13.

Off Cape Cod

Thursday, February 26, 1942

All night they'd chased that elusive white whale. No sound contacts. No radio reports. Just ceaseless searching.

In the pre-dawn darkness, Arch climbed down from the pilothouse to quarters. Serving as junior officer of the watch presented an opportunity to interact with the captain and impress him, but Buckner saw nothing but imaginary periscopes in the distance.

Arch yawned. Fatigue this deep should chase away the nightmares. But as he descended, his breathing grew ragged. All those layers of metal like a lid on top of him, locking him in. If only he could sleep on the main deck. He wouldn't mind the wind and the cold.

Perhaps thinking about Lillian would soothe his nerves. This investigation would be good, not only to find out if and how the men were obtaining sedatives, but also to spend time with Lillian alone.

Maybe she'd come to trust him. She seemed trustworthy herself, genuine and unspoiled. No talk of money and shopping and fashion. Besides, if she were a gold digger, she'd be making eyes at him.

She wasn't.

Arch huffed and descended the ladder to the wardroom. Why was the woman so suspicious of him? Sure, most men rejected her because of her leg, but why would she suspect a man who didn't reject her? Why would any hint of flirtation make her bolt?

Jim had mentioned a bad relationship in her past. How bad? In what way? Could Arch persuade her to confide in him? Then he'd know what he was up against.

The alarm clanged. General quarters.

Arch slumped to the bottom step of the ladder, gripping the handrails above him, his heart in a painful staccato. He closed his eyes, breathing hard. He could do this. He had to.

A few officers strode out of their cabins and through the darkened wardroom, pulling on outerwear and life vests.

They couldn't see him undone like this. Couldn't. He stood and forced his feet up the steps.

Lillian said his condition was treated with rest and sedatives. He'd rejected the sedatives, but he longed for rest.

A sense of purpose would help too. If they could sink a U-boat or even chase one away from a cargo ship, morale would rise.

"What do you want to bet?" Ted Hayes's voice rose from below. "I think the sonarmen make up sound contacts just to make Old Bucky happy."

Arch pushed away his anxiety to join in the expected chuckling.

On the main deck, he headed to his battle station, straining through the darkness but seeing only black sea and blacker sky. The Ettinger b.u.mped forward over the waves.

Machinist's Mate Third Cla.s.s Tony Vitucci, the talker, lifted one earphone and greeted Arch. "Sound contact, sir. About a mile ahead. We're preparing for a depth-charge attack."

"Prepare for depth-charge attack," Arch called out, and word pa.s.sed down the deck.

The Ettinger used depth charges like confetti. At least that meant they returned frequently to Boston to restock.

After a few minutes, Vitucci said, "Two hundred yards, sir."

"Two hundred yards," Arch shouted, planting his feet wide and bending his knees.

Before long, the destroyer's stern heaved up, once, twice, five times. Arch stood firm, scanning the waves for any sign of a submarine.

The Ettinger cranked into a tight turn to starboard, and her starboard K-guns fired, launching lighter-weight depth charges abreast. Arch went to the lifeline and peered over the water. Still two hours remained before sunrise, and the moon had already set.

The number two gun mount fired. A flash of orange flame, and a star sh.e.l.l shot into the night sky. In a moment, the sh.e.l.l exploded and floated on its little parachute, shedding bright white light over the sea.

Arch saw nothing but water.

The Ettinger straightened her course and charged forward for another run. More depth charges split the ocean, and the destroyer circled the attack site.

No air bubbles, no wreckage, no oil slick. Was it a false contact? Or had the U-boat escaped?

They made a third run and circled again.

One of the sailors whooped. "We did it! Look! Wreckage!"

Arch followed his line of sight to something jagged and gray piercing the waves. "Well done! Vitucci, tell the bridge."

The destroyer stopped, and Buckner raced down from the bridge. "You-haul up a piece. I want to see it, touch it, raise it to the yardarm."

Arch directed the men with their grappling hooks, and Warren Palonsky clambered down the cargo net. More chunks of metal popped to the surface, but no bubbles, no oil.

The men called out as they worked, and Palonsky grabbed a piece of the wreckage, lashed it to the cargo net, and scrambled up to the deck.

Palonsky dried his hands on his trousers and shook his head. "Sorry, Captain Buckner, sir. You'll see. It's covered in barnacles. It's been down there a while, whatever it is."

Buckner dashed to the edge.

Arch did too. The men hauled up a piece of metal about two feet square, pitted and coated with barnacles.

"You numbskulls!" Buckner yelled. "It's nothing but an old wreck. Wasting ammo on an old wreck. What a bunch of good-for-nothings."

