brown curl cascading from her pinned-up hair. “I don’t recognize your accent.”

  “Ohio.”

  “Archer darling! There you are.” Mrs. Chamberlain swooped over, a dark-haired beauty like her daughter. “There’s someone you simply must meet. Please excuse us, ladies.”

  “Of course.” Bitsy’s friends waved them away, then formed an arc blocking Lillian’s escape.

  Arch glanced back over his shoulder and mouthed, “Help me.”

  Lillian smiled and waved him off too, but she also smelled a rat. Four of them.

  Pauline inspected her, head to toe. “So, April, what brings you here from Ohio?”

  Lillian gave a tight-lipped smile. “My name’s Lillian, not April.”

  Pauline and Trudy tittered, and Helen patted her arm. “Our apologies. We give nicknames to Arch’s girls. You’re April—”

  “Because it’s April,” Trudy piped up. “Next will come May, and then June.”

  Pauline sighed. “Please don’t take it personally. It’s hard to keep track.”

  So that was their game. She made her eyes large and innocent. “Are you saying he’s a ladies’ man?”

&nb
sp; Trudy raised one white shoulder. “So they say.”

  Across the room, Arch talked to an older gentleman and Bitsy, with Mrs. Chamberlain gripping his arm. But his gaze reached out to Lillian.

  “Hmm.” She tapped her finger to her lips. “They must not know him very well. He dated his last girlfriend for over a year, and he hasn’t dated since.”

  “Until you.” Pauline gave her a too-sweet smile.

  As much as she wanted to protect Arch, she couldn’t lie. “We aren’t dating.”

  “No?” Helen glanced toward the band. “So that’s why he hasn’t asked you to dance.”

  “No. He knows I don’t dance.”

  “You don’t?” Trudy frowned. “Don’t they know how to dance in Iowa?”

  “Ohio, and yes, they do. But I don’t dance.”

  Helen clucked her tongue. “Such a shame. Archer adores dancing. You should have seen him whirling Bitsy around the dance floor in Boston. A vision.”

  Oh, they were good, but Lillian had dealt with catty girls all her life. She needed to break away and find someone else to talk to—Dr. Detweiler or Arch’s grandparents, perhaps.

  “Why don’t you dance?” Trudy asked. “Two left feet?”

  Lillian stared at the brunette who had served a line on a silver platter. “No left feet.”

  “No left . . . that doesn’t make sense.”

  “I don’t have a left foot.” Lillian hiked up her gown over her knees. “This one’s fake.”

  “Oh!” All three women gasped and recoiled.

  Lillian marched off through the break in the circle, her skirts whishing around her ankles. The nerve of some people, thinking they could elevate themselves by putting others down.

  “Lillian?” Arch dashed over, concern etched into his face. “Did I just see you—”

  “Insufferable snobs.” She related the conversation in a heated run-on sentence. “Well, I showed them.”

  The corners of his eyes crinkled with laughter. “Would you like to really show them?”

  “Yes.” She jutted out her jaw. “Any ideas?”

  “Dance with me.”

  “What? I don’t—”

  “You didn’t ice-skate either. This will be easier. A simple slow dance. Just follow me.”