by Sarah Sundin
“They’ll brief us on Monday,” Ted said.
“Think about it.” Hobson gestured at Wyatt. “You were a gunnery officer. Jack, you were a communications officer. Ted, you fought U-boats in the Atlantic. And I manned a landing ship at Sicily and Salerno.”
“That’s enough speculating.” Wyatt softened the warning with a smile. “Whatever we do, I have a notion it’ll be big.”
The other officers nodded.
Spring would arrive soon, the perfect time for the Allies to invade Nazi-occupied Europe. Now was the time to plan and prepare.
“A newsstand.” Ted pointed ahead. “I need to get postcards for my wife and kids.”
Wyatt hung back and checked his watch. Only one minute until the clock on Big Ben would toll twelve. He couldn’t wait.
“Say, Wyatt, aren’t you buying postcards for your family?” Ted held up a selection.
Wyatt’s chest seized, and Jack shot him a look.
He couldn’t explain. Not today. Today was meant to be fun.
“Say, Ted. How about this for your little boy?” Jack held up a card.
The distraction worked, and Wyatt thanked Jack with a smile. Soon he’d tell his new friends what Jack already knew. That he hadn’t been home for two and a half years. That he hadn’t written. That his family had no idea where he was or what he was doing.
He’d also tell them why. Daddy always said keeping secrets was as stupid as keeping gophers. All they’d do is pop up and poke holes in your life.
The familiar ache filled his chest. Boy, how he missed his family. By the time the war was over, he could pay off his debt. Maybe by then his brothers’ grief and fury would dim enough to allow forgiveness.
At least God had forgiven him. Thank you, Lord. Your forgiveness is all I need, but you know it isn’t all I want.
The Westminster chimes played, and Wyatt ambled over to the row of stone pillars, each pierced in the side with rusty holes. London’s wrought-iron fences had been melted down for the war effort, and bomb craters and boarded-up windows added further testimony to the reality of the war.
For over four years, Hitler’s Germany had bullied Europe, conquering and bombing and killing. But now thousands of Americans were flooding into Britain with tons of ships, planes, and weapons. The Allies were fixing to make things right, and Wyatt was supposed to play a part.
Long and low, Big Ben announced the hour, each strike resounding in Wyatt’s soul with the enormity of the moment.
For the sake of freedom, Wyatt Paxton couldn’t afford to be a failure again.
2
Allied Naval Expeditionary Force Headquarters
Norfolk House, St. James’s Square, London
Monday, January 17, 1944
“Today’s the day,” Third Officer Gwen Hamilton whispered to Dorothy.
Third Officer Muriel Shaw set paperwork on the Wrens’ worktable and gave Dorothy a sly look. “His office adjoins ours.”
“Hush.” Dorothy settled a firm look on her friends. “I mustn’t look eager. And you simply mustn’t tease me. Lieutenant Commander Eaton is a man of sophistication, and he likes a woman who is composed, urbane, and droll.” What a gift it had been to overhear Lawrence discussing women with her brothers.
Gwen’s gray eyes twinkled. “Jolly Dolly composed and urbane?”
“Hush.” Her cheeks warmed. If only Gwen hadn’t known her since they were schoolgirls. “I’m no longer jolly, and please don’t call me Dolly. You know I’ve changed.”
The door opened.
Lawrence? Not now when she was far from composed.
She spun around and stood at attention, and a sigh of relief and disappointment eased out. No, not Lawrence.
The new Wren commander, First Officer Julia Bliss-Baldwin, marched in with three American naval officers. The men’s uniforms were almost identical to those of the Royal Navy, with a navy blue jacket, white shirt, and black tie. However, a gold star replaced the curlicue above the gold stripes on their sleeves.
First Officer Bliss-Baldwin had the quick-eyed, sporty look of a country gentlewoman. “Gentlemen, these are my Wrens—Officers Shaw, Fairfax, and Hamilton, and our enlisted ratings.”
A brisk wave of her hand to the wall adorned with a map of the Norman coast. “They have been sorting photographs and postcards, which they then portray in maps and diagrams. Ladies, these gentlemen are attached to the Western Naval Task Force for the upcoming invasion. They’re here to select targets for naval bombardment.”
