Through Waters Deep Page 7

  “Look, we’re coming out of the Depression. Most of us had to scrounge and save and do without. She sounds like every other American girl with a good paycheck right now.”

  “I’m sure that’s all it is.” His tone contradicted his words. “Say, you don’t think we’ll see any action this month, do you?”

  Jim laughed. “Along the New England coast?”

  “We’ll be in this war before the end of our cruise, mark my words. You heard the news—Germany says escorting convoys is an act of war. And here we are committed to escorting convoys in the near future.”

  “Yeah. The Battle of the Atlantic’s really heating up.” Steam hissed overhead. Jim shuddered at the thought of the thousands of men who had perished the past week in the sinkings of the British battlecruiser HMS Hood and the German battleship Bismarck. The war at sea had claimed many ships, many lives, and now the US Navy was skipping right into the middle of it.

  Arch dashed to the source of the hissing steam and tightened a valve. “Gloria might need to find another checkbook to raid, because we’ll be at sea longer than a month.”

  Even if Congress declared war that day, they’d have to return to port in a month to restock. But correcting Arch when he was in a mood like this would only waste words. “See you later, buddy. Off to pretend to fire my guns.”

  Back up topside, Jim took a bracing breath of cool air. The deck rolled gently beneath his feet. Far to starboard, the old brick Graves Light signaled the outer reach of Boston Harbor. Jim wouldn’t set his feet on land again for a month.

  He sighed. He’d also miss his little sister’s college graduation. His older brothers, Dan and Rob, would too. At least his parents, Lillian’s twin, Lucy, and the two youngest boys would attend.

  In Lillian’s last letter, she sounded downcast. Most of her pharmacy school classmates had jobs lined up, but not Lillian, despite her excellent grades. No one wanted to hire a woman, especially one who was missing her left leg below the knee.

  Jim coiled his hands into fists, the scars on his hands tightening. Anyone who couldn’t look past her prosthesis and see a bright capable young lady—well, they ought to be keelhauled.

  Men were already assembling by the practice loading machine between the aft superstructure and the searchlight platform. Reinhardt wanted each of the four gun crews to practice on the loader for half an hour each day. Not a popular decision with some of the seamen, but Jim would do his best to make the gunnery officer’s orders understandable and palatable.

  Lieutenant Reinhardt hailed Jim and handed him a stopwatch. “Time them.”

  “Aye aye, sir.” Jim smiled and bit back the “And good afternoon to you too” on the tip of his tongue.

  The crew for the number two 5-inch gun rolled up the sleeves of their chambray shirts. All the men were black except the gun captain. While the segregated Navy only allowed Negroes to serve as stewards, cooks, and mess attendants, when general quarters sounded, everyone had a battle station.

  Jim found the gun captain, Gunner’s Mate First Class Homer Udell. “Good afternoon, Udell. You fellows ready?”

  The petty officer nodded. “Aye aye, sir. Good crew here. Number one crew is whining about the number of drills, but my boys know the more they practice, the better they’ll get.”

  “Maybe we should get some friendly competition going.”

  “Yeah?” Udell’s sun-wizened face cracked in a grin. “We’ll show ’em number two gun is number one.”

  Jim laughed, clapped the man on the back, and climbed the ladder onto the aft superstructure, about eight feet above the main deck. Standing on the platform for the machine guns, he’d have a good view but wouldn’t be in the way.

  “Mr. Reinhardt! I’m ready.” Jim leaned his elbows on the rail and held his thumb over the stopwatch.

  Below him, the crew took their positions around the practice loading machine. Lieutenant Reinhardt raised his hand high. “Ready, set, go!”

  The men sprang into action. After the spade man opened the loading tray, the powder man placed a dummy powder case in the tray, and the projectile man hefted up a fifty-pound target practice shell filled with sand and laid it forward of the powder. Then the projectile man rammed them home. The case and shell dropped into a collecting tray, and the hot case man returned them to be used again.

  Over and over they repeated the process, grunting with exertion. Jim cheered them on. He’d seen similar drills on the battleship, but this crew was slower. They kept getting in each other’s way. They fumbled a pass, and a projectile clanged to the deck. They placed the powder case backward and had to flip it.