He stormed away, berating sailors in his path.

Arch's hands balled into fists. How dare he? The men were only following the captain's orders. And they'd followed them well.

The men muttered to each other, glaring after their commander, shoulders sagging. How could Arch undo the damage without undermining Buckner's authority?

"Don't worry, men," he said. "You did well. You did exactly what you're supposed to do, and we hit the coordinates. We hit a sound contact. If that had been a U-boat, we would have sunk it."

"Yes, sir," the men said, but dejection colored the words.

"Say, fellas." Palonsky hefted the chunk of metal in his big hands. "I vote we do something with this. Carson, you're a shipfitter, a metalsmith. What do you think?"

Carson fingered the sc.r.a.p and rubbed his chin. "Could make tokens or something."

"Yes," Arch said. "Make tokens for every man on the crew because we hit an actual submerged ship. Then when we sink a U-boat-and we will-we'll make new ones out of Germany's finest steel."

"Yeah," Palonsky said. "Today the wreck-tomorrow the Reich."

"Say, that's good." Arch clapped both Palonsky and Carson on the back. "See if you can fit that on the tokens."

Around his section of the deck, eyes brightened. He and Palonsky made a good team. Maybe his plan would work.

"This is not an order." Arch sat sideways at the desk in the ship's office, facing Palonsky. "I'm asking for your help, but you can take it or leave it."

Palonsky shifted in his chair. "Me, sir?"

"I'm having troubles with the men. They're struggling with their nerves."

"Do you blame them, sir?"

"Not at all." Of all people, Arch understood. "We live in constant tension, never knowing when a torpedo could strike. We've seen sinkings, bodies, many of us have survived sinkings. It's a lot for a man to endure. The shakes, the nightmares."

"Yes, sir." He smoothed his dark blond hair. "Not me, but lots of the men are struggling."

Arch rested his elbow on the edge of the desk. "Doc can't do anything for them. If they see a Navy physician, they may be labelled as malingerers or psychoneurotics and be surveyed out of the Navy. These men all volunteered. They love the sea, love the Navy, and they want to contribute to the war effort."

"Yes, sir. I've heard some of the boys talk like that."

"So they treat themselves. On land they get drunk, but what to do at sea?"

Palonsky glanced away and frowned. "I don't know, sir."

"I think some of them might be taking pills."

"Pills, sir?" The sailor's forehead creased.

"The problem is the pills are habit-forming and dangerous, and they make the men groggy. They aren't doing their jobs well."

Palonsky's jaw jutted forward. "You want me to snitch on my buddies? Tell you who's doped up so they'll be disciplined?"

"No." This wasn't going well. "I just want to find out where they're getting the pills. You see, I have a friend who's a pharmacist in town, and she's noticed some suspicious prescriptions. We think there might be a link."

"She?"

Arch fiddled with a pen on the desk. "Lillian Avery, Mr. Avery's sister."

"Ah." Palonsky waggled his eyebrows. "She a looker? Or does she look like her brother?"

Arch chuckled. "We want to find out if there's a shady physician at work, or a black market, or . . . well, we don't know. But something isn't right. The crew is at risk, and the nation needs every one of us working at full capacity."

Palonsky rubbed his palms over his trouser legs. "What do you want me to do, sir?"

"Remember, this isn't an order. For once, you can say no to an officer."

"I like that part, sir."

"Thought you might." Arch rolled the pen in his hand. "You're an excellent actor, and all the men like you, respect you, and trust you."

"You want me to betray that trust?"

Arch winced. "No, I want you to put it to good use. Perhaps you could complain about your nerves to some of the men, see if anything happens."

"See if anyone offers me a pill?"

"Yes. Then we could trace it up the supply line, if there is one."

Palonsky mashed his lips together. "Do you realize what could happen to me if the men found out I was a snitch?"

"Happen?"

"There are things you don't do-like snitch. There are risks."

"They'd hurt you?"

"Don't know. Don't want to find out."

Arch's fingers coiled around the pen. What could he do? Only an enlisted man could help him, and no one was as good as Palonsky. A natural actor, a born leader, liked by the men and trusted by Arch. A man who valued high morale as much as Arch did.

"What if I paid you?"

"Paid me?"

"Twenty bucks a month."

Palonsky whistled. "That's a lot of dough."

"Almost a third of your pay."

"Heard you were rich. Vandenberg Insurance, right?"

"My father's company. Not mine."

The seaman leaned back, crossed his arms, and looked Arch up and down. "Dangerous job like this, I might need me an insurance policy. Thirty bucks a month."