The Sea Before Us

by Sarah Sundin

  Dorothy gripped her hands together and studied the map she knew so well, now with tiny ship cutouts along the shore.

  One of the Army officers read the dispatch. “Come on, Commander. We all knew Omaha would be the toughest nut to crack.”

  “That’s right.” The next officer spoke with a Texas drawl that deepened Dorothy’s ache. “The crescent shape of the beach, the guns at both draws and at Percée, the high bluffs. Give us time. You underestimate the sheer guts of the average GI.”

  “Time.” Pringle snorted. “You may not have enough of that.”

  Dorothy’s breath came fast and shallow. She probably knew Omaha Beach better than anyone in this room. She’d played in those sands, climbed those seawalls, dangled from the branches of those trees. She’d painted it, diagrammed it, charted it. She’d breathed it, dreamed it, lived it.

  She ought to be at her station. Was she saving Papa’s life only to endanger lives on that beach?

  “Here’s my reply.” Commander Pringle handed it to her.

  Dorothy blinked. She was nothing but a messenger, and she slipped away.

  First Officer Bliss-Baldwin was right when she called Dorothy arrogant. She wasn’t endangering a soul. What could she contribute today? With wireless silence, they had little contact with the ships and were only monitoring.

  It was best to be away from operations anyway, away from thoughts of Wyatt and the Oglesby, away from thoughts of that villa of stone, that house of lies.

  She marched downstairs, her eyes hot. The houses in Normandy and Edinburgh were the only places she’d felt her family was whole, where she’d felt loved.

  Lies, lies, nothing but lies.

  Dorothy delivered the dispatch to the officer in the teleprinter room, then excused herself to use the lavatory.

  Lies and more lies. Hands balled up, she made her way to the loo, half-blinded.

  That photo at Vierville, the one she’d treasured? A lie. She thought it represented her family happy and whole.

  It didn’t. She stepped into a stall, latched the door, and pressed her forehead to the door.

  That photo . . . Mum stood apart, looking away. Was she seeking her next lover? Papa embraced his sons, but not her. Never her. And fat, freckled Dolly stood alone on the seawall. Always alone. Always the daredevil, seeking attention, acceptance, love. Never finding it.

  Her eyes burned and her arms shook. Only Wyatt loved her, and she’d sacrificed his love for his own sake. She’d sacrificed her duty for her father’s sake, for the father who’d never loved her.

  But she loved him, and she’d fight for him.

  He was all she had, and she was all he had, and she wouldn’t let anyone take him away from her.

  Not even God.

  “You’d like that, Lord, wouldn’t you? You’d like to take Papa from me too. Well, I won’t have it.”

  Her jaw tightened, her fingers curled before her eyes, and she shook those fists. “I won’t let you pluck him from my hands.”

  41

  USS Oglesby, Omaha Beach

  As far as Wyatt could see, dozens of landing ships waited and dozens of landing craft darted, not approaching the shore. And the men on the beach—the few who remained alive—were pinned down, not advancing up the draw.

  Wyatt’s jaw hardened. What good would it do to protect the Oglesby if the invasion failed?

  Even if the landings went well on Utah and the British beaches, Omaha was the vital link between them, and Vierville was the key to Omaha.

  But closing the beach wasn’t part of the Neptune plan. It was risky. How could he propose the idea to Captain Adams?

  A German shell hit a landing craft, and it exploded in a ball of smoke and splinters.

  Wyatt gritted his teeth and flipped the switch on his intercom. Failure at Omaha wasn’t part of the Neptune plan either. “Director to the captain. Suggest we close the beach.”

  A pause. “How close?”

  “As close as we can without scraping bottom.”

  Another pause.

  Wyatt breathed a quick prayer. “Sir, we could spot more targets, help those men—”

  “Checking the tide table, the charts. The Oglesby draws thirteen feet of water . . .” The captain’s voice drifted off.

  Wyatt ducked inside and flipped his map over to the tide table. June 6 . . . 0830 . . . the height above the low-water mark was seventeen feet, with high tide at 1052. He flipped back to the map and read the soundings in small brown numbers, same as the captain would be doing.