  Udell directed them with practical advice, but Reinhardt regarded them with granite silence.

  Jim winced. This was the first time the crew had performed the drill. Slowness was to be expected. Over time they’d improve, but only with guidance and encouragement.

  “Come on, men! You can do it,” he called.

  “One hundred,” the projectile man shouted.

  Jim clicked the stopwatch off.

  The crew stepped back, leaned over, hands on knees, the backs of their shirts dark blue with sweat.

  Lieutenant Reinhardt looked up at Jim. “Time?”

  “Eighteen minutes, forty-two seconds.”

  The gunnery officer’s mouth screwed up. “Eighteen . . . ?”

  Udell stepped forward. “Remember, sir. This is our first practice together.”

  Icicles were warmer than Reinhardt’s glare. “That was the most pathetic drill I’ve ever had the indignity to witness. Mr. Avery, please tell me how many seconds they took to load each shell.”

  He’d already done the math in his head, but he didn’t like the number. “Eleven seconds—eleven point two—”

  “Eleven seconds? Eleven!” The gunnery officer paced in front of the offending crew. “That’s fewer than six shells a minute. Six. We need to fire at least fifteen. Four seconds per shell, you hear me? Four seconds. Do you realize the Nazi U-boats have been at war almost two years? In the time it takes you loafers to load one shell, they’ll sink us.”

  “Aye aye, sir.” Udell stood tall, his hands behind his back. From above, Jim could see the petty officer’s hands ball up.

  “And don’t think your lazy performance gets you fewer drills.” Reinhardt didn’t raise his voice, but he didn’t have to. “A good crew can do five drills in half an hour. So you’ll do five drills too—ten if you don’t speed it up.”

  A single groan rose from below, quickly quenched.

  If only Jim could help. At their current rate, the seamen had ninety minutes of hard physical labor before them. And to run through all four crews . . . well, they’d be at work long past dark. “Udell,” he called down. “You’re an old hand at this. What did you see? How can we improve?”

  Udell glanced up at him with a mixture of surprise and gratitude, then he turned to Reinhardt. “Permission to speak freely to my men, sir?”

  “Granted.”

  The gunner’s mate’s shoulders relaxed, and he gathered his crew around him, using lots of hand signals, his voice too low for Jim to hear.

  “Mr. Avery!” Lt. Cdr. Calvin Durant stood off to the side, beckoning Jim to come down. When had he arrived on the scene?

  Jim climbed down to the deck and found the commanding officer. “Yes, sir?”

  Durant pointed his chin toward the gun crew. “I like what you did.”

  “What I did, sir?”

  “The petty officers are the best asset on any ship, far better than any of us with an Academy ring.” The CO flashed his own gold ring. “Udell knows guns and he knows his men. If we get out of his way, he’ll do his job.”

  “Yes, sir.” Warmth rose in his chest. He’d done something right.

  Durant glanced over his shoulder. “You’re a good match for Reinhardt. Between the two of you I might have myself a good officer.”

  Jim’s left eye twitched. That was only half a compliment then. One more reason to hoist his sails and s
top floating.

  “Are you a Bible-reading man like your brothers?” Durant’s blue eyes homed in on him.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Read Nehemiah.”

  “All right.” But he frowned in confusion. Why would his CO want him to read about the rebuilding of Jerusalem’s walls?

  “Something you said to Udell reminded me of Nehemiah. See if you can find it. Come to think of it . . . Mr. Reinhardt!” He waved over the gunnery officer.

  “Yes, sir?” Reinhardt stepped over with a lot less steel in his gaze.

  “Read Nehemiah. In the Bible.” Durant pointed his finger, swept it from bow to stern. “All of you—all my officers are going to read it. No one could lead like Nehemiah. Tomorrow night we’ll discuss it over dinner. Pass the word, both of you.”

  “But . . .” Reinhardt gazed toward the bridge. “But what about Shapiro? He’s Jewish.”

  “All the better.” Durant slapped Reinhardt on the back and strode away. “Last I checked, Nehemiah was Jewish too.”

