When Tides Turn Page 6

  Tess raised her sweetest smile. “Where else does it hurt, miss?”

  She stuck out her left ankle. “I sprained it.”

  Mr. Rawlings said to wrap the right ankle. She wouldn’t fall for that trap. “You do mean the right ankle, don’t you?”

  Greta’s cheeks colored. “Yes, the right.”

  Tess gently removed Greta’s shoe, then wrapped the ankle crisscross, round-and-about. She might have missed the lecture, but she’d studied the first aid manual.

  If only Greta would stop wiggling. The gauze kept popping around her heel.

  “How are things going?” Mr. Rawlings stood with his hands clasped behind him.

  Greta groaned. “Beaumont is hopeless, sir.”

  Tess’s jaw tightened. “She’s wiggling, sir.”

  “Sir, you said in lecture that patients in pain rarely hold still. I’m trying to be accurate.”

  “That’s correct, Selby. Very good.” Mr. Rawlings inspected Tess’s ankle bandage, which she hadn’t finished yet. “Sloppy work, Beaumont. You have to restrain the patient’s movement.”

  Greta grabbed the bandage around her upper arm and tugged it down to her elbow. “You think that’s sloppy, sir. Look at my arm. The bandage slipped off.”

  Tess gasped, but she refused to call the girl out on her deception.

  “Do it again, Beaumont. Get it right this time.” Mr. Rawlings shook his head and walked away.

  Her hands shaking, Tess unpinned the bandage around Greta’s arm. “Why are you doing this to me?”

  “Because you don’t belong here,” she hissed. “You belong out there, where beautiful girls get everything they want. But here—the WAVES—this is for the rest of us, for those of us who have to rely on brains and hard work. But every time I turn around, they’re snapping your picture. They’ll make you an ensign, all right, but not because you earned it. Only because of your looks. It isn’t fair.”

  Although her vision blurred, Tess wound the gauze around that stiff upper arm. She’d wanted to do something useful, something that didn’t depend on beauty, but everyone was pushing her back in that same old box.

  She blinked to clear her vision, and she worked the safety pin through the gauze.

  “Ouch!” Greta cried. “You stabbed me.”

  “What?” She sucked in her breath and inspected Greta’s arm. Not one speck of blood. “No, I didn’t.”

  “Mr. Rawlings!” Greta waved her free hand. “Would you please assign Beaumont to someone else before I need actual first aid?”

  The ensign’s head wagged back and forth. “Honestly, Beaumont.”

  Tess resisted the urge to skewer Greta with a hateful look. She gathered her belongings and followed Mr. Rawlings.

  “What am I going to do with you, Beaumont? Coming in late, missing the lecture, now this. You can wash out, you know.”

  “I know. I’ll do better with someone else, sir.” Anyone else.

  “Work with Thurmond. She and her partner already finished.”

  Nora. What a blessing. Tess had hoped to make friends with the engineer, but whenever she found time to chat, it seemed Nora had to leave.

  “Thurmond,” Mr. Rawlings said. “Be a patient for Beaumont. Help her if you can.”

  “Aye aye, sir.” Nora sat on the floor and lowered her brown eyes.

  Tess knelt beside her. When they first met, Tess had thought Nora was a good ten years older due to her outdated clothing and hairstyle, but they were the same age. Now with a cute uniform and hairstyle, Nora looked darling. “I’m glad we get to work together. I was hoping to spend time with you. We’re always so busy.”

  “We are. Here are the supplies.” She pushed the box closer to Tess.

  “Where does it hurt, miss?” Tess asked in her best nurse voice.

  “I’m bleeding here, and I think I sprained my ankle.”

  “Let’s take care of your arm first.” She wound the gauze around Nora’s left arm. “It does seem silly to teach us first aid, doesn’t it?”

  “Oh?”

  “We’ll be working stateside in nice safe offices. The only first aid we’ll need is for paper cuts.”

  “I suppose.”

  Tess fastened the safety pin. “Let’s take care of that ankle.”

  “Mm-hmm.” Not one more word while Tess found a length of gauze for Nora’s ankle and removed her shoe.

  Time to get the quiet brunette talking while she bandaged her ankle. “What’s your favorite class? I love ship and aircraft recognition, but naval history gives me troubles—all those technical details about engines and guns. How about you? What are you enjoying?”

