Anchor in the Storm

by Sarah Sundin

  Her stomach squirmed. She’d have to keep a low profile for a while to undo today’s damage.

  Saturday, January 24, 1942

  Lillian played Chopin’s “Mazurka” on Opal Harrison’s piano. The tension of the week pulsed into the piano keys—the worry over her job and the dread of the coming evening.

  The Ettinger was in port. Jim and Arch would want to go out. If only Lillian had something else to do, but she didn’t have any other friends in town. Arch hadn’t flirted with her since Christmas, but she couldn’t take any chances. She couldn’t let herself become incapacitated again, weak again, hurt again.

  “Softer, Lillian. Softer.” Mrs. Harrison leaned back in her wing chair, her eyes shut and her gnarled hands in her lap. “It takes more strength to play softly than loudly, more control.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” She finished the piece.

  Mrs. Harrison picked up her eyeglasses from the end table. “You’re a fine technical player. Out of practice, of course, but you have good technique and know your scales. A bit zealous in the allegro sections and impulsive in the adagios.”

  The same traits that had gotten her in trouble as a girl still plagued her piano playing, even though she tempered them in real life.

  Mrs. Harrison put on her glasses. “Yes, a fine technical player.”

  Lillian sighed. She’d heard it since childhood. “But no heart.”

  “Oh? Why do you say that?”

  “My playing is cold, no heart. I know.” She ran her finger over the smooth keys.

  “Mm.” Mrs. Harrison sipped her tea. “Why do you play?”

  Lillian traced the black keys in their patterns of twos and threes. “After my accident, I couldn’t run or climb. But I couldn’t sit still and play tea party with my twin sister. My mother understood, so she started me on the piano. At least my hands could be active.”

  “I have just the piece for you.” She eased out of the chair and opened a cabinet.

  “Nice and hard, I hope. I love a challenge.”

  “Oh yes, it’ll be a challenge.” She set the music in front of Lillian—“To a Wild Rose.”

  So much white. She liked her music as black as she liked her coffee, with lots of notes and complications. “I could play this without thinking.”

  “Ah yes. You can play it without thinking.” Mrs. Harrison tapped her chest. “But you can’t play it without feeling. You need to open your heart.”

  “My . . . heart?” Why not ask her to dance the rumba? “I can’t.”

  Mrs. Harrison shuffled back to her chair. “I think you can.”

  Lillian’s head wagged back and forth. Her heart was as ugly as her stump, and both needed to be concealed.

  “Oh, sweet girl. You may be able to hide your feelings from people, but you can never hide them from the Lord.”

  Lillian spun to the older woman. She kept a polite distance from God. If she opened up to him, he’d see just how cold her heart was.

  But didn’t he know that already?

  Her fingers gripped her necklace, and her mind flicked to the Bible verse Dad had tucked in the jewelry box, Hebrews 6:18–19: “We might have a strong consolation, who have fled for refuge to lay hold upon the hope set before us: Which hope we have as an anchor of the soul, both sure and stedfast.”

  Lillian stared at the music that required so much of her.

  Consolation. Refuge. Hope. God promised those things if she held on to him.

  Could she pay the price?

  9

  Off Cape Cod, Massachusetts

  Monday, January 26, 1942

  Arch laid his mackinaw on his bunk. How many men survived a sinking only to freeze to death in their underwear in the lifeboat? Not Arch. He slept fully clothed with his outerwear in reach.

  Seated at their desk, Jim picked up an envelope, sniffed it, and grinned. “Still haven’t opened it, eh? It’s perfumed. From Miss Elizabeth Chamberlain.”

  Arch groaned. “Bitsy. My high school sweetheart who dumped me when I chose the Navy over the glittering life. That isn’t love.”

  Jim held the envelope over his mouth and batted his eyelashes like a girl. “I’ve changed my tune, Archie-poo.”

  Best to ignore that nickname lest it take hold. Arch loosened his belt for his nap during the forenoon watch. “Yes, she changed her tune. Dating an officer is patriotic now. But if this war ever ends, she’ll sweet-talk me into resigning my commission and joining Vandenberg Insurance.”

  “Maybe she sees your worth now and regrets her actions.”

