The Land Beneath Us (Sunrise at Normandy #3) - Sarah Sundin Page 0,52
his eyes from the sunshine glancing off the white chalk cliffs. In the chilly afternoon, dozens of Rangers climbed ropes up the two-hundred-foot slopes on the Isle of Wight.
Whatever mission Gen. Dwight Eisenhower had in mind for Rudder’s Rangers, it had to involve cliffs.
Clay’s boots slipped on the large pebbles on the beach, and he dug in his toes. The tall lace-up Corcoran jump boots worn by the 2nd Rangers had led to multiple scuffles with paratroopers, who claimed only they had the right to the footwear. But scaling cliffs without a safety line was no less dangerous than jumping from a plane with a parachute.
A loud cuss, and a man tumbled fifteen feet to the beach—Manfred Brady.
Clay scrambled over to give aid, but Brady stood, shaking his meaty fist and blaming his squad members for his fall.
“Hothead.” Clay returned to the foot of the rope he’d soon ascend.
Since Christmas, he’d scrutinized the men who’d been in the battalion since Camp Forrest. Could any of them be Leah’s assailant or the murderer?
He had little to go by. Medium height and build. Leah had noticed dark hair under the cap, but in low light even medium shades looked dark.
At first Clay had concentrated on hotheads. But Leah’s assailant had obviously tracked her routines, lain in wait, and lured her by turning on the light in the storage room. That spoke of a cold and calculating man.
If the Florida murderer was a Ranger, he must have sneaked out at night and rowed into town, since they’d never had leave before the girl’s disappearance.
“Paxton, you’re up.” Lombardi held out the rope.
“Yes, Sergeant.” He made sure his bayonet was loose in its scabbard in case he needed it, then grabbed the rope.
Up he went, hand over callused hand. In gym he’d always been good at rope-climbing, but he’d always feared falling and breaking his neck.
Not now, and he grinned. He wouldn’t die in a fall. Even if he fell, he wouldn’t be injured badly enough to keep him out of the invasion. His dream freed him to climb just as it had freed him to marry Leah.
Chalk and sandstone scraped his hands and fell away from beneath his feet. His breath was hard but steady, and his muscles announced their presence without pain.
To either side, Rangers in fatigues ascended, calm and steady. They knew they were strong, they knew they were good, and they knew this was for a purpose.
About ten feet to the top, and Clay savored the cool air and the sounds of surf, seagulls, and soldiers.
The rope went slack.
Clay cried out and grabbed at the cliff with hands and feet, scrabbling for a grip.
Chalk gave way under his fingers, and he slid, the slight outward slope slowing his fall. “Help me, Lord!”
The bayonet! Clay whipped it from the scabbard and stabbed it into the cliff.
It held.
“Thank you.” He groped around with his feet and his free hand until he had a solid hold.
“Paxton!” Lombardi yelled up to him. “You all right?”
“Could use a rope, y’all.” He pressed his whole body to the cliff, and his breath brought up puffs of white dust.
His heart pounded like crazy. That had been close. Thank goodness he’d been the last man to climb so no one else had been endangered.
He peered down the slope. The rope lay in a tangled coil on the pebbles. That could have been him, dream or no dream.
“Pax!” Gene’s voice came from above, almost frantic. “Grab hold.”
Something whapped the back of his steel helmet.
A rope, and Clay took it. He wiggled his bayonet free, clenched it between his teeth, and climbed to the top.
Holman and McKillop yanked on the rope. Gene and Ruby grabbed Clay’s arms and hoisted him up onto horizontal ground.
Clay dropped the bayonet and lay flat, his fingers working into cool blessed grass. “What happened?”
“Lyons tripped over the line.” Contempt warped Sid Rubenstein’s voice.
“What?” Clay pushed up to his knees and pulled in a ragged breath. Why on earth had Lyons been near the lines? They all knew better than that.
“Yeah, Lyons.” Ernie McKillop glared at him. “What were you thinking?”
“It was an accident.” Lyons shrugged. “Sorry.”
“Glad to hear it.” Clay couldn’t keep sarcasm out of his tone. If any other man in the battalion had caused such an accident, he’d have fallen all over himself apologizing and thanking heaven no one had been hurt.
Not cool and calculating Frank Lyons.
Not that dark-haired man of medium build, and Clay’s blood chilled.