by Sarah Sundin
Dorothy’s lips dried out. Although the accusations were accurate, she’d never do such a thing.
“Don’t deny it.” Both hands slapped the desk. “You’re the only girl under Pringle’s command who has any relationship with Lieutenant Commander Eaton. You lied to me about him, then had me reprimanded to eliminate your competition. But I won’t have it.”
“I—I assure you, ma’am. I never talked to Commander Pringle. I wouldn’t dream of doing so.”
The first officer’s eyes fired a full salvo. “You girls think the war has leveled the classes, but it hasn’t. You can’t cross a woman of my station and get away with it. I want you out of here. Out of Southwick. Out of England.”
Dorothy clenched the hem of her jacket. “But my father—”
“Your father needs to develop a stiff upper lip. Commander Pringle has forbidden me to transfer any more Wrens under my command, so you will request an overseas transfer straightaway.”
“But ma’am, I don’t want to transfer. My work here—D-day is right around the corner.”
She sniffed. “You’re hardly indispensable.”
Dorothy’s breath quickened, but she held her ground. “I will not transfer, ma’am.”
“You will. If you don’t, I’ll rescind all privileges, give you the most menial tasks, and find fault with everything you do. It won’t take long to have you demoted and disgraced. I will make your life so utterly miserable, you’ll beg for a transfer.”
All her life, Dorothy had despised bullies. “Or I could simply tell Commander Pringle about this conversation.”
Blissy settled into her chair with a serene smile. “You love your father, do you not?”
Dorothy eyed her, not trusting her. “Yes, ma’am.”
“I’m rather fond of my father too. He dotes on me and does anything I want.” She relaxed in her chair and inclined her head. “As a Member of Parliament, he has the most useful connections. If I want a person destroyed—or her father—he makes it happen.”
Her stomach seized. The embezzlement. Mum. Mr. MacLeod. If Wyatt had discovered the truth in one short day, how long would it take a government minister?
The commanding officer held out some papers. “If you love your father, you won’t speak to Commander Pringle. You’ll submit the request for overseas duty first thing tomorrow. Think how happy you’ll be to get away from me.”
With wooden fingers, Dorothy took the papers. Happy? None of the choices before her offered happiness, only different varieties of pain.
38
USS Oglesby, South of the Isle of Wight
Monday, June 5, 1944
At the bow of the Oglesby, Wyatt gripped the lifeline. “Hard to believe this is really happening.”
“I know.” Jack Vale tugged his gloves higher on his wrists. “We’re a part of it—the greatest invasion fleet the world has ever seen.”
Behind the overcast, the setting sun illuminated gray waves and gray ships—troop transports and landing craft and destroyers and Coast Guard rescue ships.
South of the Isle of Wight, over five thousand ships and landing craft were gathering. Here at Point “Z,” the convoys turned south and funneled into the “Spout,” five lanes, one for each landing beach.
“Tomorrow,” Jack said.
“I know.” All the months of work coming to fruition at dawn. Adm. Sir Bertram Ramsay, the British commander of the Allied Naval Expeditionary Force, had produced massive quantities of meticulous plans. The plans would fall apart in battle, but at least they gave the Allies something to aim for.
The Ogie cut through a wave, and fine sea spray hit Wyatt’s face. He wiped it away with the sleeve of his mackinaw. “Glad the weather’s improving.”
“Thank goodness I’m not in Ike’s shoes.”
“No kidding.” D-day had been scheduled for June 5, but a storm had blown in, forcing Gen. Dwight Eisenhower to postpone operations by one day. The Ogie had received the “Post Mike One” order early in the morning of June 4 while they were preparing to get underway. The ships of Force U bound for Utah Beach had already been at sea and had to return to port.
“Guess the general’s a gambler.” Jack grinned.
“An astute one though. Think about it. We’ve got a narrow window from June 5 to June 7 with the right moon and tide. It won’t happen again until the nineteenth.”
“Yep. We can’t lock up these men on their ships for another two weeks.”
