30

USS Oglesby, St. George’s Channel
Saturday, May 13, 1944

“I can’t believe you told her.” Jack Vale buttoned up his khaki shirt.

“I know.” Wyatt gritted his teeth and pulled on his heavy mackinaw, changing out of the dress blues he’d worn for dinner on the first dog watch. “Now she knows I’m a lovelorn fool, but I had to be honest.”

Jack grabbed his cover from the bottom bunk. “On the bright side, now that she knows you love her, maybe she’ll come to look at you in a new light.”

“That’s what I like about you, Vale—your optimism.”

With a flourish of his cover, Jack swept a low bow. “At your service.”

“Wish it were warranted.” Wyatt took his own cover off the top bunk. “She’s been crazy about Eaton since she was a girl. He went on their family vacations, and she keeps painting the house where they stayed. He’s got a hold on her—and a date with her tonight.”

Jack let out a low whistle. “You sure know how to pick them, Wy.”

“I sure do.” Dorothy’s shocked face when he’d confessed his love wouldn’t leave his mind—her hand over her mouth, her eyes wide with dismay, her forehead pinched with pity.

Wyatt slammed his eyes shut as if he could wipe his memory clean, but he of all people knew the past couldn’t be undone. Better to follow Dorothy’s example—no more wallowing.

He pulled his stationery box from a desk drawer, then led the way out of the cabin, down the passageway, through the wardroom, and up the ladder.

Jack kept climbing, up to the Combat Information Center for duty, but Wyatt stepped out onto the main deck. He was off duty for the second dog watch, but he had an important personal duty to attend to.

He stood at the rails and inhaled the cool air. The sun brightened the clouds above the Irish coast in the distance before him, promising almost two good hours of daylight.

Four destroyers of DesRon 18 steamed in a column through a narrow channel kept swept of mines. The ships would spend the next two weeks at Belfast, Northern Ireland, at Greenock, Scotland, and in the waters in between. The crews would keep busy with antiaircraft, antisubmarine, and gunnery drills, and would work with the Shore Fire Control Parties.

He strode aft down the deck. Time to write Adler and Clay.

D-day was less than a month away, and he wanted his brothers to receive the letters before. Dorothy had said she couldn’t have borne it if she and her brothers had been estranged when they died. If one of the Paxton boys—or all of them—should die during the invasion, he wanted them to go out on good terms. If nothing else, Wyatt would know he’d done his part.

Above him, the two stacks of the Oglesby puffed out steam as the ship made eighteen knots. Sailors bustled around changing watch, and Wyatt nodded to the men as they went to the mess.

He had to admit the main reason he hadn’t written earlier was fear. Not only fear he’d never be forgiven, but the greater fear that his family would never be restored.

Wyatt passed the aft superstructure, crowned with the 40-mm guns.

Sure, paying off his debt was right and necessary, but he’d used the debt as an excuse to avoid confrontation.

Wyatt worked his hand inside his mackinaw and slipped his notepad out of his breast pocket. Pages and pages of neat figures showed the huge sum being whittled down. Even with what he’d given Dorothy, he only had $42.57 left to repay, which would be brought to zero when he was paid at the end of the month. Right before D-day.

He sat on the deck astern of the number four gun, a quiet place since no gunnery drills were scheduled tonight.

Resting back against the heavy steel gun enclosure, he drew up his knees. The barrel of the gun stretched over his head, pointing south. In front of him, two depth-charge racks sat at the stern, ready to dump depth charges on any U-boats that dared navigate the narrow St. George’s Channel between Wales and Ireland.

His hands clamped around the stationery box. “Lord, give me the words,” he whispered. “Let me bring peace, not anger. Reconciliation, not further division. Put my family back together, Lord. Please. Only you can do that.”

No more procrastinating. No more excuses. Wyatt set a sheet of stationery on top of the box and uncapped his pen.

Dear Adler,

I’m sure you’re surprised to hear from me, but I pray you’ll read this and consider what I have to say. I need to apologize and ask your forgiveness.

Sounds like you and I finally wrote home about the same time. Mama gave me your address and begged me to write you. She said you’re a fighter pilot. I’m a naval officer based on the same island. Looks like all three of us are preparing for the same operation. On Easter Sunday, I believe I saw you in the park. I couldn’t face you then, but I choose to do so now.

I can’t begin to tell you how sorry I am about Oralee. Although her death was an accident and there was no malice in my actions, my role wasn’t completely innocent. We have a long history of competition, you and I, and I resented how my younger brother bested me in everything. But Oralee rightfully chose you over me. You two were meant to be together, and I was wrong to let jealousy take root.

When she didn’t want to cross that bridge and you kept coaxing her, all that resentment boiled up. My pride started that argument. My anger made Oralee cross the bridge just to stop our fighting. And my jealousy led her to refuse my help even as she teetered on the edge.

So no, I didn’t kill her in the eyes of God or the law, but my actions did lead to her death. Even though the Lord has forgiven me, I will always live with the regret that her life ended far too early and that your life together never began.

