Through Waters Deep

by Sarah Sundin

  The Avery brothers murmured their agreement in unison. In late May, a U-boat had sunk the freighter in the South Atlantic, although she flew under the neutral American flag and was unarmed, as were all American merchant ships. The crew had survived, but only after spending two weeks in lifeboats.

  A light breeze cooled Jim’s face. “The Nazis won’t provoke us—not when they’re fighting on two fronts now.”

  “True,” Dan said. Germany had shocked the world the previous week by invading the Soviet Union, turning on their former ally. “Hitler may have spread himself too thin.”

  “Not at sea.” Durant crossed his arms, the report from Reinhardt fluttering in his hand. “The war with Russia is a land battle. The U-boats are free to roam. England might not have to worry about invasion for a while, but she can still be starved of food and supplies. The sea’s her lifeline. Her strength—and her great weakness.”

  Dan wrapped his hand around the railing. “It’s hard for Brittania to rule the waves when U-boats lurk underneath.”

  “Say . . .” Durant glanced at his watch and then at the halyard lines stretching to the yardarm at the top of the mast. “I thought Mr. Shapiro was going to drill his flag crew at 1100 hours. Mr. Avery, please remind him.”

  “Aye aye, sir.” Back to messenger boy.

  “I’ll go with you.” Dan clapped the captain on the back. “Don’t forget about our dinner plans, Cal. I’m looking forward to it.”

  “Me too. See you at 1800.”

  Jim led the way up to the signal deck, on the roof of the pilothouse and at the base of the gun director. He gave Dan a teasing look over his shoulder. “Calling the captain by his first name, eh?”

  “We go a long way back.”

  “You’re only four years older than I am.”

  “That’s a long way back.” Dan’s eyes glowed with the pride of accomplishment. He’d already made a name for himself with the brass.

  Up on the signal deck, Lt. Maurice Shapiro chatted with two sailors. “Hey, Mr. Avery!”

  “Hi, Mr. Shapiro.” Normally they called each other Mo and Jim, but not with Dan right behind him. Jim introduced his brother to the communications officer.

  “I assume the captain sent you. We’re ten minutes late with our drill.” Mo’s green eyes twinkled, a startling contrast with his olive skin and black hair. “Go ahead and keelhaul me.”

  Jim frowned at the water some forty feet below. “Hard to do at port.”

  Shapiro clicked his heels and saluted. “I shall commence posthaste.”

  “Good. Good,” Jim said in his best Durant imitation. “Posthaste.”

  One of the sailors slouched against the flag bag. “Ah, posthaste means fast, don’t it? All we do is drill, drill, drill. When’re we gonna get liberty? We’re tired.”

  “I know what you mean.” Jim sent him a smile of commiseration. “We could all use some liberty. Best way to get it is by doing these drills crisp and fast.”

  Dan cleared his throat and tilted his head toward the far side of the little deck.

  Jim followed and turned to see the drill. He loved watching the sailors string up the colorful signal flags.

  “Jim,” Dan said in a low voice. “Don’t let the boys talk like that.”

  “Like what?” But a sinking feeling told him the truth. He’d breached etiquette.

  “The grumbling. And definitely don’t join in. It’s bad form. Believe me, when you’re out at sea with the gales blowing and the sea heaving, those boys will wish they were back at port running drills—especially when this turns into a shooting war.”

  “Only a matter of time, eh?”

  Dan’s eyes darkened. “Very soon.”

  “All the more reason to give the men some time off. I know I could use some.” The Bunker Hill Monument rose to starboard, with Mary’s cozy apartment at its base. “I’d love a night out dancing.”

  “Do you have a girl?” Dan’s voice curled in disapproval.

  Jim hadn’t even told Arch about his intentions, in case an innocent slip or a not-so-innocent jest undid his efforts at subtlety. “Four of us. Arch and his girlfriend, Gloria, and my friend Mary Stirling from back home. She works here at the Navy Yard.”

  “Stirling?” Dan’s dark eyebrows drew together. “Any relation to Harriet Stirling? She was in my class. Popular girl.”

  “Probably. Mary has two older sisters, but she’s quite a bit younger. They aren’t close.”