  “One thousand yards,” Captain Adams said. “That’ll keep us this side of the sandbars off the draw, and we’ll have a good three fathoms beneath us. We can get even closer to the east by those fortified houses.”

  Dorothy’s house. “Suggest we start at the draw.”

  “Very well.” The captain called out a heading and speed, and the Ogie surged forward.

  Wyatt gazed hard through his slewing sight, the wind cooling his forehead under his helmet. The breeze also blew the smoke from the initial bombardment inland, clearing the view.

  “Mr. Paxton, sir,” Ralph Jacoby, the talker, said behind him. “Bow lookout reports machine gun bearing zero-three-zero at the top of the bluff.”

  Wyatt turned his sight. There it was, about a hundred yards east of the draw. “Target sighted. Machine gun bearing zero-three-zero, top of the bluff.”

  “Left fifteen degrees rudder. Prepare 40-mm automatic fire,” Captain Adams said. “Commence firing when ready.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  Jacoby passed the coordinates to the crews of the two twin-mounted Bofors heavy machine guns located behind the funnels.

  “Commence firing,” Wyatt said.

  The Bofors guns pumped out their giant bullets, 120 rounds per minute. Red tracer fire streaked toward the bluff. Bits of earth spat out below the gun, then the tracers rose, and the German machine gun spun into the air.

  “Good job, men.” Wyatt grinned. Finally doing some good.

  The destroyer zigged and zagged, avoiding other vessels, and Wyatt studied the beach. One machine gun knocked out, but how many remained?

  “Captain to director. Bearing three-three-five. See those tanks on the road behind the seawall? They’re firing into the bluff.”

  Sure enough, three tanks had made it across the beach and through the seawall, and they sat on the road aimed west toward the draw. All were firing at a spot on the bluff about fifty feet up—a concealed gun position? “Captain, we can hit it.”

  “Walk it down.”

  “Aye aye, sir.” He’d aim high to avoid hitting GIs, then walk the fire down to the target. After the trainer and pointer finished their work, Wyatt ordered a single salvo from the 5-inch guns.

  The boom resounded through the Ogie, and chunks of earth fell from the bluff, about ten yards above the tank fire. Wyatt called out the adjustment and ordered another salvo.

  The guns inched down and shot another group of four shells. Right on target.

  The three tanks rolled forward, then one fired a single shot at a new spot on the bluff.

  “Would you look at that?” Paul Tucker said.

  Wyatt’s mouth drifted open. “They’re giving us directions.”

  Another two salvos, and the tanks advanced again, then fired at a new spot.

  “Well, I’ll be.” A slow smile rose. They might not have contact with their SFCP, but they were still communicating.

  Once more, the Ogie talked back. Once more, the tanks advanced. This time they rolled up to three other tanks at the roadblock at the draw. The hatch of the last tank opened, and a tanker rose from inside and waved to seaward.

  Wyatt gaped, then remembered his manners and waved back. He popped inside and stared at his men. “I think that was a thank-you.”

  Tucker’s thin face broke into a wide grin. “I think you’re right, sir.”

  Captain Adams ordered an easterly heading. “DesRon 18 ordered us to join the Carmick between D-1 and D-3. Troops o
bserved climbing the bluff.”

  Part of Wyatt wanted to stay at the D-1 draw. They’d done some good in the last half hour. But still no troops were advancing. The roadblocks, strongpoints, and big batteries would take time to crack. The 14-inch shells of the battleship USS Texas howled overhead to the draw, much better suited to doing that cracking than the Ogie’s shells.

  And the fellows on the ground were trying to make an end run, American improvisation and ingenuity at its best. If they could get enough men up those bluffs, they could take Vierville from behind.

  Wyatt studied his map, looking for the route the soldiers might take.

  His heart fell. Right near Dorothy’s house.

  He could still see her the day they’d met at Norfolk House, how she’d cupped her hand over the photograph on the table, her forehead furrowed at the mention of target selection.

  She’d lost so much. How could he steal away one of her few happy memories? He aimed his slewing sight down the line of stone houses. Lord, anything but that.