  Arch plopped onto the lower bunk. “You have a woman who loves you for who you are, for richer or poorer, right?”

  “Yes.” Jim tapped the envelope on the desk.

  “I want the same. What’s wrong with that?”

  “Nothing, but why not give Bitsy another chance? It’s been a few years. We’ve all changed. Come on, read it.” Jim flashed another grin and flung the envelope to Arch.

  He let it fall to the deck. “You just want Bitsy to distract me from Lillian.”

  The laugh lines disappeared from Jim’s smile. “I thought you’d given up.”

  “I promised to back off, and I have.”

  “But you haven’t given up.” Jim went to the sink and squeezed toothpaste onto his toothbrush.

  Arch chose his words with care. “I’m getting to know her as a friend and letting her get to know me.”

  Jim grunted and stuck his toothbrush in his mouth. The most easygoing and congenial man in the world until it came to his little sister.

  “Jim.”

  His friend faced him, scrubbing at his teeth.

  Arch rested his elbows on his knees. “You said men reject her because of her leg.”

  He nodded.

  “She probably wants someone to love her in spite of her leg, don’t you think?”

  Jim nodded but turned back to the sink.

  “Maybe she dreams someone could love her because of her leg, love her because adversity has made her stronger.”

  Jim’s gaze snapped back to him, his eyes wide.

  Arch’s jaw edged forward. “Please don’t rule out the possibility that I could do so.”

  He choked, spat toothpaste into the sink, and swiped a washcloth over his mouth. “I didn’t mean you weren’t capable—”

  “It’s all right. You love your sister and want what’s best for her.”

  One corner of Jim’s mouth flicked up. “You know, she doesn’t like you.”

  Arch stuffed his shod feet under the sheets and burrowed in. “See? You have nothing to worry about. Except the toothpaste on your chin.”

  Jim inspected his face in the mirror. “Makes me look distinguished.”

  With the air cleared, a warm breakfast in his stomach, and his survival gear in reach, perhaps he could sleep for once.

  General quarters clanged on the alarm.

  Arch bolted to sitting, his feet tangled in the blankets, his heart thudding so hard it hurt.

  “GQ again?” Jim groaned and pulled on his mackinaw. “Three times yesterday and twice last night.”

  “Wonder what it is this time.” Despite his effort to keep his voice light, it came out thin and strained. He grabbed his mackinaw and punched his arms through the sleeves.

  Jim squinted at the overhead as if it held the answers. “Sound contact with a pocket of cold air? Sub sighting by a beachcomber with bad eyesight and an overactive imagination?”

  Arch fastened his life vest. He tried to laugh but couldn’t. Most of the emergencies had been nothing, but twice they’d raced out to sunken merchant ships. Too late. Always too late. The U-boat gone, half the men dead, the other half soaked in oil and shivering in lifeboats.

  The men dashed out of their cabin and through the wardroom. Thirteen ships had been sunk off the Eastern Seaboard in the past two weeks, over five hundred merchant marines and passengers had died, and the US Navy hadn’t inflicted any damage in return. No convoys had been instituted. No blackouts ordered. Air
cover was weak. And the few warships available performed fruitless patrols like the Ettinger’s.

  Arch climbed to the main deck and freedom. As a strong swimmer, he stood a better chance of survival topside.

  He and Jim joined the flow of sailors to battle stations. Maybe Arch’s bad nerves made him overly sensitive, but the men didn’t look well—some looked jittery, some looked exhausted, some looked terrified.

  Arch found Lt. John Odom on the quarterdeck. “What’s the word?”

  “SSS from a British merchant ship, the Traveller, at 0842.”

  Sub sighted on the surface. Most of the British merchant ships were armed, but few had sunk U-boats. “What’s her position?”

  “Hundred miles southeast of us.”

  Arch winced. Even at flank speed, the Ettinger wouldn’t reach the coordinates for three hours. “Another rescue mission.”

  “We hope.” With a grim set of his jaw, Odom went to the starboard whaleboat.

  Arch’s left eyelid twitched. They’d be at general quarters for three hours en route, plus several hours at the site of the attack. Such a long time at heightened alert frayed the men’s nerves.