  “This isn’t that silly blonde girl your friend Hugh was dating.”

  Jim swallowed hard. “No. In fact, Quintessa is Mary’s best friend.”

  “Quintessa.” Dan shook his head. “How could I forget a name like that?”

  For Jim, forgetting her came easier every day.

  Dan squinted at the signal flags racing up the halyards. “Well, see you don’t get involved.”

  Jim read his brother’s message as easily as he read the flags. “Ah, yes. The philosophy of the eminent Aloysius Howard.” Dan had studied under the admiral at the Academy and then had served under his command at sea—and he wanted to follow in every one of his hero’s distinguished footsteps.

  “He’s right.” Dan straightened his white tunic. “A woman slows down the serious naval officer. She cries when you go into danger, so you hold back. Or she has her own ambitions for your career and pushes you in the wrong direction.”

  Jim smiled at the bright red and yellow and blue and white flags flapping above him. Mary was brave enough to send him to sea and gentle enough not to manipulate him.

  “More importantly . . .” Dan tapped Jim’s arm with the back of his hand. “What if you face a situation at sea? What if your destroyer is escorting a convoy, and a U-boat approaches? The proper thing is to make an aggressive attack and protect the convoy. But what if you have a pretty wife at home, maybe a couple of children? You might be tempted to save your own neck for their sakes. That would be wrong.”

  How could he resist a tease? “What about Durant? He’s married, has four of the cutest girls you’ve ever seen.”

  Dan glanced behind, below. “Why do you think he’s only commanding a destroyer? At his age, he should be a lot further along. He’s a good man, probably the best I’ve served with, but his family slows him down.”

  Never mind that the Navy strongly encouraged officers to marry. Never mind the long line of new ensigns waiting to wed at the Academy Chapel on graduation day and parading their brides through Annapolis in horse-drawn carriages. When Dan Avery fixed on an idea, he couldn’t be budged.

  Jim shrugged. “The captain seems happy.”

  “And he deserves that.” Something in Dan’s tone said he thought Durant deserved more.

  Another line of signal flags shimmied up to the yardarm. Jim wouldn’t float his way into a career or a relationship. He needed a plan for both. He needed God’s guidance for both. “You have to decide what matters most to you.”

  “I want to make admiral.”

  “And you will.” Jim’s goals seemed flimsy in comparison. What exactly did he want? To serve in the Navy. To work with people. On shore or at sea, it didn’t matter. And he wanted a family, a pretty wife at home waiting for him, and the picture in his dream had changed to a blue-eyed brunette.

  “What do you want, Jim?” Dan’s gaze prodded him—not to tear him down but to build him up. “You have it in you too. You could make admiral.”

  The corners of Jim’s mouth eased up. “I’ll have to see which way my path lies.”

  17

  Thursday, July 3, 1941

  The El train shivered its way out of the City Square Station in Charlestown. The Boston Navy Yard passed by on Mary’s left. What fun to have an afternoon off to shop with Yvette.

  The southbound Winter Line train clattered across the Charlestown Bridge, and steel girders flashed by Mary’s eyes.

  “Now do you believe me?” Yvette whapped a headline in the Boston Globe. “The Nazis are here, and they are dangerous.”

  �
�I know.” All week Mary had been reading every news article she could. In New York City, the FBI had arrested thirty-three members of the Duquesne Spy Ring, most of whom had been born in Germany and had become American citizens.

  “Do you see?” Yvette bowed her head over the paper, and the feathers on the front of her hat bowed with her. “They worked at defense factories, on passenger ships—and on the docks.”

  “I know.” The train pulled into North Station. Dozens of people disembarked, and dozens more boarded.

  “Why not Boston?” Yvette’s golden-brown eyes beseeched her. “The FBI found thirty-three, but—”

  “How many more? And are there any at the Navy Yard?”

  “They put a bomb on your friend’s ship.”

  Mary crossed her legs and rearranged the skirt of her blue-and-yellow floral shirtwaist dress. “We know someone put a bomb on the ship, but we don’t know who.”

  “Pssh.” Yvette folded the newspaper. “We don’t know the names, but they are the Boche.”