  How many times had Dan and Rob warned Jim about Durant’s strange sudden assignments? Jim laughed.

  Reinhardt sent him a baffled look, the first truly human look Jim had seen from the man. “Nehemiah?”

  Jim grinned at him. “Guess we have some walls to build.”

  11

  Boston Navy Yard

  Tuesday, June 3, 1941

  The air in the drafting room stood still, and Mary halted inside the doorway. All the draftsmen sat at their angled desks, pens silent, ears cocked toward Mr. Winslow’s office, toward the sound of raised voices.

  Mary crossed the room as if nothing were wrong and opened her notebook to a fresh page. Since she was there on official business, no one would think anything unusual about her presence.

  She paused outside the office and peered around the burly shoulders of George O’Donnell to catch Mr. Winslow’s eye. At the naval architect’s nod, she stepped just outside the doorway and leaned against the wall to wait.

  And to take notes.

  “Mr. O’Donnell,” Mr. Winslow said in his cultured tones. “It’s hardly uncommon for a supervisor to check the work of his subordinates. In fact, it’s expected.”

  “You don’t trust me? I’ve been a draftsman since before you were born. Subordinate, my foot.”

  “I appreciate your experience, but—”

  “But you think your fancy college degree makes you qualified to judge my work.”

  “It isn’t a matter of judging—”

  O’Donnell cursed. “You and your hoity-toity ways. Questioning my work and rushing me.”

  “I hardly think asking you to be at your desk during working hours is rushing you.” Winslow’s voice quavered.

  Mary’s pen flew over the paper, but she kept a nonchalant look on her face as if she were doodling to pass the time.

  “You can’t fool us.” O’Donnell’s voice lowered to a growl. “We all know why you’re rushing us—to get more of our ships into British hands.”

  “As you know, these ships are being commissioned into the United States Navy.”

  “Yeah. To do England’s dirty work for her, escorting ships carrying American goods across the Atlantic to feed them—and for free. Lend-Lease? It’s outright theft. Why should we help them when they’ve never done anything to help us?”

  “We help them . . .” Winslow’s voice rose and shook. “We help them so more innocent people don’t die. I’ll have you know my wife’s nephew died in London a few weeks ago—ten years old—killed in a German air raid. If we don’t help them, who will?”

  Mary drew in her breath. Ten years old. What horrors the British faced.

  Mr. O’Donnell snorted. “And I’ll have you know my cousin was killed in the Irish War of Independence back in 1920. By the British. America didn’t send help to Ireland. Why should we help the Brits now?”

  “I’m not asking you to help Britain. I’m asking you to do your job.”

  “My job? My job is to build ships for America. For America. Lindbergh’s right, I tell you. We need new leadership in the United States.”

  Mary scribbled hard and fast. A few days earlier, Charles Lindbergh’s speech at an America First rally in Philadelphia raised an uproar. What did the aviator mean by “new leadership”? Some said he was calling for an immediate overthrow of Roosevelt’s presidency. Some said he was referring to the lawful election process.

  O’Donnell stormed out of the office, chomping on his tobacco, rolled blueprints in hand. Every eye in the drafting room watched him leave.

  Mary waited a few seconds to finish her notes and to give Mr. Winslow time to gather himself. Then she pulled out the report from Mr. Pennington and entered the office. “Good morning, Mr. Winslow.”

  He set down a glass of water and swallowed hard. “A bit late for that, I’m afraid.”

  “From Mr. Pennington.” She offered him the report and a soft smile.

  “Thank you.” He took the papers with a shaking hand and turned his chair away from her.

  She had no intention of further assaulting his dignity by asking questions about the incident, so she made her exit.

  And she made up her mind. Mr. Winslow allowed Mr. O’Donnell to intimidate him, but Mary refused to let her fears intimidate her any longer.

  It was time for her lunch break and time to visit the FBI agent.

  Mary returned to Mr. Pennington’s office in Building 39 and grabbed her new loose-leaf notebook filled with her typed-up notes. The carbon copies resided in a similar notebook in her apartment. This past weekend while she typed, Yvette kept peeking over her shoulder and warning her, but Mary wouldn’t be swayed.

