When Tides Turn Page 7

  “Silence those guns,” Durgin said.

  Another salvo rattled the Wilkes and every bone in Dan’s body. In a minute, a brilliant yellow fire erupted on land.

  “An oil tank,” Howard mumbled.

  “The Army won’t like that.” Dan focused his binoculars on the cape, searching for the battery. “But they really won’t like it if those guns chew up the troops.”

  “Cease firing,” McLean called.

  The guns on the cape had fallen silent. But were they knocked out?

  Dan didn’t trust them.

  Sure enough, within five minutes, they opened fire again. The two destroyers darted about, heaving shells at the cape until the guns fell silent twenty minutes later.

  The sun had risen. Dan trained his binoculars to the smoke-shrouded beach. Landing craft sat at odd angles on the sand and lay dashed on rocks.

  Yet Dan didn’t see bodies, thank goodness. Perhaps the landings were succeeding.

  As the morning progressed, the guns at Cap Fedala fired sporadically, silenced over and over by the destroyers and by the cruiser Augusta, which joined the ball game. At 0730, they received word that the Army had seized the town of Fedala and the battery at Cherqui, but Cap Fedala’s gunfire kept the soldiers at bay.

  Farther to the south came great muffled, rumbling booms. Apparently the Covering Group was having a fight with the French fleet at Casablanca.

  High above, airplane motors added to the din. Dan gazed up at the F4F Wildcat fighters and SBD Dauntless dive-bombers from the carrier Ranger and the auxiliary carrier Suwannee.

  The British planes at Gibraltar covered the landings in Algeria, leaving no land-based Allied aircraft in range of Morocco. So the Americans brought their air cover with them.

  Dan was glad to see the new auxiliary carriers in action. Converted from merchant ship hulls, the “jeep” carriers could be built quickly and held great promise.

  “Sir!” a talker called. “A scout plane reports seven French ships steaming from Casablanca toward Fedala at thirty-six knots.”

  Dan spun to the south. “The Covering Group let them pass?”

  “Must be preoccupied with the Jean Bart.” The French battleship posed the biggest threat at Casablanca.

  “Looks like we’ll have a good old-fashioned surface battle.” His breath came faster as he counted dots on the horizon. At Fedala, the Americans had two cruisers and ten destroyers, one damaged. Many of the destroyers had to remain to the north and west to screen the transports. At that moment, the Wilkes and the Ludlow were farthest south, patrolling the new Beach Yellow south of Cap Fedala, separated from the rest of the warships.

  Two against seven. Not great odds.

  Commanders barked orders, and gunners prepared their weapons.

  The shapes on the horizon became more distinct. Five smaller ships, probably destroyers, and two larger ones, probably destroyer leaders.

  The French fired first. Geysers sprang up in the water, dyed green and pink and violet to help the French gunners adjust their aim. The Wilkes and Ludlow fired back, racing and zigzagging.

  Plumes of sand shot up from Yellow Beach as shells exploded among the landing craft. Admiral Howard released a mild curse word, and Dan agreed in spirit if not in vocabulary.

  American shells zoomed through the air, and a fire broke out on one of the French destroyer leaders.

  Commander Durgin ordered the two destroyers to fall back to seaward, to lure the French away from the landing beaches and to gain reinforcement.

  The Ludlow led the way. A shell burst amidships, and flames rose.

  Dan gasped. That could have been the Wilkes.

  But the Ludlow kept underway.

  Dan glanced aft. SBDs and TBF Avenger torpedo bombers dived at the French ships. Shells arced through the air toward the Wilkes and the Ludlow, straddling the ships but falling shorter and shorter.

  “They think we’re running away,” Dan said to the admiral. Now they probably thought they could attack the defenseless transports still teeming with troops. “They’re wrong.”

  “You bet they are.”

  “Here we go, boys,” the commander said from inside the pilothouse. “Admiral Hewitt ordered the Wilkes, Swanson, Augusta, and Brooklyn to engage.”

  While the Ludlow continued her retreat to bandage her wounds, the Wilkes made a tight turn, white foam spraying in her wake, and the Swanson drew abreast.