  Southwick House

  Dorothy’s fingernails dug into the palms of her shaking hands. “You can’t take Papa from me.”

  She was sick and tired of God laying his hands on her and those she loved. Wyatt talked about being safe in God’s hands, but that was a lie.

  In her mind she could see the stained glass window she used to love, long since removed to hide it from German bombs. Jesus the Good Shepherd, cradling a lamb with a serene smile.

  “A lie . . .” But her words fizzled, her mind muddled.

  What was that verse . . . ? “I give unto them eternal life; and they shall never perish, neither shall any man pluck them out of my hand.”

  With her forehead against the lavatory stall door, she uncurled stiff fingers. White indentations from her fingernails filled in, and truth flooded her.

  Her hands were empty. She’d told God he couldn’t pluck Papa from her hands, but Papa wasn’t in her hands. He never had been.

  Her knees wobbled. “No man is able to pluck them out of my Father’s hand.”

  Not even you, Dorothy.

  She gasped and braced herself against the door. She had everything backward. Papa’s life wasn’t in her hands, but she acted as if it were, as if his life depended on her. She had no control over his life or her own, just as she’d had no control over Mum’s or Art’s or Gil’s.

  Nor was she meant to.

  Papa was in the Lord’s hands. Whether he lived or died was up to the Lord, not Dorothy.

  “But . . . but you failed me.” Her voice cracked, and so did her reasoning.

  She sounded like a child whining because she didn’t get her way. In her childish faith she had loved God only when her life was happy.

  Wyatt’s faith wasn’t like that. He trusted God, not because his life was happy, but because the Lord comforted him and strengthened him through the unhappiness.

  Her throat thickened. “Oh, Lord, I want that kind of faith. I want to lean on you instead of away from you.”

  She’d had such a stirring lately, so many reminders of God’s love.

  The Good Shepherd cradled her close to his heart—not to protect her earthly life but her eternal life. He wanted to hold her because he loved her and liked her, just as he’d created her.

  Her hands splayed before her, blurred in her sight. Hadn’t she urged prodigal Wyatt to return to his family empty-handed?

  “Oh, Lord, I’m a prodigal too.” And she ran home to him as she was—empty-handed, overly talkative, impulsive, freckled, and so very lonely and unloved.

  No, not unloved. God loved her. No matter what happened in this world. No matter what she lost, God loved her.

  The lavatory door opened, and Dorothy clapped her hands over her mouth.

  “Frightfully busy today,” a Wren said. “I need a rest.”

  “Our Tommies won’t have a rest today,” a second woman said in a snippy voice.

  Dorothy sat and waited until they left. It was D-day. Men were fighting and dying, and she was crying in the loo.

  She ought to be doing her duty.

  But Papa . . .

  With her fingers flat over her mouth, she shut her eyes.

  Could she give up the illusion of control? Could she trust the Lord with her father’s life? Could she continue to trust him even if Papa died?

  “He’s in your hands, not mine,” she whispered.

  She pushed herself out of the stall, glimpsed her wet and reddened face in the mirror, and washed up, removing the last traces of face powder.

  A few steadying breaths, and she headed upstairs to the operations room, where First Officer Bliss-Baldwin discussed a report with a Wren rating.

  Dorothy stood at attention before her. “May I have a word in private, ma’am?”

  Her commanding officer’s eyes widened, at Dorothy’s appearance, no doubt. “Very good.”

  Blissy led Dorothy into the adjoining sitting room. “Yes?”

  Dorothy clutched the hem of her jacket, then released it. “Ma’am, I officially request a transfer. I’ll turn in the paperwork this evening after my watch, only please let me serve in operations.”

  “You—you changed your mind?” The look in her eyes—shock, confusion, pleasure?

  “Yes, ma’am.” Dorothy shifted her gaze to the woman’s forehead. “I’m needed in the operations room more than I’m needed at home.”

  “But your father . . . ?”

  Dorothy pulled in a shaky breath. “I’ll trust him in the Lord’s hands. I can’t think of my personal needs right now, only the needs of my country, of the Allies.”

  “Very—very good. Relieve Third Officer Hamilton straightaway.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.” Dorothy marched away.