Dorothy’s hand crept to the table behind her and cupped over her photo.
At the end of the line, a tall sandy-haired officer tipped his head as if asking her why.
Yankee impudence. Dorothy withdrew her hand and concentrated on her new commander.
Bliss-Baldwin raised her delicate nose. “Ladies, may I introduce Commander Marino, Lieutenant Geier, and Lieutenant Paxton?”
The last man was the impudent one, although he had a gentle look about his eyes.
“Very good, gentlemen.” The Wren commander gestured to the door. “You do know the way back to Commander Pringle’s office, do you not?”
“Yes, ma’am, and thank you.” Commander Marino and his men departed.
First Officer Bliss-Baldwin faced the ladies, every blonde hair rolled in perfect order at the back of her head. “I would like to become better acquainted with my officers. Ratings, you are dismissed.”
Dorothy remained at attention while the Wrens scurried to their maps.
“It is a pleasure to return to London.” She spoke and moved with the grace of her class, the grace that made Dorothy feel like a plodding ox of a girl all over again.
“As you may know, I was amongst the first draft of Wrens sent to Singapore. We were able to escape directly before the fall.” Her voice dipped low. “Then on to India and Egypt. I’ve had a smashing good time. Where have you served, ladies?”
Dorothy glanced to Gwen and Muriel. “London, ma’am.”
“That simply won’t do. Every Englishwoman dreams of seeing the glory of the Empire. I shall see to it that you have the opportunity.”
Coldness seeped into Dorothy’s veins. “Thank you, ma’am, but we have this assignment for a reason. We took our holidays in Normandy and are familiar with the land.”
She clucked her tongue. “Such a shame. I’ll see to it that you have your turn abroad. Carry on.” She marched out of the office.
Dorothy sagged back against the table. “Oh dear.”
“Don’t worry, darling.” Muriel’s hazel eyes softened. “You have to volunteer for overseas duty.”
“I know.” Dorothy raised a feeble smile. Even if Papa barely acknowledged her, he needed her for his very existence.
The door swung open.
Lawrence Eaton! Even more handsome than she remembered, his uniform tailored to his form, his dark hair sleek, and his eyes . . .
Turning to her.
She stood at attention, keeping her face in the impassivity fitting an officer, while she struggled to control her galloping breath. Composed, urbane, droll. For years she’d practiced, and now the performance day had arrived.
“Lieutenant Commander Eaton.” First Officer Bliss-Baldwin strode up to him. “Thank you for coming, sir.”
She introduced the Wrens, and Lawrence responded with a nod to each lady, so genteel. Then he faced Dorothy.
He wasn’t as tall as she remembered, not because he had diminished but because she had grown. “Surely this can’t be Dolly Fairfax.”
“I prefer Dorothy, sir.” She kept her tone deep and modulated, her eyebrows high and her lids low. “I’m pleased to resume our acquaintance.”
Had he noticed how much weight she’d lost? That her freckles had disappeared? That she was no longer a loud, overly dramatic schoolgirl?
A hint of a smile curved those finely formed lips. “A pleasure indeed. How long has it been? At least a decade.”
“At least . . .” She trailed off as if she hadn’t calculated the precise
number of months. If only Papa hadn’t been so inhospitable. She really ought to invite Lawrence to dinner.
His dark eyebrows bent. “I extend my condolences. I was so sorry when I heard . . .”
“Thank you.” Time for that stiff upper lip. “I can’t presume to take their places, but I’m serving the crown to the best of my ability.”
A slow nod, then he stepped back. “I was honored when I received my orders, but after meeting such lovely and accomplished young women, I’m utterly delighted. Good day, ladies.”
Then he was gone. But he’d return, and Dorothy could hardly breathe in her joy.
“Oh my.” Muriel gave her the droll look Dorothy had been attempting to master. “He’s rather good-looking, I do say.”
“Rather.” Gwen arched her blonde brows. “Titled family? Land?”