  The destroyers surged forward at flank speed, the cruisers right behind. Within minutes, the Wilkes and Swanson shot salvos of 5-inch shells. The heavy cruiser Augusta opened up with the deep roar of her 8-inch guns, and the light cruiser Brooklyn fired her 6-inch guns.

  The American ships darted back and forth, dodging French shells and firing their own, carving their signatures on the water, punctuating them with shell geyser exclamation points.

  Dan itched to be in command. To be down in the engine room, keeping the engines and boilers running. To be up in the gun director, training fire on the enemy. To be down on the deck as first lieutenant, preparing the damage control parties for any emergency. Or to be on the bridge, coordinating all the information, all the departments, all the sailors.

  His first battle, and he could only observe.

  “They’re falling back.” Admiral Howard peered through his binoculars.

  “Giving up?”

  “Or trying to draw us under coastal fire from Casablanca.”

  Dan winced. If the Americans took chase, they’d abandon the transports at Fedala to any U-boats that might lurk in the area.

  “Very well, sir,” Commander Durgin said on the Talk Between Ships telephone. He faced McLean. “Admiral Hewitt called in the Covering Group to attack the French ships, and he ordered us back to the transport area.”

  More orders flew from the bridge, and the Wilkes reversed course.

  Dan glanced at his watch. The surface battle had lasted only twelve minutes.

  But it was magnificent.

  11

  Smith College

  Wednesday, November 11, 1942

  “Company left, march!”

  As one, Tess’s company pivoted and marched across Smith College’s athletic fields under a cool autumn sky. Hundreds of black oxfords thudded to the cadence of the drill master.

  What fun it was to drill, and in an Armistice Day parade! She wanted to grin at her friends or wave to the girls on the sidelines, the civilian students at Smith College. But she kept a blank expression fixed on the midshipman ahead of her.

  The Navy wasn’t about being an individual but about working as a unit, about putting others before self, and she was embracing it.

  “To the right flank, march!”

  She swiveled with her company. A breeze blew a curl against her cheekbone, and it tickled, but she didn’t brush it away. Nine hundred women in identical navy-blue uniforms, and for the first time in her life, Tess enjoyed not standing out.

  “Company halt!”

  Tess stomped to a halt, sharp at attention. They had double reason to celebrate Armistice Day. First, they were commemorating the end of the First World War twenty-four years earlier. Second, they were rejoicing over this morning’s news that the French had called a cease-fire in North Africa after three hideous days of friends firing on friends. Meanwhile, the British had soundly defeated the Germans at El Alamein and were chasing Field Marshal Erwin Rommel west across Libya.

  “Forward, march.”

  Tess obeyed.

  In the morning paper, she’d read Prime Minister Winston Churchill’s moving statement: “This is not the end. It is not even the beginning of the end. But it is, perhaps, the end of the beginning.”

  “Company halt. Company dismissed.”

  The ladies marched in formation off the field. North Africa . . . was that where Dan had sailed? There had been a terrific naval battle off Casablanca, and the Americans had sunk half a dozen French warships, maybe more. The papers hadn’t reported any American naval losses, but they were ofte
n censored, for good reason.

  A shudder of fear, but she squelched it. Dan yearned for this, and it was where he belonged. When he returned, Mary or Lillian would tell her what he had done, and that would suffice. Dan certainly wouldn’t write her.

  The only letter she’d received yesterday was from Yvette, but it was alarming.

  The week after Professor Arnaud announced the arrest of his cousin’s caretaker, Henri Dubois had named a new informant in the meeting. Henri said this man was the best type of informant because everyone knew him as a Nazi sympathizer. An excellent cover, Henri said.

  Now Professor Arnaud had received word that the Gestapo had arrested the informant and tortured him—until they discovered the truth. He really was a Nazi sympathizer.

  Henri had lied. He’d named a known fascist to see if the false information would cross the Atlantic. It had. Yvette was certain there was a spy in the group, and she was outraged.

  Tess’s mouth twisted. Just because Yvette acted outraged didn’t rule her out as a suspect.

  She drank in fresh autumn air to clear her mind and stop her runaway imagination. Today they were celebrating.