  “Please don’t do that.” Nora’s voice came out low and shaky.

  Tess jerked her gaze to Nora’s face. “I’m sorry. Did I hurt you?”

  Nora looked away, her eyes sad. “Please don’t pretend to be nice to me.”

  “Pretend?”

  Her eyebrows drew together, and she gazed across the crowded gymnasium. “I’ve known plenty of girls like you. They were always sweet to me in math and physics, because I’d explain all those technical details. But they’d ignore me in the hallway, and they’d laugh at me behind my back. They thought I didn’t know. But I knew.”

  “I haven’t—” Tess’s breath quickened, and her eyes stung. “I’d never. I’d never do that to you. To anyone.”

  Nora turned back to Tess with a gaze born of hurt and strength. “And I don’t intend to give you the chance to do so.”

  Tess’s vision blurred again, but she set her jaw and returned to work. It wasn’t fair to be accused of something she hadn’t done, but it also wasn’t fair for those girls to use Nora like that. How could she blame Nora for protecting herself?

  She wrapped the ankle and fastened the safety pin. “I’m sorry that happened to you. It isn’t right.” Her voice wobbled, and she cleared her throat. “Just so you know, I was being nice because you remind me of my friend Mary, my best friend since seventh grade.”

  “How are things going?” Mr. Rawlings approached.

  “I’m done.” Tess couldn’t look at either her patient or her instructor. Red eyes weren’t professional.

  “It’s passable.” He sounded disappointed. “You’re dismissed.”

  Tess sprang to her feet, grabbed her coat, and dashed for the exit, where Kate and Ada Sue waved, happy to see her.

  She put on a smile and walked with them back to Capen Hall for lunch. Her friends chattered and laughed, but heaviness descended in Tess’s stomach.

  Greta was right. Tess didn’t belong here.

  And Mr. Rawlings was right. She could wash out. And she would if he had any say in the matter. If she didn’t fail first aid, then she’d fail naval history.

  That would prove she was useless. If the Navy kept her, it would only be for public relations, because she was decorative.

  An ache enveloped her chest as she followed Kate and Ada Sue into the mess. After she picked up her tray of fried chicken, green beans, and mashed potatoes, she squeezed between her friends at the long table.

  Conversation zinged around her. Tess smiled and nodded, and she must have responded appropriately, because Kate and Ada Sue didn’t ask what was wrong.

  What was wrong? Quintessa Beaumont was so arrogant she thought she could do something beneficial.

  Tess had stolen a spot in the WAVES that belonged to a woman like Nora, or even Greta, who was brilliant. She was foolish to think she could contribute to the war effort. She should quit. She should deliberately fail a class so they’d have no choice but to wash her out.

  Filene’s would take her back. It was time to return to Boston.

  Why should she stay? They worked constantly and never had time to rest or have fun. This program was too exhausting, too humiliating, too tough.

  Tough? Hadn’t Dan’s going-away card told her, “If things get tough—and they will—stay the course”?

  Her eyes slipped shut, and she lowered her chin as if focusing on her meal.
Could she stay the course? This was so difficult.

  Yet in her heart she knew quitting would be selfish, putting her pride and comfort above the needs of the nation. Lord, help me. If you want me to stay here, help me be brave and strong. I can’t—I can’t do this on my own.

  “Tess?” Kate asked.

  Her eyes popped open, and she found a smile. “Yes?”

  “Nora passed you a note.”

  Tess stared at a piece of paper and unfolded it, bracing herself for the words inside. The note read, “Dear Tess, I’m sorry. It wasn’t right for me to judge you like that. Can you forgive me? Do you think we could ever be friends? With sincere regret, Nora.”

  Tess glanced up and found the quiet young woman and her brown eyes filled with that sincere regret. “Yes,” she mouthed. Yes, she forgave her. Yes, she wanted to be friends.

  Nora gave her a soft smile and returned to her meal.

  That night, Tess planned to tuck the note into Dan’s card. Both confirmed that Tess was exactly where she needed to be—in a tough place where she’d be humbled. Then she could become a woman who made a difference.

