Anchor in the Storm Page 4

  “And done well,” Jim said with as stern a look as his face could muster. Which wasn’t very stern.

  “Yes, sir. Aye aye, sir.” Palonsky sauntered down the deck with an exaggerated swing to his arms. “I’ll do my job well, sir. Only laugh during liberty, sir. Anything else, sir?”

  “Carry on, Palonsky.” Arch glanced at Jim, whose face contorted with restrained laughter. At least one man on this ship would be entertaining.

  The men entered the bridge superstructure and climbed the ladder to the pilothouse.

  A wiry little dark-haired officer accepted their salutes and their orders—Lt. Cdr. Alvin Buckner. Despite his size, he had a forceful air about him, like Humphrey Bogart, but with a butter-smooth patrician voice. A fellow New Englander.

  “Very well.” Captain Buckner examined their orders. “Both of you served on the Atwood. A shame. I know Captain Durant. I’m pleased to hear he was given command of a cruiser.”

  “Yes, sir,” Arch said. “We’re pleased too. A fine man.”

  “Yes.” Small dark eyes bore into Jim. “Mr. Avery, you’ve already served in gunnery. You’ll be my assistant engineer under Lt. Emmett Taylor.”

  Poor Jim, assigned to the deep bowels of the ship.

  “And Mr. Vandenberg.” That riveting gaze turned his way. “We need an assistant first lieutenant. You’ll serve under Lt. John Odom.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Arch gave the first genuine smile he’d felt all day. The first lieutenant and his assistant supervised the deck gang in the open air.

  “Get settled in your cabin and report to duty at 1000. You are dismissed.”

  None of the warmth they were used to with Captain Durant, but what did that matter?

  Jim and Arch trotted down the ladder to the wardroom.

  “I’m jealous,” Jim said. “While I slave in the engine room with the ‘black gang,’ you’ll work on your suntan.”

  “That’s why tourists flock to Boston in January—the sun.”

  “Why else?”

  They crossed the wardroom and filed down the narrow passageway into officers’ quarters. A typical cabin, with a double bunk, two lockers, a sink, and a desk. Spartan, simple, and right.

  Arch plopped his seabag on the lower bunk as always, since Jim liked the top bunk. Why did the cabin seem smaller, more restrictive? Why did the overhead press down on him?

  His breath quickened, ragged and shaky. What was wrong with him? Why couldn’t he pull himself together?

  “Say, buddy. You all right?” Jim shrugged off his overcoat. “You look pale. Are you coming down with something?”

  That was it. Surely, that was it. “I—I might be.”

  Jim chuckled. “Buckner won’t like it, but you’d better see a doctor.”

  “Yes.” His forehead did feel clammy. “I will.”

  “Nothing wrong with you.” Dr. Blake hunched over Arch’s chart and scribbled in it. “Your exam is normal. It’s all in your nerves.”

  Arch tried not to shiver while sitting in his skivvies on the exam table in the Navy Yard dispensary. “I’m fine most of the time, but sometimes I shake. And I have a hard time sleeping. The nightmares.”

  “The sinking was back in November. You should be over it by now.”

  Arch’s lips pressed together. Didn’t he already know that?

  The Navy doctor pulled a prescription pad from his desk drawer. “We don’t usually see such weakness of nerves in officers. It’s concerning.”

  Weak? Arch squared his bare shoulders. “Sir, I assure you I can perform my duties. I’m stronger than whatever this is.”

  “I hope so.” He ripped a prescription from the pad. “Give this to the nurse. She’ll give you some pills to help you sleep. Be careful. They’re habit-forming. And don’t drink while taking them.”

  “I’m not a drinking man, sir.”

  “Too bad.” Dr. Blake raised a wry smile. “You might have licked this by now. Wine, women, and song are quite effective. The sailor’s favorite remedy since the dawn of time.”

  Arch returned the smile. “Right now I’ll have to settle for song.”

  “Sing a lot, then. I see no reason to intervene at this time, but if this continues . . .” He tucked the prescription pad in a desk drawer. “I’d hate to survey you out of the Navy with our country at war.”