  Soon the Ettinger stood at Condition One, ready for battle, surging through the rough gray seas, a thin white wake angling from her bow. Arch scanned the horizon with the binoculars and wandered among his men, encouraging them and keeping them alert.

  The sun rose but yielded no warmth. They headed south, not southeast, and after two hours, the course shifted east in a zigzag pattern and the ship slowed to two-thirds speed to allow sonar readings.

  Buckner wanted to nail the head of a U-boat over his mantel, and Arch didn’t blame him. If the U-boat had headed out to sea as would be prudent, the Ettinger wouldn’t catch her. But if she were bold, if she sought prey exiting New York Harbor, she might cross the destroyer’s path, a path strewn with depth charges.

  A mess attendant handed Arch a cup of coffee. Arch thanked him, downed the brew in one swig, and handed back the cup. He needed to stay alert, but the coffee intensified the twitching. Arch pressed a gloved finger to the muscle in his eyelid until it stopped its mad jitterbug.

  Take it away, Lord. Help me do my job. If only Arch had more faith, he wouldn’t be like this.

  The sailors around him kept up the watch, indulging only in short conversations. But Hobie McLachlan, a lanky dark-haired seaman with a history of disciplinary infractions, leaned against the aft superstructure, his arms crossed and his head slumped forward.

  “McLachlan.” Arch tapped him on the arm with the back of his hand.

  His eyes opened, glassy and unfocused. “Wha . . . ?”

  Arch frowned. Most men caught dozing startled and blurted out apologies. “McLachlan, we’re at general quarters.”

  He kneaded his face with his hand. “Gen’rul. Should be adm’ral quarters. We’re in the Navy.”

  If Arch didn’t know the ship was dry, as were all ships in the US Navy, he’d think the man was drunk. Besides, he couldn’t smell anything on his breath. He put steel in his voice. “McLachlan, pull yourself together.”

  His wide mouth twisted into a smile, and he raised a sloppy salute. “Seaman McLachlan ’porting for duty, sir.”

  The man wasn’t fit for duty. Arch rubbed his hand over his mouth. What was he going to do with him? Sick bay? Confine him to quarters?

  “All right, boys. This is it.” Buckner’s voice.

  Arch spun around.

  The captain charged down the deck in his cold-weather gear. “You, keep a look out. You, snap to it. We’re going to get this German kraut-boat, be the first American ship to do so. You, get to work.”

  Oh no. McLachlan.

  Captain Buckner’s gaze fell on Arch, then shifted to McLachlan and hardened. “You—leaning on the job? We’re at general quarters.”

  “Yes, sir.” McLachlan pushed off from the superstructure and wobbled.

  “What’s wrong with you? Are you drunk?” Buckner leaned forward and sniffed the man’s breath.

  Arch stood straighter. “Sir, I was about to send him to sick bay.”

  “Nothin’ wrong with me. Just resting. General quarters is bad for the nerves.”

  In the old days, that would have earned a flogging. Or worse.

  Buckner’s gaze was sharper than a cat o’ nine tails. “Resting? By all means. Don’t let me stand in your way.” He directed his lethal stare around the deck. “Anyone else want to rest your poor little nerves?”

  “No, sir!” The cry rose in unison from a dozen stunned faces.

  Buckner returned his ire to McLachlan. “This is war. Think of your brothers battling the Japanese on Bataan. They don’t get any rest. They live at general quarters. They’d kill for a few days’ liberty in Boston, you lazy—” He shook his head. “No, that word’s too good for you. You’re confined to quarters. After we secure from general quarters, report to the Captain’s Mast for your discipline.”

  “Aye aye, sir.” Another sloppy salute, and McLachlan ambled away.

  Arch made a face. McLachlan would get his rest after all.

  “And you, Mr. Vandenberg.”

  “Yes, sir?” His breath froze in the iciness of that glare.

  “Make these men buck up.” The CO charged down the deck. “Snap to it, boys. Don’t let that U-boat get away.”

  Arch’s posture collapsed. How could he make his men buck up when he couldn’t buck up himself?