  Off the field, the WAVES dispersed and found their friends. Tess gathered Kate, Ada Sue, and Nora. To her relief, Kate and Ada Sue had welcomed Nora. Tess had been ready to put her foot down and say, “If you want to be friends with me, you’ll have to be friends with Nora,” as she’d done with Mary on the first day of seventh grade.

  Tess had never told Mary, but she’d said those words reluctantly. Tess had been the new girl in Vermilion, and coming from Manhattan’s glittering art community made her instantly popular in that small Ohio town. Although she’d enjoyed Mary’s friendship over the summer, the unpopular girl could have devastated Tess’s social life.

  Mary assumed Tess had acted out of the goodness of her heart, but she was wrong. Tess had acted out of love of a winter coat in dark gold wool. Her mother threatened not to buy it if Tess abandoned Mary, to make her wear her childish old coat that was too short.

  So Tess took her stand. She received her coat. And her friendship with Mary was founded on inauthenticity. Somehow it had grown into a strong, genuine, long-lasting friendship.

  With Nora, she’d been prepared to take a stand for higher reasons. But she hadn’t needed to.

  Tess smiled at the three ladies. “No classes today. Let’s explore Northampton.”

  Kate grabbed Tess’s elbow. “Absolutely not. Let’s study and enjoy the privilege.”

  Tess’s shoulders sagged. “One little holiday? Please?”

  “After we graduate.” Nora grabbed the other elbow and tugged Tess toward Capen Hall.

  “Forward, march!” Ada Sue led the way.

  “You’re mean,” Tess said. “It isn’t good to work all the time.”

  “We let you haul us around town on Sunday afternoons.” Kate pointed forward, her arm ramrod straight. “Forward, march.”

  “I need new friends.”

  Ada Sue flashed a smile over her shoulder. “You love us, and you know it.”

  She did, but she wrinkled her nose at the Southerner.

  Back in Capen Hall, the women fetched their textbooks and congregated in the lounge around a table. As much as Tess hated to admit it, final examinations were coming, and she did need to study.

  Nora opened her naval history textbook and explained the Battle of Jutland to Tess. Again. Thank goodness Nora explained things well, because Tess hated this subject with a passion.

  Greta Selby strolled by with an armload of manuals. She sniffed. “You’re naïve, Nora. They’re using you.”

  Tess gritted her teeth.

  But Nora looked up with a beatific smile. “On the contrary. I’m using them. Kate makes naval administration sound almost interesting, Ada Sue keeps me on my feet in field hockey, and Tess draws darling cartoons of ships and aircraft to help with recognition.”

  Tess raised her own smile, just as beatific, she hoped. “You’re welcome to join us. You can use us too.”

  Greta chose her well-worn sneer. “Are you going to teach me how to sell gloves?”

  “Yes. And hats too. Hats are tricky.”

  With a roll of her tiny eyes, Greta marched to a table in the corner. Alone.

  Kate and Ada Sue exchanged a smirk, but Nora gazed at Greta with one corner of her mouth puckered. Tenderhearted Nora felt sorry for mean old Greta.

  In a way, so did Tess. Greta was doing well in class and would graduate, but she’d made no friends. And no one deserved to be alone.

  She recognized that stirring inside, the unmistakable divine prodding, telling her to put aside her pride and hurt feelings and be kind.

  Tess approached Greta’s table. This woman had been rejected all her life, and she pushed others away so she wouldn’t be hurt. She resented a world that favored beauty over substance, and how could Tess fault her for that?

  Greta didn’t look up from her naval manual. “Did you want something from me?”

  All that acid wouldn’t respond to sugar, only to honesty. “I meant it, Greta. We would like for you to join us. We’re all good at different things, and we help each other.”

  She flipped a page and snorted. “You can fool Nora, but you can’t fool me.”

  Tess swallowed her snippy words. Compassion was needed. And sheer honesty. “I understand. You’re tired of a world that won’t look beneath the surface. You’re tired of people judging you on your looks, and you wish they’d judge you on your mind and your work.”

  Greta glanced up with a flash of connection, quickly muted by suspicion.

  Tess crossed her arms and formed a tight-lipped smile. “Guess what? So do I.” Her voice wavered, which surprised her.

