Just like Daddy said!” Freddy crowed. Wesley looked up and up and up at the gray sides of the USS Ticonderoga, docked within a massive labyrinth of scaffolding. He whistled. “Blimey! How big is that thing?” Freddy grinned and recited the stats from memory: “Eight hundred, eighty-eight feet long, the length of two and a half football fields. It has eight boilers and four steam turbines. It’ll carry eighty-two planes and three thousand, four hundred and forty-eight men. And,” he added proudly, “my daddy helped build it.” “He sure did,” said Alma, patting Freddy’s arm. “It’s the sixth aircraft carrier your daddy has helped build in Newport News in two years.” She and Ed stood behind the boys, their hands resting on Wesley’s and Freddy’s shoulders to shield them from the push and shove of high-ranking dignitaries hurrying closer to the grandstand—a steady tide of naval officers in dress uniform, politicians in felt fedoras and heavy overcoats, and women in pearls, mink coats, white gloves, and Sunday-best hats.