A cool force 5 wind blew from the northwest, visibility was good at five thousand yards, and the seas were moderate. Not great conditions, but better than the day before. “Who knows? Maybe the weather will fool the Germans into thinking we’re not fixing to pay them a visit.”
Jack chuckled. “That’d be nice.”
“No sign of the Luftwaffe. That’s good.”
“Our flyboys won’t let them near.” Jack squinted at the gray sky.
“We’ll have to keep an eye out, but the minefield should keep the U-boats away, and the full moon and good visibility should keep the E-boats away.”
“Hope you’re right. I want some shut-eye before tomorrow’s festivities.”
“Me too.” But Wyatt doubted he’d sleep in the four-hour block until he’d report to his station.
The sense of history felt both uplifting and ponderous. Wyatt would have to make decisions in the coming days that could mean life or death for sailors and soldiers and civilians.
He squeezed his eyes shut. Lord, help me make the right decisions. Live or die, I want to do my best.
“Tomorrow,” Jack repeated, his eyes narrowed but swimming with emotion.
Wyatt swallowed hard. Jack had been his best friend for over two years now. They’d been through battles before, but none like this.
More than the fates of nations would be decided tomorrow. The fates of over a hundred and fifty thousand soldiers and almost two hundred thousand sailors hung in the balance.
The fate of the Paxton family would also be decided as the three brothers converged on the same shore from the sea, the air, and the land.
A solid sense of pride and rightness and peace filled his chest. Adler and Clay would do their best tomorrow, he knew it. And if the Paxton boys could help bring peace to the world, perhaps they could bring peace to their family as well.
Wyatt had done right by his brothers. He’d written the letters and check, all to go out when the mail was released. He’d forgiven himself for the delay—he’d meant well. Besides, Mama had surely told his brothers how sorry he was. At least they’d know that much.
More importantly, he was right with God.
If only he was sure about Dorothy’s peace of mind.
Jack clapped Wyatt on the back, his lips in a hard line, his cheeks redder than usual, even in the wind.
It wasn’t often that Jack had no words, and Wyatt’s throat thickened. Tomorrow they’d have no time to chat, but they’d be on the intercom constantly—Wyatt up in the gun director, Jack down in the Combat Information Center, gathering data from radio, radar, and sonar. Once again, they’d work as a team. Wyatt cleared his throat. “I’m glad we’re in this together.”
“Me too, buddy.” One more clap, and Jack strode down the deck.
Wyatt wasn’t ready to go to the cabin. He leaned forward, holding the lifeline. The sharp bow split the water, half streaming to starboard, half to port, foaming froth at the divide.
He didn’t envy General Eisenhower his decision to proceed. On one side, he could be launching the Allies on the final path to victory and peace, liberating Europe from Nazi tyranny. On the other side, the Germans could toss the invaders back into the sea. What then? How long would it take to set up another invasion? At least a year. Morale in Britain and America would plummet, affecting support for the war effort.
Tomorrow would be the frothing divide that would determine the fate of the world.
Tomorrow they had to succeed.
Southwick House
Tuesday, June 6, 1944
In the predawn darkness, Southwick House gleamed with lights that reminded Dorothy of balls and dinner parties. But today there would be no dancing or repartee, only determined, rushed, sober focus on a military operation occurring over a hundred miles away.
She walked down the hallway toward the staircase.
By now, the invasion forces would be assembled off the Norman shore, debarking into landing craft and preparing for the naval bombardment. So many lives at stake, but the only face in her mind was that of a tall Texan with a slow, sweet smile.
An urge to pray for Wyatt tickled inside, but she brushed it aside. Best not to turn the Lord’s eye to someone she loved, someone else for him to smite.
Dorothy turned up the staircase, but footsteps approached from behind and a man touched her elbow.
“Second Officer Fairfax?” It was Lawrence.
“Yes, sir?” She turned to him with hooded eyes. Lately she didn’t have to playact at being detached and uninterested, given her commanding officer’s censure and Dorothy’s general annoyance at the man. Early morning fatigue only heightened the effect.
“Might I have a word?” His hazel eyes held earnestness unusual for him.