  Arch’s face went ice-cold. Surveyed out? He could lose his commission? After going against his father’s wishes and attending the Naval Academy? After graduating near the top of his class? After serving with distinction on the Atwood? He could be discharged because his hands shook?

  Nonsense. “It won’t come to that, sir.”

  The doctor gave a noncommittal grunt and left the exam room.

  Arch put on his dress blues. He’d earned the right to wear this uniform. He loved everything it stood for. He loved the Navy life. He couldn’t return to where he’d been, to the superficial snobs using other people for personal gain. Lord, help me lick this.

  He knotted his tie. If he couldn’t lick it, he’d hide it.

  6

  Boston

  Friday, January 9, 1942

  Why had she told Mr. Dixon she could work on her feet all day?

  Lillian trudged up Monument Avenue, trying not to limp. Her previous employers had allowed her to rest her left knee on a stool, relieving the pressure on her stump. She didn’t dare ask Mr. Dixon if she could use one, but if she wasn’t careful, soon she’d have sores. Then she’d have to use crutches while they healed. How could she work on crutches?

  She hated taking off her prosthesis before bedtime, but tonight she had no choice. She’d hobble on her stupid crutches, heat up a can of soup, and curl up with a book. Not how most girls her age spent a Friday night, but she’d never been like girls her age anyway.

  The brick building sported white wood trim—similar to her home in Vermilion, yet so different. The shade of brick perhaps, or the cut of the trim? Or simply the lack of a lawn.

  Lillian mounted the granite steps and paused on the landing to open the door to her right.

  The door in front of her swung open. An elderly lady stopped in the doorway, wearing a fur-edged black coat, and she smiled. “You must be the new girl downstairs.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’m Lillian Avery. I moved in a week ago.”

  “I’m Opal Harrison.”

  Lillian peered past Mrs. Harrison to the bank of stairs. “You have a piano, don’t you?”

  “Oh dear. You must have heard my grandchildren the other day. I’m sorry they bothered you.”

  “Not at all.” She smiled into the lady’s clear blue eyes. “I come from a big family. Someone was always banging on the piano. It makes this place sound more like home.”

  “If you’d ever like to play . . .”

  Lillian tensed. Did she sound like she’d been fishing for an invitation? “I couldn’t impose. I didn’t mean—”

  Mrs. Harrison laid a black-gloved hand on Lillian’s arm. “Nonsense, dear. I can’t play anymore with my rheumatism, and my grandchildren—well, they don’t visit often. Only my dear Giffy, but he never did learn to play. I adore music, so you’d be doing a lonely old lady a favor. Please?”

  How could Lillian say no to such a sweet face? “Well, if you really wouldn’t mind—”

  “Tomorrow then? Eleven o’clock?”

  “I’ll be there. But I’ll warn you—I’m not that good.”

  Those blue eyes lit up. “Even better. I used to give piano lessons. Good-bye now.”

  “Good-bye.” Lillian chuckled as she unlocked the door. What had she gotten herself into?

  Inside the apartment, a different kind of music greeted her—mingled male and female laughter.

  Oh no. Company.

  Jim and Mary, Arch Vandenberg, Quintessa Beaumont, and Quintessa’s new boyfriend, Clifford White, filled the sofa and chairs in the living room.

  Quintessa dashed to Lillian with her blonde curls bouncing. “Congratulations! You survived your first
week of work. We’re taking you out to celebrate.”

  “Dinner and a movie.” Arch draped his arm along the back of the sofa.

  “Oh, I’m afraid not. I’m so tired.” She sent Jim a pleading look and pressed her hand to her left thigh in a silent message. “All I want is to sit down.”

  Her brother grinned. “You can sit down for dinner, sit down at the movies.”

  How could such an intelligent man be so thickheaded? “I really don’t—”

  “No arguing. We made reservations for a party of six.” Quintessa grabbed her arm and guided her toward the bedroom Lillian shared with Mary. “Let me help you pick out a dress.”

  “Chinese food,” Jim called after her. “Your favorite.”

  Lillian glared at him over her shoulder. He knew she couldn’t resist Chinese food.

  Quintessa shut the bedroom door and opened the closet. “Ooh, I like this emerald one. Dressy but not too fancy.” She clutched the dress and faced Lillian, her eyebrows tented. “Please come. It’ll be less awkward with Jim.”

