Tom rolled his eyes. “Don’t tell me you’re taking on the affectations of the English. Jolly nice?”
William exhaled slowly, letting some of the smoke escape through his nose. “Affectations? Do you inhale dictionaries since you don’t inhale tobacco?”
“Cut it out, you two,” John said as he pulled out his army knife to slit the box open. Inside were some of the things he’d asked for. Raisins, soap, chewing gum, and peppermints. He sifted through the letters, and Tom watched him slip one from Dottie under his pillow for reading later. They were all familiar with Dottie’s large, loopy handwriting. Unless there was something of a private nature, the boys all passed around their letters as if a note written to one was intended for all.
He pulled out a brown paper bag and handed it to Tom. Likewise, goodies sent were meant to be shared. Tom opened it to find six pairs of homemade wool socks and laid them out on the table next to the cigarettes.
“I’ll take a set,” said William, “unless twelve feet have suddenly bloomed from your skinny legs.”
“Which one?” Tom stood and held them up one at a time, swinging his hips as if he were some pin-up girl modeling them.
William let out a catcall and John’s shoulders shook with laughter.
“The gray ones. With the red border.”
Tom balled one up and threw it at William. It struck him in the forehead. Right on target.
William took off his own pair, full of holes. Tom’s and John’s were in the same ratty condition. Their toes poked out of the frayed ends. Army supplies were made for cost, not for constancy.
John grinned. “Hold your nose, Tom. We could send William and his feet to Hitler and get him to surrender.”
It wasn’t true. Tom was learning that this was the way guys talked, a novelty to him, having been raised without siblings. And a father who ruled like the general he imagined himself to be.
“Ahhh…that’s the stuff. Warm and cozy, as my mom would say.” William slipped on the first sock, and then the second. His face wrinkled in confusion.
“Wait—what’s this?” He slipped his finger down the tube of it and pulled out a piece of paper. He unfolded it, grinning as he read.
“What do you know? A letter. A letter from a girl.”
Chapter Four
October 1943
Margaret paused over her sewing machine halfway through stitching a star on the flag. The corners were tricky even for someone with experience. Some girls slid by with shoddy work knowing that their stars and stripes would be flying high up on ship masts where no one could scrutinize the details. And though Margaret didn’t care to pass judgment, she was determined to set herself apart and be considered for that promotion.
Inferior work would not be tolerated in the mechanic’s wing, where precision was vital to safety. Even the tiniest miscalculated measurement could result in a leak. Or a torpedo sent off course.
The flags were symbols of a nation’s pride and prowess. But the engineering of such mighty battleships was a matter of national security. Small details made big differences.
She looked up from her handiwork in time to see Dottie rubbing her lower back. Her friend sat kitty-corner to her, one row ahead and one over.
Four rows of seven stations filled the vast space, flags in varying stages of completion draping over their fronts. The room was lined on three sides with floor-to-ceiling cabinets that held their supplies as well as the half-done handiwork they’d store at the end of their shifts. Margaret was one of the lucky ones who was assigned to a table closest to the wall of windows, an administrative miracle that allowed her to squint less than others did as light shone in.
Though when winter came, she suspected that it would also be the coldest spot, as the single-paned glass was a poor insulator.
“Dot,” she called over the humming all around them. “Dot—are you feeling all right?”
Dottie turned around and Margaret was alarmed to see the pale tones of her skin.
“I’m fine, Margaret. It’s probably just from sitting for hours and hours. I’m going to take a walk on my break.”
“I’m coming with you, then.”
“I’d be glad for the company.”
Margaret could hear the fatigue in her voice, and it worried her. These early shifts were hard enough, but Margaret couldn’t imagine doing them while trying to grow an entire baby. She wished she could persuade Dottie to cut her hours back or quit altogether, but Dottie would never hear of it. And with her future uncertain, she needed every cent she could earn.
They worked for another half hour, chitchat stymied by the volume of whirring machines and the watchful eye of the shift supervisor. Margaret stood up and walked around her table to Dottie’s. Dottie had completed her fourteenth star for the morning, compared to Margaret’s eleven, all of them finished to the kind of perfection that looked effortless.
If anyone was to outshine her own abilities, she was glad it was her best friend.
“Ready to go?” Margaret asked.
Dottie got up and put her sweater around her shoulders and followed Margaret out the door.
The wind nipped at their cheeks as they stepped outside and Margaret doubted they could stay here for even the fifteen minutes they had free. But for the moment it was a welcome change from the stuffiness of their workspace. They went from one cacophony to another, though. The chatter and machines and radio music in the sewing room competed with the sharp sounds of welders and drillers that echoed across the East River.
There was an otherworldly feeling to the outside, not from the weather, but from the smoke that poured in from the towering brick stacks of the Navy Yard. On a cold day like this, it had nowhere to rise, and its cloud hovered like an eerie industrial phantom.
They’d walked all of a hundred feet when a figure started running toward them from far down the walkway. At first, he was concealed by the shadow of the USS Missouri, but as he got closer, Margaret smiled.
“Hi, George!” she called when he was near enough to hear them.
“Margaret, Dorothy,” he sputtered, out of breath. His face was beet red, a symptom of the brisk temperature. But even on the warmest days, George turned pink when he was in Dottie’s presence. Margaret had never drawn attention to it, and she was certain that Dottie remained unaware. Yet George’s affection for her friend could have been discovered by even the most innocent child playing junior detective at recess.
He leaned against the iron railing, and Margaret worried that he’d hurried over to them as he had.
George was what Gladys called “a fine specimen of a man.” Every girl who knew him called him “Blue Eyes” behind his back, though the comparison to Sinatra stopped there, as he couldn’t carry a tune to save his life. With a medium build and an admirable physique, he could have been a poster boy for a soldier. But Margaret knew that sometimes a person’s ills were not of the visible kind and George had been devastated to discover that a heart condition rendered him unsuitable for the army’s needs. He’d begged to be given a desk job—anything to help the cause—but they refused, citing their concern that he wouldn’t make it through the rigorous basic training.
He had received several white feathers when out and about, quite undeservedly. A popular symbol of shame in Britain, the practice had gained a steady and unfortunate foothold on this side of the pond as well. Well-meaning women handed them out to seemingly able-bodied men of drafting age, making the assumption that they had somehow wiled their way out of military service.