“Today? D-day? We have duties.”
“We’re early, and I won’t take but a moment. Please, Dorothy.” His voice fell low and soft as the carpet underfoot.
She sighed and glanced around for any sign of a certain first officer. “Only a moment.”
“Very good.” He led her to a quiet alcove under the stairs. “I owe you an apology for how I behaved at your home.”
“This isn’t the time for a personal conversation.” Men and women bustled around, intent on the invasion. Besides, she didn’t want to hear yet another apology.
“I can’t concentrate on my duties with this on my chest.” He pressed his hand over the lapel of his tailored jacket. “I behaved abominably.”
Which offense was he referring to? She arched one eyebrow to tell him to get on with it.
He pulled in a long breath, his forehead creased. “In my eagerness to see you as a modern woman, I forgot a crucial fact—you are a lady. And I failed to act like a gentleman.”
True. “Thank you for the apology.”
“I don’t have the right to ask, but would you consider giving me another chance, after all this is over, of course.”
Dorothy glimpsed blonde hair across the hall, but it was one of the ratings, not Bliss-Baldwin. The word no clamored for air. He’d caused nothing but chaos in her life.
“Please, Dorothy.” He wrapped gentle fingers around her forearm. “I—I can’t get you out of my thoughts. You’re not like any woman I’ve ever known, and I won’t rest until I have another chance with you. Please.”
She met his gaze, and something new in his expression struck her. What was it? More than his usual apologetic look, verging on pleading.
Then she knew. The power had shifted from him to her, and she couldn’t breathe.
The dreams of a decade swirled together—a lifetime with this cultured man, a lifetime of privilege for both her and Papa. But only if she acted quickly. As soon as the scandal of bankruptcy broke, her chance would evaporate.
Perhaps with an exciting husband, she’d never be tempted to stray as Mum had. She’d never have genuine love, but she’d never expected it. Until Wyatt shattered her expectations.
A rush of pain, and she slammed her eyes shut.
“Please, Dorothy.” Lawrence’s refined voice offered the comfortable life Mum’s betrayal had stolen from her. “I promise I’ll behave. I promise to be a gentleman.”
This time he said it without the roguish tone. This time he said it with sincerity.
“I don’t deserve a second chance,” he said, “but will you please think about it?”
With a sigh, she opened her eyes. “I’ll think about it.”
“Thank you. Now I can concentrate on my duties like a proper officer.”
“Then my duty is complete.” She hadn’t meant to sound droll, but she had.
He chuckled. “A jolly good Wren you are. Righto.” He strode away.
Dorothy climbed the stairs, her feet heavy. If only she’d never met Wyatt. Then she wouldn’t know about her mother and she wouldn’t know what it felt like to be loved for who she was. Then she’d be satisfied with Lawrence, overjoyed even.
Why did the man who’d been her paragon of manhood now feel like a consolation prize?
She stepped into the office, and Muriel hauled her into the corner, Gwen on her heels. “What are—?”
“We saw you downstairs.” Gwen stood close, eyes lit up. “What happened?”
Dorothy glanced over Gwen’s shoulder but didn’t spy the battleship. “He wants me to give him another chance.”
Muriel let out a quiet squeal, then laughed. “Why do you sound like you’re at a funeral? This is what you’ve always wanted.”
“This time it’ll happen,” Gwen said. “I don’t know what you did, but he’s frightfully desperate.”
Muriel squeezed her arm. “He’s been asking about you all week.”
“What did you tell him?”
“Nothing.” Gwen wrinkled her nose at Dorothy. “Because you told us nothing.”
“But you’ll find the path clear.” Muriel raised a smug smile.
“Clear? What do you mean?”
“We snitched on Old Bliss to Commander Pringle. She has no right to treat her girls like this. If she tries to transfer you away, she’ll be in big trouble.”
Dorothy’s chest collapsed. “You’re the ones? Why did you do that? She thinks I’m the one who talked to Pringle.”
“Oh dear.” Gwen’s mouth puckered up.
