Across a War-Tossed Sea (4 page)

W
esley put down his pencil and scratched. Patsy had helped him coat his poison ivy rash with pink calamine lotion. It did ease the burning itch, although the dried blobs of candy-colored lotion made him look like a teatime pastry. It was bad enough going to school, but he'd be laughed off the stage if he had to go to the countywide spelling bee looking like this.

He glanced self-consciously at his classmates, who still labored over a test on the Declaration of Independence. He knew they called him a know-it-all. And many of them had delighted in repeating the twins' rhymed warning about poison ivy emphasizing the word “dope.” But maybe he could win some friends if he won the county contest as the school's representative.

Wesley had snagged his school's championship on the word “connoisseur.” The girl he was up against didn't realize English words could have French spellings. But Wesley had to admit he'd also been lucky. He'd nearly washed out in the very first go-round! Thank goodness he'd remembered that Americans pronounced “been” like trash “bin,” rather than the proper British way of saying “been” with long
e
's, like “bean.”

Folding his hands to keep himself from scratching more, Wesley waited for the other students to catch up. He stared at the war posters behind Miss Darling's desk to pass the time. In one, a sailor carrying his gear glanced back over his shoulder, smiling confidently. But across the poster shouted the warning:
IF YOU TELL WHERE HE'S GOING…HE MAY NEVER GET THERE!

Each morning, Miss Darling patted that sailor's butt before sitting at her desk. Petite and baby-doll pretty, with painted red fingernails and matching lipstick, she'd been pulled out of Mary Washington College early to teach because so many experienced teachers had been called up for service. Sometimes she came to school with absolutely no lesson plan. But her beau was a swabbie, trained at the Norfolk Naval Base and recently shipped out for duty, so the students excused her disorganization, especially the girls, who idolized her for the aura of tragic young love that hung about her.

She'd cried as she described saying good-bye outside the Hampton Roads docks, surrounded by hundreds of women embracing their men, perhaps for the last time. “I can't tell y'all more,” she'd whimpered as she blew her nose. “Loose lips sink ships, you know.” So whenever Miss Darling gazed out the window, leaned her dimpled face against her hand, and let out long, sad sighs, the class patiently doodled or passed notes.

She was doing it again now. A few of the boys were taking advantage to compare test answers—including Ron.

Wesley squirmed and shifted his focus to a far scarier poster. This one was taped just above the large bucket of sand each classroom had to douse fires in case bombs were dropped on the schoolhouse. Its bold-type headline read:
BITS OF CARELESS TALK ARE PIECED TOGETHER BY THE ENEMY
. Under that, a huge hand wearing a Nazi swastika ring put together a jigsaw puzzle with the words:
CONVOY SAILS FOR ________ TONIGHT
. The hand gripped a piece with the word
ENGLAND
.

Wesley swallowed hard. The posters carried a lot of weight for him. And should for all his classmates, he thought, given where they lived. Tidewater Virginia had become one of the busiest areas in the country in terms of the war effort. Richmond factories made parachutes, flak jackets, bomb clusters, and oxygen masks. Due east down the James River, Norfolk was the main training hub for the U.S. Navy; Newport News produced warships as fast as possible; and Hampton Roads was a major embarkation point for U.S. servicemen leaving to fight in the Atlantic, North Africa, and Europe.

Morning to night, Wesley heard the distant whistles of trains carrying food, medical supplies, ammunition, and equipment into nearby Bellwood, the army's main supply depot on the East Coast. The cargo was soon sent on to Hampton Roads and lowered into the hulls of freighters that steamed out the Chesapeake Bay to the Atlantic, most bound—as the poster said—for England. For home.

But just beyond the mouth of the Chesapeake Bay, half submerged in the waves, waiting, watching, could be Nazi U-boats. In the months following Pearl Harbor, Hitler's submarines had easily spotted American cargo ships silhouetted against the bright city lights of the American East Coast. Ron had been right about how many had been sunk. It'd been like shooting fish in a barrel for the Nazis, until the United States finally wised up and enforced nighttime blackouts.

The poster made Wesley nervous. He closed his eyes against it. But his mind filled with an incident from that morning, as he, Charles, and the brothers dawdled along Route 5 on the way to school, picking up stray apples that had fallen to the ground from roadside trees. Suddenly Charles had frozen. “What the deuce! Hear that?”