  Six hours later, the Ettinger was secured and McLachlan had been sentenced to five days in solitary confinement. Arch trudged down to the tragic emptiness of sick bay. When they’d reached the Traveller’s coordinates, they’d found wreckage and bodies. Not one survivor.

  Nor any sign of the U-boat.

  In the passageway, Arch pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes. This would be hard on the men. It was hard on him. All those bodies.

  He flung down his hands, removed his cover, and marched into the pharmacist’s mate’s office.

  Parnell Lloyd stood. “Good afternoon, sir.”

  “Good afternoon, Doc.” Arch shut the door. “Do you have a moment? I have a question.”

  “Of course, sir. Please have a seat.” Doc motioned to a chair and sat at his small steel desk covered with medical texts. Above his desk hung four sketches signed by Parnell Lloyd, mimicking the works of Rembrandt, Monet, Van Gogh, and Picasso.

  Everyone on board knew Doc had joined the Navy to see the world, but he’d discovered a love of medicine and now hoped to put his dexterity to use as a surgeon.

  Arch sat. “I’m concerned about my men.”

  “In what way?” Doc picked up a clipboard and a pen.

  “They’re anxious, shaky, on edge.” He used his cover to shield the shakiness in his own hands.

  “Shell shock, they called it in the Great War. Now we call it combat fatigue, combat neurosis.” His brown eyes shone with concern.

  “How does one treat it?”

  Doc ran his hand through his light brown hair. “They don’t really know. Sedatives work to some extent, but I only have a small stock on board for emergencies, if a sailor gets hysterical or dangerous.”

  Arch licked his lips. “So what can we do for them?”

  Doc barked out a laugh. “You want to know the treatment of choice? The men are surveyed—kicked out of the Navy. Can you imagine the disgrace in a time of war? The men know what awaits them, so they don’t ask for help. Don’t want to be labelled as cowards or malingerers.”

  “I—I don’t blame them.” The exact reason Arch wouldn’t seek help again. Besides, all Dr. Blake had done was give him those pills. “You said sedatives work to some extent. How would they affect the men?”

  Doc set down his clipboard and opened a textbook labelled Pharmacology. “They’re quite interesting medications, the barbiturates.”

  Why did he sense a lecture on the horizon? He offered a smile. “In layman’s terms, please.”

  “Oh, of course.” The textbook closed. “
In layman’s terms, the men would act drunk.”

  “Drunk.” Like McLachlan.

  “Yes, sleepy, relaxed, uninhibited, unsteady.”

  “One of my men acted like that this morning. Captain Buckner and I smelled his breath. I smelled nothing but bacon and eggs.”

  “But I haven’t dispensed a single tablet.” Doc’s gaze skittered around the office. “Come to think of it, I’ve seen other men acting groggy. I thought they were tired. No one’s sleeping well, including me. Do you think . . .”

  “I don’t know what to think.”

  Doc stood and rubbed his chin. “I want to help the men. I want their anxiety relieved so they can do their jobs and stay in the Navy. It isn’t right to put men in combat then punish them for their humanity. It isn’t right.”

  “I agree.”

  Doc’s eyes brimmed with emotion. “I’m glad you think that way. The captain doesn’t.”

  Arch stood and snugged his cover back on his head. “I’ll let you know if I see anything else.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Arch headed toward his cabin for his long-delayed nap. Had McLachlan taken a sedative? If so, where had it come from? From a Navy physician? What about the other groggy men Doc had noticed? Were they simply exhausted, or had they taken something?

  If only Arch could find out the truth, but the enlisted men wouldn’t open up to an officer for fear of disciplinary action.

  A sailor burst through the door to the main deck, his hand wrapped in a rag.

  “Palonsky,” Arch said. “What happened?”

  He squinted at his hand. “You know, sir, I felt bad for Doc, not having anyone to fix up today. Being a man of compassion, I decided to remedy that. Sliced open my thumb securing the whaleboat.”

  “How thoughtful of you.”

  “Yeah?” His wide-set eyes glittered. “’Cause you said that, I’m going to be extra thoughtful and ask Doc to name all the bones in my hand. He’ll like that, don’t you think, sir?”

  Arch lifted a wry smile. “As a man of compassion, you’re sure to use that information to cheer the men in a comedy routine.”