  10

  Off Fedala, French Morocco

  Sunday, November 8, 1942

  “The Yanks are coming!” The signal lights flashed Commander Durgin’s message to the three other control destroyers four miles off the shores of Fedala in French Morocco.

  A cold breeze blew over Dan, scented by earth and charcoal, stirring the adrenaline. Up on the signal deck on top of the pilothouse, he nudged Admiral Howard. “Apparently Commander Durgin didn’t get Dr. Stern’s message about resting on the Sabbath.”

  “Dr. Stern will need to have words with General Eisenhower himself.” Humor rang in the admiral’s tone.

  “That he will, sir.” On this Sunday, the Allies were invading North Africa. Fedala boasted good landing beaches from which Gen. George Patton could march twelve miles south to capture the vital port of Casablanca.

  The Wilkes steamed forward, aiming for Beach Red 2. Dan strode aft and gazed past the destroyer’s two funnels. With his binoculars, he could make out phosphorescent wakes behind thirty-one landing craft following the Wilkes, each carrying three dozen soldiers. Farther to the east, the destroyers Swanson, Ludlow, and Murphy shepherded their own flocks.

  The Western Task Force had arrived at 2353 on November 7, seven minutes ahead of schedule, undetected by the enemy. However, now the landings had been delayed an hour. It was 0400, with the landings to start at 0500. The soldiers would only have one hour of darkness before morning twilight.

  Dan lowered his binoculars. Lord, let it be enough time.

  God seemed to be smiling on this operation. Only hours before Admiral Hewitt needed to make his decision, his aerologist had contradicted the official weather reports from Washington and London and predicted smooth seas on November 8. Hewitt listened. And the aerologist was correct.

  Dan returned to Howard’s side. Like Dan, the admiral wore a heavy mackinaw, life vest, and steel helmet. No one knew what the French would do. Would they be moved by the spirit of Lafayette and welcome the Americans? Or would they fight back to appease the Nazis?

  As much as Dan longed to experience combat, he wanted to battle the enemy, not America’s oldest ally. Please, Lord. Don’t let the French resist.

  “I arranged for us to have the best seats in the house,” Howard said.

  “I’ll say, sir.” The Wilkes would play three major roles today—as a control destroyer escorting landing craft to the beach, as a fire support destroyer bombarding any hostile gun batteries, and finally screening the force against submarines.

  Dan tugged the cuff of his mackinaw sleeve over his glove to cut the cold air. “You realize, sir, that we won’t perform antisubmarine duties until late this morning.”

  “We won’t need to.”

  A question formed about how the admiral knew, but Dan let it pass. Either the admiral had drawn his conclusion based on how quickly Admiral Dönitz could marshal his forces—or the Allies had intelligence unavailable to mere lieutenants.

  Dan peered into the moonless night. To the west, Cap Fedala boasted two gun batteries, and to the east the Cherqui headland boasted another. The artillery could enfilade the landing beaches between them.

  So far, the guns were silent.

  At 0445 the Wilkes’s engines stopped, and the clank of anchor chains filled the noise gap. From this line of departure, the landing craft would proceed four thousand yards to the beaches, while the control destroyers would remain to guide later waves of landing craft.

  Admiral Howard pointed toward the beaches. “The scout boats must not have received the message about the delayed landings.”

  Lights blinked in red and blue. “At least they arrived safely and didn’t tip off the locals.”

  Signals passed between the Wilkes and her sister ships, and at 0500, the landing craft zipped toward shore and danger and possible death.

  “Godspeed.” Admiral Howard raised a salute.

  Dan followed suit, his heart in his throat.

  The landing at Fedala was the most important in Morocco. Smaller forces were landing to the south at the port of Safi and to the north at Mehdia to secure Port Lyautey and Morocco’s only airfield with concrete runways. But the soldiers landing at Fedala needed to seize Casablanca and its harbor.

  Meanwhile, the US Navy’s Covering Group, headed by the new battleship USS Massachusetts, patrolled off Casablanca to contain the French fleet should it choose to attack.

  Dan’s breath puffed before him. It wouldn’t be a restful Sunday, but it would be eventful.