The other boys stopped. The faint sounds of a song reached them.

“Die Fahne hoch! Die Reihen fest geschlossen!”

“Is that German?” Bobby asked.

“Yes.” Charles's voice was sharp. “That's a Nazi song. Who would be stupid enough…”

Grinding gears and the roar of huge motors interrupted him. Around the bend came a line of six-wheeled army trucks. Their flatbeds were crammed full of soldiers—German soldiers.

“Bloody hell,” breathed Charles. He raised his arm to hurl the hard apples at them as the first truck blew past—Wesley recognized his big brother's killer cricket pitch windup.

Bobby grabbed Charles's wrist. “Hold up, Chuck. They're POWs. They've surrendered. We have to treat them with respect. We want the Third Reich to do the same for our boys.”

“Like the respect they gave me and my family before smashing London with their bombs?” Charles tried to push Bobby off. “Let go of me!”

“You're going to have to get used to them being around, Chuck,” Bobby said. He didn't let go. “Listen to me. I heard about this at school. They'll be shipped in through Hampton Roads in big numbers, now that we've won in North Africa. They're putting twelve hundred of them at Bellwood to do rail line repairs, laundry, and kitchen duties. A couple thousand more will be held at Camp Lee.”

“Are you kidding me?” Charles cried. “We'll be surrounded by Jerries!”

Three more trucks passed by, peppering them with dust. Charles wrenched his arm away from Bobby and shielded his eyes so he could see. “They're still in uniform!” he gasped.

Wesley squinted and peered too. As another truck passed, he could make out the dreaded Nazi eagle on their caps and breast pockets. The soldiers looked well fed and clean. Wesley couldn't believe it. They didn't seem scared or broken or like they were prisoners in a foreign, hostile land. They kept singing:

“Marschier'n im Geist in unser'n Reihen mit!”

“Shut your gob!” Charles screamed. “Shut it!”

One of the Germans smiled and waved back.

Wesley's eyes popped back open. The memory made his already itchy skin crawl.

What if one of those POWs escaped and got information about Bellwood's depot to the U-boats that still trolled along the North Carolina and Virginia shoreline? Hitler might just order the Luftwaffe to bomb Richmond. Or maybe he'd send in saboteurs. Hadn't they caught four Nazi bomb experts in Florida, put ashore by a U-boat life raft, carrying fuses disguised as pencils and $174,000 in American money?

If the Nazis bombed Richmond like they'd bombed London, no supplies—no food, no fuel, no medicines—would be leaving Virginia's ports. How would England survive without those supplies? How would his parents?

Feeling panicky, Wesley reached into his pants pocket to make sure he had the handkerchief all U.S. children were supposed to bring to school to stuff into their mouths to protect their teeth in case of a bomb blast. He'd forgotten it, of course.

Wesley ransacked his shirt pocket for a scrap of reassurance he'd just started carrying. He pulled out a small, tightly folded piece of paper.

Wesley's frantic checking of his pockets drew Ron's attention. “Hey, Miss Darling,” he called, and pointed. “Wesley is cheating!”

Desks squeaked as twenty children swung around to look at him. Wesley froze, paper in hand.

Miss Darling turned from the window to the classroom. She seemed confused.

“Look, Miss Darling,” Ron pressed. “He has a cheat sheet.”

The students' heads swung back to Miss Darling to see what she would do. Slowly, she stood. “Wesley,” she said in a quavering voice, almost like she had been caught doing something wrong herself. “I…I expected more from you. What do you have to say for yourself?”

Heads swung back to Wesley.

His mouth popped open. But no words came out.

Miss Darling frowned. Hushed, the class waited as she seemed to search for what to do next. The classroom clock ticked loudly. The sound of a teacher walking in heels echoed down the hall,
tap-tap-tap-tap
. Wesley's heartbeat pounded in his head.

Finally, Miss Darling spoke in an old-lady voice, “Young man, I must ask you to read that piece of paper to the class.”

Wesley shook his head.

“Would you prefer a trip to the principal?”

Back home a trip to the headmaster typically meant a caning on a student's backside. So, no, he wouldn't prefer a trip to the principal, reasoned Wesley. Trembling with embarrassment, he opened the precious paper. The class leaned toward him as he choked out: “
Both well, safe. Letters on way. Chin up. Love.
”

It was a telegram from his parents—a standard form the British allowed to be sent to child evacuees in the United States. Wesley's parents had cabled it to answer his worry about not having received any letters from home for so long. A telegram that told Wesley that at least on the day it was sent, his parents were alive and unharmed.

