With a tight grip on her pocketbook and satchel, Cora squinted into the sun and studied the dock. Like ants at a picnic, men in uniform crawled over the ships, ducking in and out of openings, up and down the ropes, and on and off the gangplanks. Intent on their work, no one looked her way. She needn’t worry about getting caught as an unauthorized person because none of the men seemed to care who else was on the premises.
She straightened her spine. Her gaze swept the undulating crowd of men. Was she the only woman here? Where were the hospital ships?
Buck up, girl. Miss Gellhorn would have already bluffed her way onto the ship. Cora nodded to herself and took a deep breath. She marched to the nearest gangplank, waited until it cleared, and placed her foot onto the metal passageway. The bridge dipped then rose, and she stumbled. Grabbing at the rail, she steadied herself.
From the dock the ship appeared unmoving, yet the steel giant bobbed in the water like the small boats at home. How was that possible?
“Keep moving, lady. We got work to do,” a deep voice interrupted her thoughts from behind.
“Of course.” Cora glanced over her shoulder. Several scowling GIs held crates. “Oh, I’m sorry.” Face heating, she scampered to the end of the gangplank then stepped onto the ship and pressed herself against the wall. The men nodded to her as they carried their loads on board.
Her gaze darted back and forth. Which way to go? Tears pricked the backs of her eyes, and her pulse raced. Perspiration broke out along her hairline. Had she come this far only to chicken out? No. Miss Gellhorn might never know of her exploits, but she wanted to make the woman proud. To do this crazy stunt on behalf of all the female correspondents who were stuck in dead-end assignments. She would do this.
Lips pressed together, she lifted her chin and strode along the deck, threading her way through stacks of matériel and servicemen. She spied a tall soldier carrying a sheaf of papers and barking at a group of men huddled in the corner. With a glance at the patch on his arm, she set her jaw and made her way to him. She stood behind him, cringing at the colorful language that spewed from his mouth.
He turned and barreled into her, nearly knocking her off her feet. His pages fell as he grabbed her arms and kept her from falling. A snarl curled his lips, and his face darkened. “Red Cross dames below deck! You gals have got to stay out of the way while we load these babies.”
She shrank under his thunderous glare. “I’m…uh…new. I just arrived and wasn’t sure where to report.”
His left eyebrow shot up as he released her. “Your order should contain that information. If you can’t follow directions, you shouldn’t be here.” He bent and retrieved his scattered papers, then rose, towering over her again. He jerked his head toward the rear of the ship. “There’s an entrance on the port side of the stern. Head inside, then take the first set of ladders, then follow the corridor until—”
“Port side? Stern?” Her breath hitched. The man was speaking a foreign language. At this rate, she’d be lucky to find anything.
He rolled his eyes and blew out a loud breath. “Right. You’re a civilian. Port side is the left side if you’re facing the bow…er…front of the ship. Starboard is on the right. The stern is the back. Stairs are called ladders; floors are called decks; and the walls bulkheads. Clear?”
“Um, sure.” She forced a smile so he wouldn’t see how intimidated she appeared. Would all the men be as uncivil? “As you were saying?”
“I’ll give it to you in terms you understand. Go to the back of the boat on the side closest to the dock. Go through the hatch…uh…doorway and take the first set of stairs to the next deck below. Walk along the hallway until you see a large room with lots of tables and chairs. That’s the dining area, and the Red Cross has set up there to check in their folks.”
“Thank you.” She spoke to his back as he pivoted and stalked away. “Well, not the warmest of welcomes, but at least I know where I’m going.” She turned and followed his directions, pushing her way through the mayhem. Her head thrummed with the shouts and constant banging of metal against metal. Would that noise accompany them during the entire journey?
She rubbed her forehead. Now that she knew where the Red Cross authorities were, she could determine the best place to stay out from under their watchful eyes. Despite disguising herself as one of their members, she’d stopped short of securing falsified orders. She’d managed to bluff her way onto the ship without them, and with any luck no one would ask to see them once the transport was underway. Keep us safe, Father.
Why should He listen to her prayers? She was asking Him to bless her sinful deeds, and that He’d never do. She didn’t deserve His mercy or protection. Forgive me, Lord.
Silence.
