Durant pointed his chin toward the gun crew. “I like what you did.”
“What I did, sir?”
“The petty officers are the best asset on any ship, far better than any of us with an Academy ring.” The CO flashed his own gold ring. “Udell knows guns and he knows his men. If we get out of his way, he’ll do his job.”
“Yes, sir.” Warmth rose in his chest. He’d done something right.
Durant glanced over his shoulder. “You’re a good match for Reinhardt. Between the two of you I might have myself a good officer.”
Jim’s left eye twitched. That was only half a compliment then. One more reason to hoist his sails and stop floating.
“Are you a Bible-reading man like your brothers?” Durant’s blue eyes homed in on him.
“Yes, sir.”
“Read Nehemiah.”
“All right.” But he frowned in confusion. Why would his CO want him to read about the rebuilding of Jerusalem’s walls?
“Something you said to Udell reminded me of Nehemiah. See if you can find it. Come to think of it ... Mr. Reinhardt!” He waved over the gunnery officer.
“Yes, sir?” Reinhardt stepped over with a lot less steel in his gaze.
“Read Nehemiah. In the Bible.” Durant pointed his finger, swept it from bow to stern. “All of you—all my officers are going to read it. No one could lead like Nehemiah. Tomorrow night we’ll discuss it over dinner. Pass the word, both of you.”
“But...” Reinhardt gazed toward the bridge. “But what about Shapiro? He’s Jewish.”
“All the better.” Durant slapped Reinhardt on the back and strode away. “Last I checked, Nehemiah was Jewish too.”
How many times had Dan and Rob warned Jim about Durant’s strange sudden assignments? Jim laughed.
Reinhardt sent him a baffled look, the first truly human look Jim had seen from the man. “Nehemiah?”
Jim grinned at him. “Guess we have some walls to build.”
11
Boston Navy Yard
Tuesday, June 3, 1941
The air in the drafting room stood still, and Mary halted inside the doorway. All the draftsmen sat at their angled desks, pens silent, ears cocked toward Mr. Winslow’s office, toward the sound of raised voices.
Mary crossed the room as if nothing were wrong and opened her notebook to a fresh page. Since she was there on official business, no one would think anything unusual about her presence.
She paused outside the office and peered around the burly shoulders of George O’Donnell to catch Mr. Winslow’s eye. At the naval architect’s nod, she stepped just outside the doorway and leaned against the wall to wait.
And to take notes.
“Mr. O’Donnell,” Mr. Winslow said in his cultured tones. “It’s hardly uncommon for a supervisor to check the work of his subordinates. In fact, it’s expected.”
“You don’t trust me? I’ve been a draftsman since before you were born. Subordinate, my foot.”
“I appreciate your experience, but—”
“But you think your fancy college degree makes you qualified to judge my work.”
“It isn’t a matter of judging—”