  “The Germans? Possibly.” A good detective, even of the amateur variety, needed to keep her mind and her eyes open.

  “Possibly? Pssh. If it is not the Boche, I will . . . I will . . .”

  “Eat American cheese?”

  Yvette’s thin brown eyebrows sprang high. “Never again. Not even if the Nazis conquer America and we have no other food. I will starve.”

  Mary laughed and patted her friend’s hand.

  The train went down an incline and entered the subway system. Lights flashed by in the dark tunnel.

  “See? You must stop.” Yvette rapped Mary’s hand. “No more notes.”

  “I have to.” Mary raised her voice to be heard over the magnified train sounds. “We have to catch the saboteur before anyone gets hurt. If I can help in any small way, I must.”

  “The FBI told you to stop. You must obey.”

  “I’m not breaking the law. They’re afraid I’ll do something stupid and interfere with their investigation, but I won’t.”

  “They want you to be safe, and so do I.”

  Mary raised a satisfied smile. “Then I must help. No one is safe until the saboteur is caught.”

  Yvette mumbled a long string of French words, none of which Mary understood.

  They each had their code language. Yvette had French, and Mary had shorthand. She kept her notes about Yvette in shorthand and didn’t type them up. Rumors circulated around Yvette because she was a foreigner, and some of the things she said might sound incriminating to someone who didn’t know her. A solid record could protect her friend in case of accusations.

  Mary gazed out the window to the platforms of the Haymarket Station. Unlike Yvette, Jim encouraged her investigation, and that meant so much to her. Whenever she prayed, she felt a sense of stirring rightness. Unless that changed, she’d continue.

  In her letters home, she hadn’t mentioned a word to her parents or sisters—they’d think her sleuthing was silly. But Quintessa was delighted and full of questions and ideas. If only her dear friend were here to puzzle over the mystery.

  Mary sucked in a breath. But then Jim would forget Mary existed. In Quintessa’s brilliant presence, Mary faded away. In the past, Mary preferred it that way, but now she didn’t want to fade away in Jim’s sight.

  All her life, she’d avoided attention, but now she wanted attention—from Jim.

  At the Devonshire Station, more people exchanged places, and Mary sorted out her views. Seeking attention usually stemmed from pride and selfishness, but not in this case. She cared for Jim and hoped he’d return her affections. Love wasn’t a selfish goal when both people benefitted.

  The whole thing was more complex and nuanced than she’d led herself to believe.

  If only she could see him. Jim hadn’t had liberty since his first weekend back in Boston, and neither had Arch. Gloria called Mary every day, sounding more frantic with each call, and Mary soothed her each time. No, Arch hadn’t forgotten her. The men were hard at work.

  “Here we are.” Yvette stood and made her way down the aisle.

  Mary followed and stepped off the train onto the underground platform, keeping her purse clutched to her stomach as they pushed forward.

  Up the stairs and through the tunnel they went, then down some steps straight into Filene’s Basement. Yvette charged into the crowd, but Mary hung back to get her bearings.

  Upstairs, Filene’s carried eight stories’ worth of gorgeous goods, but down in Filene’s Basement bargains reigned.

  For Bostonians, it was a game and a gamble. Products came downstairs with low prices, then were marked down 25 percent after twelve days, 50 percent for six more days, 75 percent for six days, and then donated to charity. The longer you waited, the greater the bargain—and the greater the chance someone else would snatch it up.

  Mary searched until she found a bin of summer dresses in her size. Half a dozen women pressed around, grabbing dresses, examining them, thrusting them back. One woman stripped off her dress, down to her slip, and tried on a green-and-white striped dress.

  If only the bargains came with dressing rooms.

  Mary’s eyes were drawn to a short-sleeved sailor dress, and she held it up. How sweet—white with blue trim around the collar and sleeves, and with a darling princess-seamed cut and a flared skirt.

  Wouldn’t she look smart walking next to Jim in his naval uniform? Or would she look like she was angling to be a sailor’s girlfriend?

  She grumbled, reached to put it back, then stopped. Someone else might grab it. She should at least try it on.