Her lips trembled. She was putting herself in harm’s way for a story after lecturing Van on the foolishness of such a deed. She was a hypocrite. Would she live to submit her article or sink to the bottom of the sea, leaving her friends and family to wonder about her fate? Did Emily suffer such fears during her missions? None of the family knew what she was doing, only that her work was hush-hush, as the British liked to say. But with her knowledge of the French language and culture, Cora had no doubt she was in France or had been at some point. Please keep her safe, Lord.
Hand braced against the ship, Cora picked her way across the swaying deck. A shrill whistle cut through the mayhem below, and her head spun toward the noise. Why had she looked? It wasn’t as if the sound was for her. More likely, some crewman trying to grab the attention of one of his shipmates. Her guilt was making her jumpy.
A burst of fuchsia darted through the crowd. No. It couldn’t be. Cora’s heart pounded. She gripped the railing. But who else would wear such bright colors? She squinted in the setting sun and shielded her eyes, following the path of whomever was dressed in the flashy outfit. The sea of green uniforms parted, and she caught a glimpse of a pink pillbox hat set on shining mahogany hair. Her chest tightened.
The woman looked up, and Cora froze. Myrtle O’Malley. In the flesh. Was she trying to sneak on board? Or had she managed to get permission? No. Women weren’t allowed in combat. And in a dress like that, stealth was out of the question. What on earth was she doing here?
Myrtle sashayed through the chaos, simpering and speaking to the men, many of whom ogled her as she passed. She reached a jeep, and one of the soldiers jumped out of the vehicle, a huge smile on his face. He grabbed Myrtle into a bear hug and lifted her from the ground as she wrapped her arms around his neck. They embraced for a long moment, then he set her down and kissed her cheek. Who was that man? He’d embraced her, but his kiss seemed anything but ardent. A relative? A friend? A source?
Had Myrtle managed to scoop her and Van without stepping onto a ship? The soldier gestured toward the ship Cora was on, and she ducked out of sight. If Myrtle saw her, she’d report Cora to the authorities without a second thought. Best to get below deck before her cover was blown.
Breathless at nearly being caught, she continued through the hold, studying the tiny signs affixed to the wall…uh…bulkhead beside each door. One marked Supplies. She looked left and right, and seeing no one, yanked open the door and slipped inside.
The closet was perhaps four feet square with floor-to-ceiling shelves crammed with bottles, cloths, brushes, and buckets. A collection of mops and brooms leaned against the wall in one corner. She closed the door, and the tiny room was cloaked in darkness. Did she really want to spend the next twelve hours or more shoehorned in this black hole? How long before she ran out of air? Perhaps, she’d only stay until they cast anchor. Should she try to blend in with the other Red Cross girls or secrete herself in a succession of hiding places?
Amanda would tell her to hide in the open. Her friend would say as long as she looked confident, her ruse would be believed. They’d successfully cut class in high school with bravado. Why not use the same technique?
Cora set down her bags, opened the door to let in a crack of light so she could see, then grabbed a bucket and overturned it on the floor. She shut the door and groped in the darkness until she found the pail, seating herself on the hard steel. Muffled voices and footsteps passed in the corridor. Her shoulders tensed. Would the door be unceremoniously jerked open? How would she explain her presence? What would Van do?
His face sprang to mind, and she grinned. He’d bluff his way through the situation with charm and aplomb. He might be a farmer at heart, but he was a natural-born salesman.
Her smile wavered. He was going to be angry when he learned what she’d done. First, he’d be upset because she’d scooped him. Then he’d be dismayed that she’d put herself in danger. Would he have even the smallest bit of pride for her daring do?
Probably not.
Didn’t matter. He watched out for his career, and she could handle her own. She had no doubt Miss Gellhorn was on one of the ships. She’d insinuated as much during their last conversation. If Martha could do this, so could she. The journey would be interminable if she argued with herself across the entire Channel.
Time crawled, and Cora pinched herself to remain awake. The gentle rocking of the ship combined with the warmth and darkness of the closet made her drowsy. Had she nodded off?
Rumbling started beneath her feet, and the floor vibrated. Noise outside the door ceased. The ship was getting underway. Her heart jumped into her throat. She was heading into war…into battle. Her stomach roiled, and her lunch threatened to reappear.
There was no turning back.