Please know I am deeply sorry for the grief I caused you. If you should choose to forgive me, I’ll be forever grateful. But if you don’t, I’ll understand.

I’ve never blamed you for wanting to kill me that day, and I forgave you for that long ago. How can I do otherwise when I recognize the depth of my own sins against you and Clay and while I accept Jesus’s astounding mercy?

As this war heats up, only God knows what will happen to us. I can’t head into battle without telling you everything in my heart. As much as we competed and fought, I miss you. I miss how you challenged me. I miss your sunny spirit, your passionate drive, and how you inspire everyone to do their best. You’re a good man, and I admire you, respect you, and love you. I’m a better man for having you as my brother.

I pray we can be reconciled and can meet again. I’m enclosing my address, and I hope you write me. Whatever you have to say, I can take it. Even if we’re never reconciled, please know I’ll pray for you all the days of my life.

Your brother, Wyatt

His head sagged back against the gun’s cold steel. If only he could refill his drained soul before writing the next letter. But the war wouldn’t wait for one man to catch his breath, so he exchanged the written letter for a blank sheet of stationery and sent up another prayer. This letter would be even more difficult.

Dear Clay,

I’m sure Daddy and Mama told you that I finally wrote home. Now I’ve worked up the courage to write you and tell you how very sorry I am.

The only reason Adler didn’t kill me that day was because you held him back so I could escape. Thank you for saving my life and for saving Adler from the consequences of murder. You deserved my gratitude. Instead, I betrayed you.

I could make excuses and say that panic and fear messed up my thinking, but there’s no excuse for stealing your savings.

Like a coward, I stole and I ran. I went to stay with a college buddy in Charleston. I intended to send back the remainder of your money, get a job, and pay back what I’d spent. Instead, I let my friend talk me into investing your money—without your permission—in his company. I thought I’d double your money in months. Not only would you receive your college savings, but you’d receive full tuition for medical school as well.

But the company failed. I lost every penny, plus we owed our creditors.

Since I no longer trusted my business skills, I didn’t dare take an accounting job. When I saw a Navy recruitment office, I signed up for officer training. I’m now in the same part of the world as you, preparing for the same operation.

For the past three years, I’ve deeply regretted how I betrayed you. But Daddy’s letter showed me the truth. I didn’t just steal your money—I stole your lifelong dream. I wasn’t aware that Paxton Trucking was in poor financial straits and that Daddy couldn’t afford your tuition. I know how much you hated working in the office, how much you wanted to be a physician, and what a good doctor you would have been.

It breaks my heart that my selfish actions prevented you from doing what God created you to do. Knowing you were drafted because you weren’t studying medicine only deepens my remorse.

For what it’s worth, I’m almost done paying off my debt, not just what I stole but interest and a large fine. At the end of the month, my paycheck will cover the last of it. I’ll send a check home for Daddy to deposit. If something should happen to me before then, my will states that my full bank account goes to you, plus a third of my life insurance.

I have no right to ask for forgiveness, but I do want you to know how sorry I am. I take full responsibility for the sins I committed against you and God. The Lord has seen fit to forgive me, but I’ll understand if you don’t.

Before we head into battle, I need to tell you how much I love and miss you. As much as Adler and I fought, we rarely fought with you. Somehow we knew you were the best of the Paxton boys, and we always protected you. Until the night I betrayed you.

Please know that hideous act doesn’t reflect how I truly feel about you. You’re always kind, always generous, always cheerful. A born healer, concerned not just with the body but with the heart and soul. I pray that when this war is over, you can fulfill your dream and have the life God meant for you.

I also pray we can be reconciled one day. If you choose, please write me at the address below. Don’t hold anything back. You deserve to have your say.

No matter what happens to us in the coming days, please know I’ll love you and pray for you till the Lord takes me home.

Your brother, Wyatt

To the west, the lowering sun turned the clouds golden. Wyatt slipped the letter inside the stationery box. He’d mail both when the destroyers returned to Weymouth. Most likely, he’d find gaps to fill and he wanted them to be perfect.

Wyatt drew his notepad from his pocket. The little pages fluttered in the wind, cataloguing each lash of self-flagellation. He did have to mail the letters and pay his debt because it was right, but he also had to forgive himself—whether or not his brothers ever forgave him.

God already knew the full consequences of Wyatt’s actions when he forgave him, when he built the road to redemption on the cross. Nothing could wash away that road. Nothing.

Cool salty air filled Wyatt’s lungs. For three years he’d refused to forgive himself, as if doing so would dishonor his brothers. Instead, his refusal only dishonored Jesus’s sacrifice.

“Lord, no more,” he whispered. “I won’t do it anymore. What I did that night was wrong, but living in shame is wrong too. You never excused my actions, but you forgave me. And I—I forgive me too.”

The notepad bent in half in his grip. In Greenock, he’d toss it in the scrap paper bin.