“Second gun we’ve had installed.” Reinhardt narrowed his grayish eyes at Jim.
So the man didn’t care for enthusiasm. He’d have to find another way to win him over. “Here’s hoping we never fire them.”
“That’d make for a dull job.” Reinhardt adjusted his khaki cover over his red hair and gazed across Boston Harbor toward the open Atlantic.
Hadley snickered. “If you like to float, dull is best.”
Jim dug his fisting hands into the pockets of his khaki trousers. “Actually, I prefer a little excitement in life, but either way I’ll do my job and do it well.”
Reinhardt nodded once, his gaze unmoving.
A sigh filled Jim’s cheeks, but he swallowed it. Once they set sail, Reinhardt would see Jim as an asset. He’d already befriended most of the enlisted gun crews, black men and white. He’d figured out most of the men’s strengths and weaknesses. He’d be able to motivate and encourage them better than cool-as-an-icicle Reinhardt.
Nothing wrong with floating anyway. Not everyone wanted to be an admiral. Jim just wanted to do good work with good people. And he didn’t want to hurt anyone along the way.
Down by the number two mount, the workmen swarmed around, welding and tightening bolts.
“Kaplan! Kaplan!” One of the workers beckoned another. “I need that wrench and now.”
“Coming, Mr. Fiske.” A lean, dark-haired man strode over.
Jim squinted at the men. Kaplan? Fiske? Weren’t those two of the men Mary had mentioned? “Say, Mr. Reinhardt. Anything you need from me?”
A slight shake of the head. No one would accuse the man of wasting words.
“See you later.” Jim worked his way down to the gun platform and over to the laborers.
The older man who seemed to be in charge—that was Fiske. He took the wrench from Kaplan. “How’s it coming?”
“It’d be coming along a lot faster if Bauer weren’t on the job.” He gestured with his thumb toward a man squatting nearby with a welding torch.
Bauer? Another suspect. Jim restrained a smile and stepped closer. Maybe he could play detective and pick up some tidbits for Mary.
The welder got to his feet, took off his mask, and ran his hand through blond hair.
“Thanks for the job you’re doing.” Jim stuck out his hand. “Ensign Jim Avery, assistant gunnery officer. Those are my guns you’re working on.”
“Heinrich Bauer.” He shook Jim’s hand and glanced away.
“How long have you been a welder here?”
“Four years. Why do you ask?”
“Just being friendly.”
“You need not watch me. I am not a Nazi.” His tone cut like a razor, and his blue eyes blazed. But something around the edges of his eyes—a flutter—spoke of fear. A purplish bruise covered his cheekbone.
“Say, what happened?”
Bauer’s mouth tightened. “May I work, sir?”
“I’ll tell you what happened.” The dark-haired fellow, Kaplan, came over. “He got too close to his buddy’s ‘Sieg Heil!’” He thrust up one hand in a Nazi salute, then mimed grabbing his own cheek in pain.
Jim stepped between them. “I’d suggest you both get back to work.”
Bauer marched away. “How can I work with this—this nonsense?”
“Yeah, that’s right. Slink back to Herr Hitler, report your spying, your sabotage.” Kaplan leaned forward.