  How could her heart feel so heavy and so light at the same time?

  42

  USS Oglesby, Omaha Beach

  Movement caught Wyatt’s eye, glimpses of khaki, disturbances in the brush, and he traced the GIs’ narrow, winding path up the bluff behind Dog White Beach.

  Now to help them.

  A furrow raced through the brush close to the soldiers. Wyatt followed it back to the face of the bluff. Where were the Germans hiding?

  There it was. A patch of concrete gray—small but unmistakable. Wyatt called out the coordinates, and the Ogie lobbed 5-inch and 40-mm fire into the position. Trees and bushes exploded, stripping the cover from two machine-gun batteries.

  Five more minutes of fire rattled the destroyer. Then the battery on the left blew up from the inside—one of the shells must have found the gun slit.

  “Good shooting, men.” Wyatt gave them a thumbs-up. The battery on the right was neutralized—even if the gun was undamaged, the soldiers inside would be too rattled to man it for a while.

  “Captain to director. Troops pinned down behind a house, bearing oh-seven-five, shooting at the next house down. Let’s take it out.”

  Please don’t let it be. Wyatt’s stomach sank. It was.

  He had to demolish Dorothy’s house, two stories of charming stone with white shutters.

  His tongue dried out, but he moistened it and called out the coordinates. In this crazy, upside-down world he had to destroy to protect.

  A dozen GIs crouched behind the house next door, aiming rifle fire at Dorothy’s house, which stood between them and the path up the cliff. The French Resistance had reported that the Germans had evacuated the civilians in the remaining beachfront villas in order to fortify the buildings. There would be no innocent victims. Only the cherished memories of the woman he loved.

  Lord, forgive me. “Commence firing.”

  Shells dug into the house, and chunks of stone flew away. Wyatt wanted to close his eyes, but he had to spot the gunfire.

  His dilemma was no worse than for the crews of the two French cruisers at the far eastern edge of Omaha, firing on their own homeland, their own countrymen.

  The roof of the house collapsed, but Wyatt didn’t cringe. He was through be
ating himself up for decisions he made in good faith. When he decided to help Dorothy with the investigation, he’d made the best decision he could. The fact that the investigation revealed her mother’s betrayal wasn’t Wyatt’s fault.

  The destroyer weaved around to throw off German fire, the mechanical computer adjusting for changes in speed and direction.

  Shells zinged through the air, leaving concussive paths in the sand and brush and reducing the French villa to rubble.

  Wyatt’s breath leached out, and he shook his head. But he’d make the same decision again. “Cease firing. Look for other targets.”

  He scoured the bluffs for signs of enemy activity and found none. The GIs continued their trek up the bluff.

  The Oglesby zigzagged east about nine hundred yards offshore. The rising tide brought them closer to their targets with each minute. Up and down Omaha Beach, nine US destroyers had closed the beach, all providing close fire support. Captain Sanders’s command ship, the Frankford, had joined the rest of his destroyers, while the British destroyers had departed for the screening area out to sea. They carried about half the ammunition of the American ships and didn’t have advanced fire control systems.

  “Captain to director,” Captain Adams said. “Troops still pinned down behind that house.”

  Wyatt swung his slewing sight around. The house was a pile of smoking rubble. So why were the troops pinned down? Where were the Germans?

  His shoulders tensed. Had he destroyed Dorothy’s house for nothing?

  Southwick House

  “Thank goodness you’re back.” Gwen thrust the clipboard into Dorothy’s hands. “Utah Beach keeps me busy enough.”

  “What’s the situation on Omaha?” She flipped through the papers on her clipboard.

  Gwen tucked a loose tendril into place. “We haven’t received many reports, and those we have received aren’t encouraging. Losses are horrific, and we haven’t taken the draws.”

  “Oh dear.” It was 0930, and the troops were meant to be well on their way inland.

  Gwen looked over Dorothy’s shoulder and pointed at a spot on the map. “Small groups of soldiers have reached the top of the bluff here between St. Laurent and Colleville and here between Vierville and Les Moulins.” Right behind Dorothy’s holiday home.