Muriel shrugged one shoulder. “It doesn’t matter. She can’t do anything to you.”
She already had. Dorothy hadn’t turned in the transfer request, and Bliss had indeed been making her life miserable. “Just watch.”
39
USS Oglesby, Omaha Beach, Normandy
Tuesday, June 6, 1944
Surreal was the only word to describe it. Eyes pressed to the slewing sight of the gun director, Wyatt observed Omaha Beach only three thousand yards away to his left.
Morning twilight illuminated the landscape. A flat beach about three hundred yards deep led to the seawall with a road right behind it, then grassy flatlands for another hundred yards, then bluffs rising one hundred fifty feet above sea level.
At the right edge of Dog Green Beach, an indentation marked the D-1 draw, the exit leading to the village of Vierville-sur-Mer, its church spire pointing above the bluffs. Sweeping left, villas dotted the flatland behind the seawall. Although muted by the low light, Wyatt knew which one was Dorothy’s.
He huffed out a breath and pushed away from the slewing sight. Faint flashes rose inland due to the aerial bombardment. US B-24 Liberators were supposed to bomb the beach defenses, but they were too far inland. That might keep German reinforcements away from the beach, but it wouldn’t help the soldiers speeding to shore.
That left the bombardment to the Navy, and they’d only have forty minutes.
Wyatt glanced at his watch—0545. Bombardment was to start at 0550, sunrise was at 0558, and the first landings were scheduled at 0630.
He checked his headphones and the big steel helmet that fit over them. Nothing to do but wait.
So far the invasion fleet hadn’t been detected, even in the rising light. The Channel crossing hadn’t been disrupted by attack from air, sea, or under the sea. A miracle.
The Oglesby drifted at five knots on a westerly course to compensate for the easterly current, her port side facing Normandy. The destroyers of DesRon 18 were divided, some flanking the east side of the boat lane and some flanking the west—including the Oglesby.
“CIC to director.” Jack’s voice came through the intercom from several decks below. “Radar fix on target tare-six-nine, grid 647916, bearing two-six-five, range three-three-five-oh.”
Desp
ite the low light, the Oglesby could shoot blind due to her fire control radar. Wyatt repeated the coordinates into the intercom. “Prepare full salvo.”
“Plot to director,” Wayne Holoch called on the intercom from down in the plotting room. “We have a solution.”
“Stand by,” Captain Adams ordered from the pilothouse right under the gun director.
At Omaha, two battleships, four light cruisers, and eleven destroyers stood ready—eight destroyers from DesRon 18 and three British destroyers. Similar forces stood off Utah to the west and at Gold, Juno, and Sword Beaches to the east.
In the end, all the planning came down to individuals doing their jobs. Wyatt’s was to neutralize three gun batteries near the Vierville draw in the initial bombardment. When the first landing craft touched shore, the Ogie would shift to known strongpoints farther inland. From then on, they’d fire on targets called in by their Shore Fire Control Party or on targets of opportunity.
Little direction would come from above. They’d receive some orders from Capt. Harry Sanders, commander of Destroyer Squadron 18 aboard the USS Frankford and from Adm. John Hall of Force O aboard the USS Ancon. But they’d have no contact with headquarters at Southwick House.
Still, he liked the thought of Dorothy in the operations room at Southwick, monitoring the day’s events. His last connection with her, even if it was only an illusion.
His watch read 0550. Impatience, eagerness, and dread mixed in his belly. It was time.
“We have orders to open fire,” Captain Adams said. “Here we go, boys. Godspeed. Commence firing.”
Wyatt muttered the quickest prayer of his life. “Fire salvo, interval thirty seconds.”
Pointing to port, the Ogie’s four big guns fired as one, the concussion rattling every bone of Wyatt’s body.
A loud scream overhead—the big shells of the cruiser HMS Glasgow, aiming for the same region. Wyatt resisted the urge to duck.
For the next ten minutes, Wyatt let those salvos fly. Chances were, they’d never destroy one of the German guns in their thick reinforced concrete casemates. But at least they could drive the gun crews into their tunnels.