  A flash of red blurred by her face as a woman tossed a dress back into the bin.

  A bold red dress, yet in a silky fabric and softened with passementerie trim on the bodice. A year ago, she would have adored a similar dress in blue, but never in red.

  Now she grabbed it, her heart quickening. How silly. She wasn’t doing anything heroic, just trying on a red dress.

  At a nearby table, Yvette riffled through a pile of blouses.

  Mary worked her way over. “I’m going to find someplace less exposed and try these on.”

  “You are too modest.” Yvette gestured at the women in their slips all around her. “Not all Americans are.”

  Mary gave her a wink. “I’m from Ohio.”

  Yvette gasped and touched the red dress. “C’est bon!”

  “The dean of my secretarial school told us never to wear red because it excites the men.”

  “Isn’t that what you want?”

  Perhaps she did. Just a little. “I’ll try it on. I might not like it.”

  “Oui, oui.” Yvette waved her to the corner.

  Mary found a spot behind a rack, where she could be as prudish as she wanted. She unbuttoned her shirtwaist dress and quickly slipped the sailor dress overhead and pulled up the side zipper.

  It fit perfectly. She gathered her things and found a mirror, waiting her turn to catch a view of herself. Oh yes, she loved it. So summery.

  Someone jostled her out of the way, and Mary returned to her secluded spot. Off with the sailor dress and on with the red.

  No one stood by the mirror now, and Mary studied her unfamiliar reflection. The fit flattered her figure, and the red—why, it brought out pink in her cheeks and a glow in her hair.

  She only needed one new dress. Both appealed to her for different reasons. Both suited her. Both were marked down 25 percent. Which should she buy?

  For heaven’s sake, she was choosing a summer dress, not a husband. Mary darted back to her spot and changed back into the safe floral dress her mother would approve.

  Yesterday, a letter had arrived from home. Mother was concerned about Mary’s decision to join the choir. Wouldn’t that lead her down the same road of temptation? A good Christian girl should be humble and not flaunt herself. She should put others above herself. She should avoid praise at all cost, because praise led to conceit and all sorts of vain foolishness.

  Mary did up the buttons. Her
mother was only partly right. Humility was a great virtue, but did humility require hiding in the corner? Nonsense. The Lord had given her gifts, and he wanted her to use them for his purposes. Not for herself, but for him. As long as she kept her priorities straight, she would be fine.

  Mary held up the two dresses and studied them until a decision made her smile. She’d buy both.

  Off the Coast of Maine

  Tuesday, July 15, 1941

  “Target sighted. Action starboard. Target is barge, bearing three-zero. Start tracking.” Up in the gun director on top of the bridge, Jim looked through the telescope of the slewing sight through a porthole. Above the tops of the waves, the outline of an old barge rhythmically flashed into and out of view. The Navy had anchored the barge a hundred miles off the Maine coast for target practice.

  Beside Jim, the director trainer cranked his hand wheels, rotating the whole gun director on its giant ball-bearing ring, changing the flow of the breeze. “On target.”

  Meanwhile the pointer adjusted his equipment for elevation. “On target.”

  Behind Jim, the range-finder operator peered into a thick horizontal tube that connected the two optical range-finders and computed the distance to the target. “Range five-one-double-oh.” Fifty-one hundred yards.

  Electrical signals from the trainer, pointer, and range-finder were transmitted to the mechanical computer in the plotting room, which would calculate a solution and automatically elevate and rotate all four 5-inch guns to bear on the target.

  “Mr. Reinhardt, target angle three-zero. Target horizontal speed double-oh.” Jim spoke on the intercom to the Interior Communications and Plotting Room, several decks below. Sweat trickled down his breastbone.

  Reinhardt repeated the message, to verify with Jim and to relay the input values to the computer operators. A short pause. “Solution computed and transmitted to guns.”

  “Thanks. Captain, do we have permission to fire?” The intercom connected Jim to the bridge directly below.

  “Yes, Mr. Avery. Commence firing.”

  Jim hauled in a breath. This was the first time he’d been in command of the director for a gunnery drill, and he needed to make it count. “Aye aye. Fire salvo.”