  Lillian sighed and shed her coat and work clothes. The details were sketchy, but Jim had been infatuated with Quintessa in high school. Apparently the blonde had come to Boston to reignite the flame—but Jim and Mary fell in love instead.

  If Lillian’s presence would help, how could she decline? “All right, then.”

  “Good girl. You can keep Arch company.” She winked at Lillian. “He’s cute, isn’t he?”

  “He certainly thinks so.”

  “Oh!” Quintessa gasped and laughed. “I take that back. You’re a naughty girl.”

  Lillian reached for her dress. “Be kind to me, or I’ll stay home.”

  “He’s really a nice fellow, you know. A gentleman, but down-to-earth.”

  Wiggling into the emerald wool jersey allowed her to make a face unseen. Even if he were the finest man in the world, she couldn’t indulge in a crush.

  Lillian dug the serving spoon into the plate of chop suey. “I was heartbroken to learn chop suey isn’t true Chinese food. I love it.”

  “As long as you use chopsticks, you’re fine.” Arch took the platter and served himself.

  Although she didn’t want to sit next to Arch, it was better than having him across from her and in her line of sight.

  Lillian took the plate of sweet-and-sour pork from Clifford, a brown-haired businessman in his early thirties. Quintessa had met him at Filene’s when she’d sold him a scarf for his mother for Christmas.

  Across the round table, Jim gave her an expectant look.

  She’d skirted questions about Dixon’s Drugs on the cab ride, and she planned to continue skirting. “How are things on the Ettinger?”

  “Different from the Atwood, that’s for sure,” Jim said.

  “In what way?” Lillian poured hot tea into her cute little round teacup.

  “Hmm.” Arch squinted at Jim. “The officers are more distant. The captain’s all business, and the crew takes his lead.”

  Mary rested her hand on Jim’s forearm, her eyes starry. “If I know you two, you’ll warm things up on that ship.”

  “That’s our goal,” Arch said. “We saw excellent leadership from our previous CO. He believed in cooperation and mutual respect between officers and men. But he was also firm and decisive in a crisis. It works.”

  “Sometimes.” Clifford used a fork and knife. “But a boss needs to be tough and distant at first to establish authority.”

  Jim shook his head. “That must be Buckner’s philosophy, eh, Arch?”

  “Apparently.” His clipped tone said he agreed with Jim but was too polite to disagree with Clifford.

  Lillian studied Arch out of the corner of her eye. His double-breasted navy blue jacket fit perfectly, the sleeves exposing a quarter-inch of his white shirt. A narrow band of gold braid above the cuff designated his rank of ensign, and a gold star denoted him as a line officer, in the line of command. Strong, nimble fingers worked the chopsticks with ease.

  “Since Buckner and the senior officers keep a cool distance, Jim and I, as junior officers, want to bridge the gap. Someone in command needs to listen to the men.” Arch’s wavy blond hair gleamed in the light of the silk lanterns, and his expression gleamed more. With that combination of strength and compassion, he’d make a fine officer.

  Lillian jerked her attention to her chop suey, the crunchy vegetables and savory sauce.

  Clifford shrugged. “If you’re too friendly at first, they’ll walk all over you.”

  Jim pointed a chopstick at Arch. “Keep a tight rein on that Palonsky.”

  Arch laughed. “I will.”

  “Palonsky?” Lillian asked.

  “Warren Palonsky.” Arch turned those bright blue eyes to her. “He’s on my deck gang. A born actor and comedian. I’m told he already does a mean impression of me.”

  Lillian could imagine the nose in the air, the raised pinky, the measured high-class tones, but that didn’t truly capture this man who wanted to listen to those under his command. “You’re told? You haven’t seen it?”

  “I don’t want to.” Humor crinkled the corners of his eyes.

  Lillian focused on eating her fried rice with her chopsticks, a difficult task.

  “Here. Try it this way.” Arch held his chopsticks close together and used them like a fork to scoop up his rice. “Much easier.”

  Lillian tried, and it worked. “Thank you.”

  Next to her, Clifford and Quintessa conversed, and Lillian’s throat clamped. If Jim and Mary began a private conversation, she’d be stuck with Arch.