“It's from my mum and dad,” he murmured, without looking up from the paper.

Miss Darling covered her mouth with both hands. Then she dashed down the row of desks to grab him up in a hug. “Bless your little heart!” She burst into tears. All the girls looked like they might cry too.

She scrambled to make amends. “Do your parents know about your winning our spelling bee and going to county? I know they'd be bursting their coat buttons they'd be so proud of you, honeybunch. Just like we all are.”

The girls nodded. The boys looked like they might throw up.

“Let's forget about this bad old test,” she crooned. “Everyone gets a one hundred. I'm calling an early recess. Everyone outside, it's a beeeeea-U-ti-ful day. Shoo. G'on now!”

Cheering, the class scattered. A few even patted Wesley on the back in thanks before darting after their friends.

“Except,” Miss Darling called out loudly, as she aimed her pointer finger at Ron. “Except for you, Ronald Ratcliff. You stay behind, please.”

C
harles snorted with laughter. “Ron has to do what?”

Sighing, Wesley repeated: “Teacher's making him stay after school to clean the chalkboard for a month because of his picking on me.”

Charles was standing in front of their bedroom's small mirror, combing back his wavy, sandy-colored hair to admire a wide streak of white he'd peroxided into it on Bobby's urging. All the football players had done it for homecoming. He burst out laughing again. “That's rich, that is!”

“It's not funny!” Wesley wailed. “Ron's going to be really gunning for me now. Cleaning the chalkboard won't stop him. You know how it is here. American students don't listen to teachers like we do. They don't even stand when teachers enter the room.”

Charles stopped midbrush and studied his younger brother's reflection in the mirror. “Wes, you have got to toughen up.” Charles turned to face his younger brother. “For starters, what were you doing carrying about Mum and Dad's telegram?”

Wesley shrugged and started scratching his arm.

“Stop that!” Charles snapped.

Wesley flopped onto the bed and held the pillow over his face.

Charles sighed and sat down at the foot of the bed. He never seemed to get these heart-to-hearts with his little brother right. What would Dad say to Wes? he wondered. He remembered being told that sticks and stones might break his bones but words would never hurt, that he should rise above insults. Charles had even had to recite that Rudyard Kipling poem about self-control titled “If,” the one all good boys of the Empire were supposed to live up to, that claimed if a boy was hated but didn't “give way to hating” then he'd “be a Man.”

All well and good, but Wesley needed more than idealistic poetry and nursery sayings. “Listen, Wes, you need to stop being so afraid of Ron. If he clouts you, I'll beat the snot out of him. Trust me.”

Wesley peeped out from behind the pillow. “Really?”

“Of course.” Charles held up his arm and flexed his new football-honed muscles. He was naturally broad in his shoulders, trim, and long-waisted, a build that high school sports had only enhanced. “Like Popeye, eh?”

Wesley giggled.

“But you must learn to stand up for yourself, Wes. I won't always be around to bail you out, you know. By the time I turn sixteen, I'm going home to fight, no matter what Mum and Dad say. I figure I can stow away on a tanker out of Norfolk. I'll steal a boat if I have to.”

Wesley sat up.

“Now, look, the way to shut up a kid like Ron is to ignore his taunts. Don't feed the fire. It helps to be really good at something people can admire you for. Like cricket for me. Back home, there was a fifth former who ripped on me constantly until I bowled him twice with that googly Dad taught me. So, what makes you a leader among your mates?”

“Well.” Wesley paused. He didn't have mates, not like Charles. “The girls all think I'm ‘cute as a bug's ear' now because of teacher.”

Charles laughed. “That'll do nicely when you're a little older, Wes. But right now you need to think about something you can do that Ron can't so he'll look foolish if he hassles you.”

They both were silent for a moment. “What about the spelling bee?” Wesley suggested cautiously.

“Oh! Of course!” Charles said with a sudden cheerleader enthusiasm. “Think about Odysseus, Wes. He wasn't as strong as Achilles, but he was wily. He outsmarted the Trojans with that wooden horse he built and hid in, remember? You're smart like that, Wes. Prove it—win the bloomin' spelling bee.”