“Indeed.” Dorothy turned to the blur of photographs on the table. He was everything she’d dreamed of in a man, so dashing and refined. Mum had often said Lawrence was the right sort of man for Dorothy, the exciting sort she needed to be happy.
And he’d be serving in the office next door.
For some reason, the parish rector’s beatific round face came to mind, although she hadn’t stepped foot in church in years. “The hand of the Lord is upon you, my child.”
If she didn’t know from experience that the hand of the Lord only slapped her around, she might believe him.
Luck, fate, or the hand of God—regardless, her dream was finally coming true.
Allied Naval Expeditionary Force Headquarters
Thursday, January 20, 1944
Wyatt followed Cdr. Joe Marino and Lt. Rudy Geier down a passageway in Norfolk House, their shoe leather slapping on the tile floors.
“I like what Eisenhower has to say,” Commander Marino said. “They did well naming him to command the Allies in Operation Overlord. He’s the right man.”
Wyatt leaned closer. “He did a great job in the Med—”
“He did great work in the Mediterranean,” Geier said. “North Africa, Sicily, Italy. Definitely the right man.”
Marino looked over his shoulder. “Did you say something, Mr. Paxton?”
Wyatt wrestled back a grimace. “No, sir.”
A long draw on his cigarette and Marino faced forward.
Typical. The hallway was wide enough for three, but Geier divided the space so that Wyatt had to walk behind, out of sight, out of earshot.
This past week, they’d visited Gen. Dwight Eisenhower’s Supreme Headquarters and Adm. Alan Kirk’s Western Naval Task Force Headquarters in London. They’d taken the train to Plymouth and Portsmouth and Southampton for still more headquarters. And all week Geier had edged him out.
Reminded him of Adler edging him out with Daddy at Paxton Trucking. Geier even resembled Adler with his light blond hair, his social ease, and his need for the limelight.
Wyatt tamped down his jealousy. If Geier wanted the glory, he could have it. Wyatt just wanted to do his job.
If only he could, but today they’d returned to Adm. Sir Bertram Ramsay’s Allied Naval Headquarters for more glad-handing.
“I swear,” Marino said in a low rumble. “If I hear one more comment about how jolly good it is of us colonials to come help them out—well, I’ll bop that man in the nose.”
Wyatt chuckled. He hadn’t heard the word colonial, and most of the British treated the Americans like true partners, but a few acted as if they were naughty children who’d come home late for tea.
“We’ll spend the rest of today in intelligence. We’ll work closely with them.” Marino swung a door open.
Yeah, the room looked familiar. Teleprinters and maps and phones, Royal Navy officers and ratings, plus the “Wrens,” like America’s WAVES, wearing navy blue jackets and skirts.
“Commander Marino. Jolly good to see you.” A dark-haired officer approached, but Wyatt couldn’t remember his name. Never any good at names, unlike Adler. Much to Daddy’s chagrin. “Got to learn a man’s name if you want his respect, son.”
Easier said than done.
“Lieutenant Commander Eaton.” Marino solved the problem. “Good to see you too.”
For the next half hour, Eaton described how his department interpreted intelligence from radio intercepts, resistance members, commando raids, and reconnaissance by air and sea.
Eaton had that upper-class sheen to him, but he was smart and fair and friendly. “You chaps can see the success of this operation depends on our work here.”
Wyatt studied the map. The more information they had and the better they recorded it, the fewer men would die.
A familiar warmth stirred inside. He’d do his best to protect those men storming the beaches.
Eaton strode to the door. “Our Wrens are putting on a good show of it, plotting photographs and such from civilians. Come along.”
“Excuse me, Lieutenant Commander Eaton?” a fresh-faced Wren called from a phone. “Commander Pringle wishes to speak with you, sir.”
“Go on ahead.” Eaton waved the Americans to the door. “I’ll join you shortly.”
Next door, the blonde Wren with the long stuffy name met them. “Welcome, Commander. We are thrilled you have come to aid us in our fight against the Nazis.”
Wyatt stopped to gulp back a laugh. If Marino had known the next condescending comment would come from a lady, he wouldn’t have promised a nose-bopping.
“Thank you, ma’am.” Marino failed to keep his promise.