  “Lillian.” Mary came to her rescue. “I wonder if your boss is also being tough to establish authority.”

  Only a partial rescue. “Maybe.”

  “Mr. Dixon?” Jim’s forehead creased. “Are you having a difficult time?”

  How could she state this diplomatically in public? “He isn’t pleased to hire someone with my . . . condition. Apparently he didn’t know.” She skewered her brother with her gaze.

  “Didn’t think it mattered. It’s never been a problem before.”

  Her heart softened at Jim’s faith in her. “But it does matter.”

  Arch wiped his mouth with his napkin. “I disagree. When it comes down to it, the only thing that matters is whether or not you can do the job.”

  Lillian’s stomach squirmed. She never liked discussing her condition with anyone outside the family, but she also wasn’t used to no-nonsense support from outside the family. “No, when it comes down to it, the only thing that matters is whether or not Mr. Dixon believes I can do the job.”

  “Then you’ll just have to show him.” A firm nod and a flash of a smile, and Arch returned to his meal.

  Lillian sipped her tea, and her good foot jiggled. No matter how sweetly he talked, she knew what men were like. Even if he was Jim’s best friend.

  “You’ll win him over in nothing flat,” Quintessa said with a big smile. “I know the type. A grumpy old man with a heart of gold.”

  Lillian harrumphed. “More like a grumpy old man with a heart for gold.”

  “Goodness,” Quintessa said. “You say the funniest things.”

  “It’s true.” Lillian lifted one shoulder. “They’re customers to him, not patients. Sales, not prescriptions. Yes, you need money to run the store, but the main purpose of a drugstore is to help sick people get well. That’s why I became a pharmacist.”

  Arch gave her a look too long and appreciative for her comfort.

  She fixed her gaze on Jim. “I’ll give you an example. Today we received a prescription for two hundred tablets of phenobarbital. Two hundred!”

  “That’s high?” Jim winked at her.

  “Yes, Jimmy. It’s a big number.” She gave him a teasing tip of her chin. “It’s a habit-forming drug, and it can be dangerous. So I asked Mr. Dixon, and he didn’t bat an eye. The doctor wrote the prescription, he said, so the patient must need that many. Besides, the patient could pay, so why worry?”


  Quintessa’s mouth twitched in a smile. “You won’t have to worry about your salary.”

  Lillian scooped up some fried rice. No, she wouldn’t. Until Mr. Dixon hired her replacement.

  7

  Off Montauk Point, Long Island

  Wednesday, January 14, 1942

  A good stiff wind, a brace of chill sea mist, and Arch felt awake for the first time all day. It was almost noon.

  He stepped closer to the forward funnel to allow sailors to pass as they swept the deck.

  Later today, he’d flush those pills down the head. Phenobarbital. Habit-forming, the doctor had said. Dangerous, Lillian had said. Worse than being drunk, in Arch’s opinion.

  He’d avoided taking the pills until last night, his first night at sea since the sinking. When he was still tossing and turning at 0200, he’d succumbed to temptation, and he’d slept. Boy, had he slept, but the kind of sleep that left him more exhausted than the night before.

  After Mr. Odom caught him fast asleep over his paperwork earlier this morning, Arch vowed never to take the fool medicine again. Better a fitful night than this.

  Arch passed two seamen scrubbing their laundry. Although he’d dreaded going back to sea, perhaps this was the best way to conquer his nerves. Getting back on the old horse and all that. Besides, at sea, he felt God’s presence most keenly—the enormity and depth, the mystery and beauty, the peace and power.

  He peered north. A cloudy sky, but with good visibility. Not good enough to see Boston and the lovely Lillian Avery, though.

  His mouth puckered. He should feel guilty longing for port. The U-boats had arrived. Two days before, the British passenger ship Cyclops had fallen prey to a German torpedo only three hundred miles east of Cape Cod.

  The Navy had issued a warning of ten U-boats off the East Coast, and just that morning, they’d closed the ports of Boston, Portsmouth, and Portland due to the threat. The Ettinger wasn’t on official patrol, only testing her sea legs with her new crew, but Buckner felt it wouldn’t hurt for the Germans to see the might of the US Navy.