From downstairs came Bobby's shout: “Hey, Chuck—time to leave for the game!”

Charles clapped Wesley on his back, as if he were a teammate in a football huddle. “Cheer for me, eh?”

Two-four-six-eight, who do we appreciate? Bishop! Bishop!
Yaaaaaaaaay, Bishop!
Cheerleaders bounced up and down, leading the high school fans in chanting.

Even through his leather helmet, Charles could hear the crowd. Oh, that roar was lovely, it was.

He and Bobby had done it! In the game's last five minutes, when it looked like they were going to lose for sure—they were on the fifty-yard line, fourth down with twenty yards to go—Bobby told Charles he was going for a Hail Mary play. “All or nothing,” Bobby said cheerfully as his teammates groaned in anxiety in the huddle.

“Right-o, chaps, get a wiggle on!” Charles had echoed Bobby's matter-of-fact gutsiness in the thickest of Briticisms to make the other boys laugh, even though he himself was terrified of flubbing the play.

“Rauuught-oooh,” they'd drawled back, trying to smile.

They lined up.

“Twelve…forty-one…hut!” Bobby called.

The ball snapped into play.

Thunk! Uggh!
The linesmen smacked into their opponents to let Charles slip past their wrestling battle.

Charles darted to the left, then to the right, looking over his shoulder to spot Bobby's throw.
There it was!
He hurtled into the air to catch Bobby's bullet pass, somehow landed on his feet, zigzagged around huge farm boys hurling themselves at his knees, and sprinted half the field to cross the goal line.

Touchdown! Charles had scored a touchdown!

All their kicker had to do was get the extra point to lift Bobby's team to a solid three-point lead. He walked onto the field nervously. Along with everyone else in the stadium Charles held his breath as the kicker lined himself up, said a little prayer, and booted the football. It sailed up and up and up and then through the goal posts.

Hurrah!
The marching band burst into song. The crowd roared and danced. They shook pom-poms and blew through long herald horns. The bleachers swayed with their stamping.

As Bobby and Charles trotted back to the bench and the defense squad went onto the field, Charles spotted the Ratcliff clan and Wesley in the middle of the stands. He elbowed Bobby to look. The Ratcliffs were going berserk. Sticking his pinkie fingers in his mouth, Mr. Ratcliff whistled in ear-piercing blasts. Mrs. Ratcliff and Patsy hugged, then clapped, then hugged again.

“Hey, look at that, Chuck!” Bobby pointed. The twins had wrapped themselves around Wesley and in a three-way bear hug they jumped up and down, waving at him and Bobby. Then even Ron put his arms around their frolicking circle. “Well, I'll be danged,” said Bobby.

Now the opposing team possessed the ball. A touchdown would give them the win. Bobby and Charles and all the other players put their arms over one another's shoulders as the clock ticked down. First down after first down, the other team inched itself toward the goal line.

De-
fense
! Clap, clap. De-
fense
! Clap-clap. The fans chanted.

Fifteen seconds remained on the clock. The opposing team was too far away to kick a field goal to tie the game and throw it into overtime. Their quarterback would have to throw a go-for-broke pass, just as Bobby had. If the other team made the play, it would pull ahead, with no time left for Bobby and Charles's team to retaliate.

The opposing quarterback threw a beautiful, sailing pass. Charles heard Bobby whisper, “Please, Lord, no.” Several other players swore.

The ball seemed to hang in the air forever. The wide receiver jumped up and…dropped the ball!
Incomplete! The pass was
incomplete!
Just as the whistle blew.

The home stands erupted in celebration. They'd won!

Tumbling all over themselves in jubilation, their teammates lifted Charles and Bobby onto their shoulders and danced around the field in a hooting, happy mass. Finally, as their celebration started to wind down, Bobby broke free and grabbed Charles. They ran to the sideline where the Ratcliffs waited, still cheering and waving.

The two friends yanked off their helmets and pumped them up and down in victory as they ran. As he got closer, Charles could see that Wesley's grin stretched ear to ear. Even Ron saluted him.

The family engulfed them in hugs and congratulations. Passed from Ratcliff to Ratcliff, Charles found himself face to face with Patsy. Before he knew what was happening, she threw her arms around his neck and kissed him on his cheek, hugging him tight. “Oh, that was wonderful, Charles! I'm awful proud of you!”