  She poked her head into her boss’s office. “I’m going on my lunch break.”

  “Yes. Yes. You’re welcome.” His snowy head was bent over the papers on his desk.

  Mary smiled. He never made sense when he was immersed in his work. “I’ll see you in half an hour.” She hadn’t asked his permission, but she didn’t need it. As a private citizen, she had a right and a duty to share her suspicions.

  Down on the first floor, Mary entered the cramped temporary office set up by the FBI.

  Agent Paul Sheffield stood at his desk, his back to Mary, loading papers into a cardboard box. With his slight build and thin sandy hair, he looked nothing like the dark and dashing G-men in the movies.

  “Excuse me?” Mary rapped on the back of the door with her knuckles. “Agent Sheffield?”

  “Yes?” He shoved his glasses up his nose and squinted at Mary. “We’ve met, haven’t we?”

  Memorable as always. “Yes, sir. I’m Mary Stirling, Barton Pennington’s secretary. I set up the champagne.”

  “Ah yes.” He grinned and motioned for her to take a seat. “Have you come to confess?”

  She laughed and sat down. “I’m afraid not.”

  “What can I do for you?” He settled into his chair behind the desk.

  Mary ran her thumbs along the notebook. “As Mr. Pennington’s secretary, I collect and deliver reports to various departments. I hear a lot.”

  Thin sandy eyebrows drew together. “What have you heard?”

  “I—I hear lots of things. Nothing threatening, but I—well, I take notes on what people say, and I’ve typed them up. Would you be interested in seeing?”

  He let out a long sigh and held out one hand, his fingers opening and shutting.

  Mary laid the notebook in front of him, pleased with how neat and organized it looked. “Each page—or pages—is for a separate person. On top is the person’s name and position, plus his possible motive, means, and opportunity to commit sabotage. In the T-shaped chart below—on the left is what he said and on the right is what others said about him.”

  Agent Sheffield flipped through the notebook, and Mary returned to her seat, watching his face for any glimmer of interest, but he remained impassive.

  At last, he pushed the notebook away and leaned back in his chair. “What you have here i
s a long—and exceptionally organized—account of all the shipyard gossip.”

  Mary’s gut twisted. “I suppose so, but it does show each man’s frame of mind, his personality, his motives, and how he’s perceived. I think it would be useful in your investigation.”

  “The investigation is over.” He gestured to the box on his desk. “After this afternoon’s commissioning ceremony, I’m closing up shop.”

  “But the champagne—”

  “A single incident. The local police are in charge. As for this perceived sabotage . . .” He shrugged. “Tensions are high throughout the nation, and they’re concentrated here because of the work you’re doing. The problems people have seen are the normal mistakes you’d see at any shipyard. But since everyone’s convinced there’s a saboteur in your midst, they interpret every error as sabotage most foul. Mass hysteria.”

  Mary pulled her lips between her teeth. His statement did hold truth.

  The agent stood and placed more papers in the box. “In fact, the Bureau is convinced our presence here is only inflaming the situation. If we leave, show them we think nothing’s wrong, everything will settle down to normal. Besides, we have more pressing matters, real spies to hunt down.”

  “But what if something is actually happening here?”

  He put his hands on his hips and tilted his head. “Let me guess—the Case of the Shipyard Saboteur.”

  Mary’s breath caught. That’s what she’d taken to calling it. She’d almost written it in her notebook.

  The agent shook his head. “How many Nancy Drew books did you read?”

  Book covers flashed through her mind—The Secret of the Old Clock, The Mystery at Lilac Inn, The Sign of the Twisted Candles. At least a dozen books—all the mysteries that had been published before she graduated from high school and set aside her girlhood heroine along with her schoolbooks.

  Mary smoothed the skirt of her blue dress—the color Nancy Drew favored in her wardrobe as well. “A few.”

  Agent Sheffield chuckled and pulled file folders from a desk drawer. “We see this all the time at the Bureau—eager young ladies who fancy themselves amateur sleuths able to catch clues we bumbling blind professionals miss.”