July 6, 1942. Allied Convoy PQ 17: Barents Sea

Seaman Gabriel Horowitz gave a pensive look downward, mesmerized by the churning waters astern the Liberty Ship SS John Witherspoon as it plodded along, its overtaxed engines barely making nine knots. They might as well be standing still, he mused.

He felt the ship shift slightly to port as the rudder began to correct their course. He gave a sidelong glance over at the figure standing next to him. The lanky third mate named Hawkins, who hailed from Galveston, Texas, stood meditatively looking out over the vast horizon of the Barents Sea.

The man appropriately nicknamed "Tex" was not much of a talker. He squinted toward a vessel off to the west and let loose with a stream of chewing tobacco spit.

"That's the Pan Atlantic, I think," muttered Gabriel, trying to break the nervous tension every merchant marine sailor felt out in the middle of nowhere.

The Texan looked down appraisingly at the spindly seventeen-year-old. Gabe, as everybody called him, averted his eyes momentarily. After all, Tex was several years older than him, a man in his midtwenties.

It had been nearly nine days since the thirty-five-ship convoy departed its anchorage at the port of Hvalfjordur, Iceland. Their destination was at the northernmost tip of the Soviet Union: the ports of Murmansk and Arkhangelsk. Each ship was crammed to the hilt with vital supplies needed by the Russians to continue to battle the German army.

The normally stoic Hawkins seemed uneasy. Although it was midsummer, the convoy had already lost two vessels due to ice and mishaps — an inauspicious start. The superstitious Texan saw that as a harbinger of things to come.

Gabe looked up at Tex. This wasn't Hawkins' first voyage. He had made several cross-Atlantic trips prior to America's entering the war in 1941 and had even survived a previous sortie to Murmansk last year.

However, this time something just wasn't sitting right with Tex. There seemed to be an air of panic amongst the leaders and admiralty. The Germans had stepped up their attacks, giving special attention to the Northern Russian–bound convoy designations "PQ," or as the sailors referred to them, the "Murmansk Run": 2,500 miles of anxiousness and fear discreetly hidden behind a keen sense of duty. The lazy drone of aircraft engines in the distance, just above the horizon, caught the two men's attention. It was a German Condor long-range patrol craft. The Germans had been shadowing them for days now.

"Is it me or are we really out of formation?" Horowitz broke the silence again. "We aren't nearly as tight as we were a few days ago."

Hawkins did not answer at first, ignoring the boy's obvious attempts to strike up a conversation. He disliked northerners, especially those from New York.

What the meek, bespectacled young man did not know was that Tex had just come from the radio room in an effort to clear his head. The news coming across the wire was so overwhelming that even the seasoned sailor needed some fresh air. Conversation of any kind was the furthest thing from his mind, especially with a Yankee.

Convoy PQ 17 had already lost twelve ships to U-boats and air attacks yesterday. If that news wasn't bad enough, the British Admiralty had just received word that the Bismarck's sister ship, the Battleship Tirpitz, was now missing from its home port along with two heavy cruisers. The British, suspecting the worst, did the unthinkable. British Admiral Pound, knowing the smaller military escorts of the convoy were no match for the Tirpitz's eight fifteen-inch main guns, ordered the small contingent of protecting allied warships to head west — away from the impending threat — and issued a command for the remaining cargo vessels of the convoy to scatter. They were on their own — sitting ducks.

Hawkins gestured for Gabriel to follow him as they walked in the direction of the wheelhouse located amidships.

"Those fires and explosions I heard last night —" Gabriel's voice was unsteady. "Those were all ships from our convoy going down, weren't they?"

Tex turned to the young seaman, uncertain of how to calm his nerves. He did not wish to worry him. However, he needed every crew member on their toes. He decided to change the subject. "Do all city folk talk as fast as you?"

"I'm not from the city," Gabriel replied somewhat defensively. "I'm from Long Island. My family owns a potato farm out in Suffolk County."

Then, giving Hawkins a dose of his own medicine, he asked, "Are all southerners aloof and suspicious of everyone they meet that does not hail from south of the Mason–Dixon line?"

Tex nodded and grinned. He pushed back his sweat-stained ball cap. "Pretty much." He lingered, looking up toward the portside five-ton boom standing just above cargo hold four. It was not secured properly and swung to and fro, clanging noisily. He removed a small green pocket notebook from his jacket. He would need to get with one of the boatswain mates to correct the deficiency. "I never met a Jewish potato farmer before."

"And I've never run across a sailor from Texas before," retorted Gabe. "When I think of Texas I only imagine cowboys, Indians, cattle, and tumbleweeds, not sailors. I guess that makes us even."

"Haven't you ever heard of the great port of Galveston?"

The boy shook his head.

The stereotypical references exchanged caused Tex to chuckle. "Son, beneath our feet and fastened to these here decks sits equipment ranging from modern fighter aircraft to fresh skivvies and everything else in between."

Gabriel chuckled at the underwear comment. Then he quickly regained his composure.

"I won't lie to you boy, our ..." he paused, searching for the perfect word, "situation is a serious one." Then he held up a hand, leaned over the side rail, and spat. "But our mission is of a serious nature as well."

Gabe tilted his head. "What? The Russians are out of clean underwear?" A cold stare ended any further thoughts of future comedic references.

"Look, son, I'm no fan of the Reds either. I think they got what they deserved. What were they thinking, making a pact with Hitler anyway?"

At the mention of Hitler, Gabriel stiffened, and his features took on a more serious tone. The mere sound of that man's name brought him to a near fit. "You know what the Germans are doing to my people, don't you?"

"Who, potato farmers from Long Island?" Now it was Tex's turn to poke fun and lighten the mood. He immediately held up an apologetic hand. "Let's not forget who you're talkin' to. This ain't my first rodeo, son. I've been overseas a time or two. And despite what you Yankees think, we southern boys can read the Times Picayune just as good as anyone up north."

Gabriel could only shake his head and grin in response to the Times Picayune comment and Hawkins's attempt at humor; he was slathering on the southern accent a bit too heavily. "It's well. You can read the paper as well as anyone up north."

Tex gave Gabe a friendly smack in the back of the head for the comment. "In all seriousness, son." He pointed to all the boxes and machinery lashed to the decking.

"Every piece of equipment we are carrying is critical to the war effort. For every German the Russians kill, that's one less of them shootin' at one of our boys when the time comes. The Germans...