She pulled back and launched herself at Bobby. “Darling, you are something else!”

Laughing, Bobby said, “We better get back to the boys. I just knew Mama would want a hug from her football stud son. Right, Mama?”

“Lord a' mercy. You won't be able to get your head through the door when we get home, I wager!” Mrs. Ratcliff teased.

“Let's go, Chuck.” Bobby yanked on his sleeve.

But Charles was rooted, dazed with the scent of Patsy's perfume, the caress of her soft auburn hair against his cheek. He was smiling like an idiot, struck down by a sudden, overwhelming crush.

“Chuck?”

“Eh? Oh. Sorry.” He turned with Bobby and jogged toward the locker room.

“Did you get a hit in the head I don't know about, Chuck?” Bobby joked.

Sort of, thought Charles.

It was the best day of his life. The only thing that would top it, Charles thought, was if Hitler dropped dead.

The next week, it was Wesley's chance at glory.

Charles sat midway back in the auditorium and watched his little brother squirm on stage in front of a hundred people. No cheerleaders for this contest, just silent pressure. Lord, thought Charles, this kind of contest didn't seem remotely fun. He promised himself that he'd be sure to praise Wesley for doing it—he didn't think he'd have the guts for it himself.

Sitting next to Charles was Patsy. Since the game, he'd been rather awkward around her. She was going steady with another bloke.
One off fighting the war, no less,
he reprimanded himself for his crush. Only a rascal would try to snake a girl from a guy off fighting the Jerries. Besides, he had a snowball's chance in hell with the likes of such a beautiful girl. But he still stole a quick glance her way. That only made Charles more unhappy—she was such a dish!

Patsy was smiling encouragement at Wesley. She'd tied his necktie tight and neat for him before the spelling bee, and Charles could tell Wesley was about to suffocate in it. He listened as his brother's competitors successfully made it through their first round words: “cataclysm,” “finicky,” “necessary,” “lectern,” “hippopotamus,” “bazaar.” The words were much harder than Wesley's school spelling bee list had been. Charles noticed Wesley scratch his last remaining swatch of poison ivy.
Steady,
lad.
He tried to throw his thoughts up to the stage.

“Wesley Bishop,” the moderator called.

Wesley stood.

Charles held up his fist in a gladiator-style salute so his little brother could see him. A small smile crossed Wesley's face. “Come on, Wes,” Charles muttered, “for England, to show up Ron.”

“Neighbor,” said the moderator.

Charles exhaled in relief.
Piece of cake!

Without hesitation, Wesley rattled off, “N-e-i-g-h-b-o-u-r.”

The auditorium crowd gasped.

The three judges conferred, with one lady gesturing toward Wesley and making the kind of sweet face mothers did to coax babies to eat some Pablum. But a bespectacled man shook his head vehemently, forcing the man next to him to agree.

“No, I'm sorry,” the moderator said finally. “That is incorrect.”

Wesley was excused from the stage.

Americans didn't put a
u
following the
o
in their spelling of “armor,” “honor,” “rumor,” or…“neighbor.”

Ron smirked.

“God's teeth,”
muttered Charles.

24 October 1943


Dearest Mummy,


Do not tell Daddy but I botched the spelling bee. On the simplest thing
—
an American spelling versus our proper British one. I think it humiliated Charles. Now we are coming to another event where I may embarrass him. He and Bobby are hosting a Halloween haunted house. Everyone will come because they are such football heroes now. Plus Yanks do seem to love scaring themselves silly with witches and goblins. I think it is because they have not experienced a REAL fright, not like we Brits have. Last time I went to a haunted house, it reminded me of an Anderson shelter, it was so dark and damp. I vomited on a plate of caramel apples! This year the Ratcliffs want to camp out at a nearby Civil War battlefield, to tell ghost stories!


In school, we are on the War of 1812. It is no better than the Revolution! Did you know we kidnapped American sailors and BURNED the WHITE HOUSE? Honestly, Mummy, it is amazing the Yanks stand by us at all. Ron is now calling me ‘limey' since our Royal Navy sucked on limes from the Caribbean colonies to prevent scurvy. I am so WRETCHED, Mummy.


I hope the maple leaf I put in this letter arrives in one piece
—
it is such a lovely orangey-red. I do not remember anything quite like it back home.


Your devoted son,


Wesley Bishop