Margaret glanced at her watch. It was almost time to catch the bus, and she wanted to get the letter out before the mailman arrived. She and William had determined that it took about a week to get a letter from one to the other. This was aided by her location in New York and his in a training area in England. Both were well-traveled mail routes compared to those closer to the front lines. Or deeper west into the United States. They knew once he headed into combat that delivery would likely be more sporadic.
Sometimes she included the letters in the boxes she and Dottie and Gladys sent. They’d knit about sixty pairs of socks over the Saturday nights, and more men in the company were asking for them. By the time William received this letter—being sent on its own—it would be just a few weeks until Christmas. She would have to think of something special to send for the holiday. Not only for William but also for her brother. And she couldn’t leave Tom out. The third Musketeer, to reference the name they’d given themselves. Unoriginal, but meaningful just the same.
She folded the letter and licked the envelope but paused before sealing it up. She turned it over to the part where she’d signed her name and added a postscript.
There is something I must tell you about Dottie. Please don’t tell John. But I want one of you to know in case it ever becomes opportune that he should know. A baby is coming…
Margaret wrote a few more details and hoped that John wouldn’t discover the letter. But instinct formed a knot in her stomach, and it compelled her to share what Dottie didn’t yet want to have known. She trusted William to keep it a secret.
She sealed the envelope before she could change her mind and hurried downstairs to slip it into the mailbox on her way to the bus stop.
* * *
Engraving ordnance was not unlike embroidering. Instead of needle and thread, her tools were hammers and chisels and gravers. It was not difficult per se, though it did require precision, much like any other kind of handiwork. Currently, they were outfitting the USS Missouri with artillery shells for their sixteen-inch guns. When George first told her that this was the kind of ordnance she would be working with, she pictured something akin to pistols that were sixteen inches in length. But before their first shift, George had taken Dottie and Margaret for the closest look at the Missouri that they’d ever gotten.
“No,” he explained in his kind way that held no trace of condescension. “That measurement refers to the width of the opening of the gun. They’re going to be massive, ladies. Bigger than anything we’ve ever done. Capable of launching rounds as far as twenty miles away and destroying enemy ships with one hit.”
He arched his arm against the sky as if envisioning what that might even look like.
Twenty miles. That was like going from Brooklyn to Yonkers.
Though she’d thought herself prepared for it after his description, Margaret was astonished as the first shell casings lay in front of her. They were enormous. Brass behemoths that would be slipped into guns that were sixty-six feet long and weighed nearly four hundred thousand pounds! The USS Missouri would be capable of carrying nine of them.
She couldn’t imagine that any ship would be able to withstand one of these falling atop of them.
Holding the casings evoked conflicting emotions—that of pride in the might of the United States military. And regret that mankind felt the need to fight one another with them.
George was a patient teacher, so much so that Margaret thought he may have missed his calling. He showed them how to first write on the metal with a pencil what needed to be engraved. Currently, the words were USS MISSOURI, 406MM, BROOKLYN.
After that, they would take their graver—a chisel-like tool with a diamond-shaped head—and trace the block letters from the pencil marking with a light touch that scratched the surface of the shell. Once they were confident in that step, they would retrace it and go deeper until the work was complete.
By the end of the first day, small piles of metal shavings lay around their feet. They were instructed to collect them and put them in a bin at the end of the room. They would then be taken to the ordnance center to be melted down and remolded into more shells.
Nothing was wasted.
The Brooklyn Navy Yard had only a small ordnance department. Around the country, eighty-five thousand women were putting themselves in danger’s way by constructing the munitions that would be placed in battle. The two most significant being at Springfield and Harper’s Ferry. But Brooklyn boasted its own little version, tucked away at the farthest corner of the Yard in case of explosion.
In that section, George explained, not a speck of dust could be tolerated, as it could set off the gunpowder. Women had to wear uniform shoes that contained no metal, nor could jewelry be worn lest it set off an electric spark. The few married women who refused to take off their rings bound them in tape so as not to expose them to their work.
Margaret couldn’t imagine thinking that a ring was important enough to put yourself in such danger. But she wouldn’t have to consider either for some time—both the marriage part and the work in the munitions wing. For now, she was glad to work in the safety of the engraving department. One step further in her advancement and something that felt a bit more useful to the war effort than sewing. But her priority now was Dottie and the baby. So she would remain in the safety of this department for as long as possible.
She confided as much to William in their next exchange of letters.
I’m glad you’re staying safe, he wrote back.
My sisters have begun their training as nurses and are both hoping for positions overseas. Though I know they won’t see front lines, it is still dangerous work. I applaud the doors that the war is opening for women. It’s my humble opinion that they are the most capable of our species. But we are inching closer to the day that we will see battle and it does us no good to worry about the women in our lives. My sisters cause me a great deal of sleeplessness as I think of it. So it is a comfort to know that my dear friend Margaret, at least, is protected from the clutches of the worst of this.
You were right to tell me about Dottie and the baby, he continued.
Someone here should know. I’ve shared this with Tom—the boy is a vault, I promise—and we’ve already decided to spend the next few months secretly procuring a supply of cigars so that when the news of the baby’s arrival comes—at which point we assume that she will have told John—we will have a proper celebration on our end to welcome the little Beck.
Margaret would include her next reply in a box that she, Dottie, and Gladys were putting together for the boys. This time, it would include Christmas presents. Socks woven in red and green. Scarves and mittens to match. And an assortment of sugared treats she’d bought at Economy Candy in the Lower East Side.
Occasionally, Oliver dropped by with treats for them. As he was an ocean away from his own family, his mother enjoyed sending him packages full of goodies from England. Hard butterscotch candies and bins of loose Earl Grey tea were among Margaret’s favorites.
Gladys had refused that Friday night dinner invitation a few weeks ago, leaving a note for him that she was unavailable. But she said that he could come by the following evening if he liked. Margaret knew it was bunk—Gladys had no plans, as they’d called knitting night off so Margaret could take her parents to dinner to celebrate their anniversary. But she liked the idea of keeping him on his toes. Much like having a new puppy, Oliver was hers to train. Dottie found it unseemly, but Margaret knew better. Any man who hoped to capture Hurricane Gladys’s attention for more than a few days had to let her set the pace. She was not a filly to be wrangled and any projection of docility would have been unfair to a man seeking tradition in a woman.