Geier tucked into a tight triangle between the lady and Marino. Wyatt would look ridiculous tapping on shoulders, like a pimply boy trying to cut in on the dance floor.
Instead, he circled the room, much like he’d done at high school dances, come to think of it. A map of the Norman coast covered the long wall of the room. Smart to select Normandy for the landings. The Nazis would expect the invasion in the Pas de Calais, where the English Channel was narrowest.
But Normandy . . . close enough for an overnight crossing to avoid detection, close enough for support from fighter planes, and close to the ports of Cherbourg and Le Havre.
“Would you like to see what we do here, sir?” A Wren stretched a string from a postcard on the wall down to a point on the map—the pretty redhead who’d set a protective hand over one of the photos in such a fascinating way.
The two light blue stripes on her sleeve cuffs identified her as an officer, but the Wrens had different names for the ranks than the men in the Royal Navy. And why couldn’t he remember her name? “Yes, I would, Miss . . .”
“Second Officer Fairfax. And you are . . . ?”
His smile spread. At least she didn’t expect him to remember. “Mr. Paxton.”
“Mister? Oh yes, that funny American naval custom.”
“You have to admit ‘Miss Fairfax’ would be less of a mouthful.” After she smiled in acknowledgment, he gestured to the map. “So people just send in their snapshots?”
“The BBC put out a call under the guise of a contest, and we’ve received material from holidays all over the world, over a million photographs. This office concentrates on Normandy.” Her face and voice were in constant motion as she talked, vivid and bright-eyed, and she had a mass of gorgeous red hair coiled in a knot low on her head.
Pretty little thing.
“For example . . .” She darted to the long table in the center of the room and handed him a black-and-white photograph. “Take a moment and study it.”
A family of five stood on a beach, all wearing bathing suits, except the mother, who wore one of those shapeless dresses from the twenties. The father stood tall and beaming, his hands resting on the shoulders of two gangly boys of about ten or twelve. The mother stood to the side, gazing away from the camera. But the centerpiece of the picture was a plump little girl, standing on the seawall behind her daddy, with a big bow on her head. Maybe six years old, the little dumpling posed with hands on hips as if she were queen of the world.
“What do you see, Lieutenant Paxton?�
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He tore his gaze from the dumpling to pretty blue eyes and back to the picture. “Um, a seawall, about five feet tall. A house in the background, not too far, two stories. A tree about fifteen feet from the house.”
“Precisely. This shows the height and composition of the wall, and basic trigonometry tells us the distance from the house to the seawall. Piecing this together with other information, we can place this house here.” She spun back to the map and pointed.
“That’s fascinating, ma’am. And right useful.”
“We can even tell the ground is shingle from how my brothers’ toes dig in to the loose stones.”
“Brothers?”
The vividness faded from her eyes, but then she pulled up that cute chin. “That’s why I was attached to this unit. We used to take our holidays in Normandy, in that house.”
This had to be the picture she’d protected. “So you’re the little daredevil.”
“I am.” The words started on a high note of amused pride, then drifted to wistfulness. She returned the photograph to the table.
Had one of her brothers been killed in the war? Although Adler and Clay were still alive—as far as he knew—he understood that sense of loss. Wyatt opened his mouth to ask, but closed it. On board the troopship, he’d read Instructions for American Servicemen in Britain. The English didn’t take kindly to personal questions from strangers, and he’d honor that.
The door opened. Eaton entered with two American admirals. Rats. Wyatt was on the wrong side of the room.
Second Officer Fairfax let out a soft gasp. Her fingertips fluttered to her cheek, and she smoothed her double-breasted jacket over her no-longer-plump belly.
Wyatt needed to meet the admirals. “Thank you, Second Officer. Very interesting.”
“You’re welcome.” But she looked across the room.
Exactly where Wyatt needed to go, and he made his way around the long table.
Eaton passed him with a nod, then brightened. “Second Officer Fairfax. How are you today?”
“Fine, thank you, sir.” Her tone changed, deep and languid, almost bored.
Strange. Wyatt glanced their way as he rounded the corner of the table.