  He’d rest back in Boston. “Everyone needs to rest now and then,” Tess had said, and Dr. Stern had reminded him to “rest when we can, so we’re at our best when it’s required of us.” That conversation had driven Dan to Scripture, to study the command to refrain from work. God must have had a good reason if he’d issued an order.

  Thank goodness, Jesus provided an exception when he told the Pharisees, “‘What man shall there be among you, that shall have one sheep, and if it fall into a pit on the sabbath day, will he not lay hold on it, and lift it out? How much then is a man better than a sheep? Wherefore it is lawful to do well on the sabbath days.’”

  Well, today the Allies were lifting North Africa out of the Axis pit, and Dan felt good.

  A pillar of light shot straight up in the sky from the west, then another to the east.

  Dan hauled in a breath. Searchlights at Cap Fedala and at Cherqui. The invasion force had been detected. The searchlights slashed low, sweeping the dark seas, illuminating landing craft and men on the beaches.

  “Oh no,” Dan said.

  The ticking of far-off machine-gun fire crossed the waters.

  “We have a fight on our hands. Let’s go to the bridge.” Admiral Howard headed down the ladder.

  Dan followed. The admiral took longer than he used to. Was it just his age and weight, or was his heart affected as the doctor feared? But Admiral Howard had brushed off Dan’s concerns as he’d brushed off Dr. Stern’s.

  Down on the bridge, Cdr. Edward Durgin gave orders, as did Lt. Cdr. John McLean, the commanding officer of the Wilkes.

  Admiral Howard and Dan went to the cramped radar room behind the pilothouse. The room was lit only by red lightbulbs to preserve night vision. Neon green pulses of light raced across two types of radar scopes.

  “How are things going?” the admiral asked the radarman.

  “Fine, sir.” The young man’s face shone red in the eerie light. “We’re using the SG radar to fix on the oil tanks at Cap Fedala for navigation.”

  “Any sign of subs?”

  “Not on the radar, sir.”

  Dan picked up the telephone and contacted the sonar room. They had nothing to report either. The screening destroyers to seaward had the primary role in watching for submarines, but each ship needed to be vigilant.

  The admiral beckoned Dan out to the wing of the bridge, where they coul
d observe without hindering operations.

  The searchlights had fallen dark, and sporadic gunfire sounded from the shore, but the big gun batteries remained silent. No American ship was to fire unless fired on first. The guns at Cap Fedala were dangerously close to the oil tanks, which the Army hoped to confiscate intact.

  At 0600, morning twilight arrived, and shapes of hills and bluffs emerged.

  A great boom to the east.

  Dan whipped toward the sound. “The guns at Cherqui.”

  “Batter up!” Commander Durgin cried, the signal to report that the French had chosen to fight.

  Lieutenant Commander McLean called out orders to raise the anchor and start the engines and for the gunners to stand ready.

  The commands were relayed by talkers and the engine telegraph. Dan craned his neck to see up on the signal deck, where the signalman flashed “Batter up” to the command ship, the cruiser USS Augusta with Adm. Kent Hewitt aboard.

  The deck rumbled beneath Dan’s feet, and anchor chains clanked on the main deck below.

  Another boom, to the west this time, from Cap Fedala.

  “Fighting back isn’t wise,” Howard grumbled. “We’re taking this port whether they like it or not.”

  A splash rose in the ocean, some distance from the Wilkes, but the French gunners would soon get their range and bearing.

  Lieutenant Commander McLean called out a new heading. The Wilkes and the Swanson steamed west to bombard Cap Fedala, while the Ludlow and Murphy dealt with Cherqui.

  “Sir, Captain Emmet ordered, ‘Play ball!’” a talker said.

  Then a ball game is what they’d get. “Time for the first pitch,” Dan said.

  Orders were barked out to the gun director. As the Wilkes dashed forward, zigzagging to throw off the coastal artillery, her four 5-inch guns swiveled toward the cape and the barrels rose.

  “Commence firing!”

  Dan braced himself on the rail. He’d heard naval guns fired in practice but never in battle. Four flashes of orange lit the dim morning, four guns roared, and the deck lurched.

  The Swanson joined in, and the French fired back. Splashes dotted the ocean around the destroyers.

  “The Murphy is hit, sir,” a talker said. “Light damage. She’s retiring. The Brooklyn is taking her place.”