  The sneer returned, sharper and more hateful than ever, but then something sparked in her eyes, and her mouth drifted open.

  Yes, they had more in common than either would care to admit. Tess tilted her head to her friends. “My invitation stands. You’re more than welcome to join us.”

  Tess returned to her table. “Do your magic, Nora. Make me feel the thrill of battle.”

  She ignored the girls’ nudges and questioning looks. No gossip. No talking behind Greta’s back. The woman had enough of that in her life. “Come on. Finals are around the bend.”

  Nora turned the textbook to Tess and pointed to a map with lots of loopy lines.

  No movement came from Greta’s table. No sound.

  She wouldn’t join them.

  But Tess knew she’d done the right thing.

  12

  Off Fedala, French Morocco

  Wednesday, November 11, 1942

  The motor whaleboat popped along the waves in the inky darkness. Dan relished the motion and the cold spray of seawater.

  The landings on November 8 had gone well, with only light casualties, and the French had surrendered at Fedala that same day. And this morning, Casablanca had surrendered along with all French Morocco and Algeria.

  But the Navy’s war was far from over. “Is it true, sir? Fourteen U-boats in the area?”

  The boat took a hard bump, and Admiral Howard clamped one hand on his cover. “Yes. Admiral Hewitt issued a warning at sunset.”

  “How much can you tell me about the conference?”

  “That’s my boy.” Howard’s smile shone in his voice.

  Dan waited for the admiral to condense his thoughts. They were returning to the Wilkes from the heavy cruiser USS Augusta, where Adm. Kent Hewitt had met with the top commanders. Meanwhile, Dan collected antisubmarine warfare reports that had come to the Augusta from the various warships. In the convoy back to Hampton Roads, he’d compile the reports and write a summary.

  “Well?” Dan asked.

  “Admiral Hewitt voiced concerns,” Howard said in measured tones. “All the troops are ashore now, but we still have a substantial quantity of stores to unload.”

  Vague dark silhouettes hinted at the fifteen transports and cargo ships, the ten destroyers and t
wo cruisers in the harbor of Fedala. “The transports are sitting ducks at anchor.”

  “Indeed. Hewitt toured Casablanca today. Once again, the French are the very picture of friendly cooperation.”

  “I’m glad to hear.”

  “They offered their port facilities to us, but the harbor is littered with wrecks.”

  “Mm-hmm.” Courtesy of fine shooting by the US Navy.

  “Casablanca would be safer for the transports, but with so few berths open, unloading would take longer than at Fedala. Also, the first supply convoy is due to arrive on the thirteenth. If the transports went to Casablanca, the convoy would have to wait offshore.”

  “Where the U-boats could hunt them.”

  “Precisely. Not everyone is happy with Hewitt’s decision, but I concur. Stay in Fedala and unload these ships as quickly as we can.”

  A loud cry behind them.

  Dan whipped around.

  The coxswain pointed astern. “I saw something, sir. An explosion.”

  “One-third speed,” the admiral ordered.

  As the whaleboat slowed, Dan strained to see through the darkness and to hear over the motor. A pulse of orange light throbbed closer to shore. “Sir? It looks like a fire in the transport area.”

  “Your eyes are better than mine.”

  “I see it too, sir,” the coxswain said. “What should we do?”

  “To the Wilkes. Flank speed.”

  “Aye aye, sir.” The engine revved, and the boat sped forward.

  What had happened? Was there an accidental fire on one of the ships? Or had a U-boat infiltrated the fleet?

  The whaleboat felt small and alone and vulnerable, but that was an illusion. If a submarine were attacking, nowhere was safer. Why would a hungry U-boat pick at such small potatoes when fat juicy transports and rich meaty warships sat on the platter?

  Light signals flashed between the whaleboat and the Wilkes, and the boat drew alongside and cut her engine. A sailor on the Wilkes tossed a line, and a sailor on the whaleboat heaved to. Dan and the admiral stood back as the rope ladder unfurled down into the boat.

  Dan followed Admiral Howard up the ladder, not easy in the dress blues they’d worn for the conference, even with overcoats unbuttoned. The admiral puffed and grunted.