Margaret glanced at her watch. It was almost time to catch the bus, and she wanted to get the letter out before the mailman arrived. She and William had determined that it took about a week to get a letter from one to the other. This was aided by her location in New York and his in a training area in England. Both were well-traveled mail routes compared to those closer to the front lines. Or deeper west into the United States. They knew once he headed into combat that delivery would likely be more sporadic.

Sometimes she included the letters in the boxes she and Dottie and Gladys sent. They’d knit about sixty pairs of socks over the Saturday nights, and more men in the company were asking for them. By the time William received this letter—being sent on its own—it would be just a few weeks until Christmas. She would have to think of something special to send for the holiday. Not only for William but also for her brother. And she couldn’t leave Tom out. The third Musketeer, to reference the name they’d given themselves. Unoriginal, but meaningful just the same.

She folded the letter and licked the envelope but paused before sealing it up. She turned it over to the part where she’d signed her name and added a postscript.

There is something I must tell you about Dottie. Please don’t tell John. But I want one of you to know in case it ever becomes opportune that he should know. A baby is coming…

Margaret wrote a few more details and hoped that John wouldn’t discover the letter. But instinct formed a knot in her stomach, and it compelled her to share what Dottie didn’t yet want to have known. She trusted William to keep it a secret.

She sealed the envelope before she could change her mind and hurried downstairs to slip it into the mailbox on her way to the bus stop.

*  *  *

Engraving ordnance was not unlike embroidering. Instead of needle and thread, her tools were hammers and chisels and gravers. It was not difficult per se, though it did require precision, much like any other kind of handiwork. Currently, they were outfitting the USS Missouri with artillery shells for their sixteen-inch guns. When George first told her that this was the kind of ordnance she would be working with, she pictured something akin to pistols that were sixteen inches in length. But before their first shift, George had taken Dottie and Margaret for the closest look at the Missouri that they’d ever gotten.

“No,” he explained in his kind way that held no trace of condescension. “That measurement refers to the width of the opening of the gun. They’re going to be massive, ladies. Bigger than anything we’ve ever done. Capable of launching rounds as far as twenty miles away and destroying enemy ships with one hit.”