The Land Beneath Us (Sunrise at Normandy #3) - Sarah Sundin Page 0,74

and Ruby and Holman and McKillop. At Taylor and Lombardi and all the others.

Every man in the platoon had loved ones back home. Every man had reasons to live. And every man was willing to sacrifice his life for the greater good. To take out those guns and protect the soldiers on Omaha and Utah and the sailors at sea. To assure the success of D-day and the Allied cause, to free the enslaved peoples of Europe and protect the folks back home.

Clay stifled a chuckle. It wasn’t as if he were solely responsible.

But if every man worked together and put others above self, the Allies would succeed.

Clay ran his finger along the rubbery rim of the cliff. Lord, don’t let me falter.

WEYMOUTH, ENGLAND

THURSDAY, JUNE 1, 1944

“Lovely day for a seaside stroll, old chap, what what?” Gene said in his affected English accent.

“Estás loco, viejo.” Clay shook his head at his crazy old man friend.

But Gene had a point. The Rangers marched in columns of two down the Esplanade in Weymouth. Filmy clouds and big silver barrage balloons floated in the bright blue sky. To Clay’s right, three- and four-story buildings lined the Esplanade, including the stately gray Victoria Hotel and a quaint building striped with alternating red and white bricks.

The blue bay stretched away to his left. Sandbags and rolls of barbed wire served as a reminder of when Britain feared an invasion. Now they were launching one.

Sergeant Lombardi sang “I’ve Been Working on the Railroad,” and Clay joined in.

They were all dressed for combat, in Parsons field jackets, trousers tucked into Corcoran boots, and net-covered steel helmets emblazoned on the back with an orange diamond with a blue “2” in the middle for the 2nd Ranger Battalion.

Clay wore his pack on his back, his gas mask in a black neoprene case on his chest, and his cartridge belt around his waist, loaded to the brim. He carried an M1 Garand rifle, while others carried BAR Browning Automatic Rifles, Tommy guns, mortars, carbines, and pistols.

In front of him, Pete Voinescu paused to rearrange his hefty medical pack, and Clay halted his step so he wouldn’t run into the medic. Pete had better not waste too many supplies on Clay in his final moments.

A twinge in his chest. He’d tied up his loose ends, but Daddy had unraveled one.

With Mama still in Tullahoma, only Daddy had read the letter in the pack Clay had mailed. Daddy—always quick and impulsive—hadn’t read it carefully. He assured Clay that if the worst should happen, he’d mail Clay’s letters to Wyatt, Adler, and Leah.

Except Clay had only asked him to hold Leah’s letter until after his death. He’d wanted his brothers’ letters mailed immediately. Now they wouldn’t receive his forgiveness before the invasion.

Nothing Clay could do about it now.

Lieutenant Taylor led the platoon into a tent along the Esplanade. A sign read “From the folks back home through the American Red Cross.”

The smell of coffee and donuts filled his nostrils, and he pulled out his tin canteen cup and lined up.

American women in gray-blue uniforms ladled coffee from a giant vat into the Rangers’ cups and passed them donuts.

“Thank you kindly, miss.” Clay nodded to the young lady, small and dark haired like his Leah, and he took a swig of nice hot coffee.

“Thank you,” she said in a soft voice, also like his Leah.

Clay’s throat contracted, and he almost choked. Was that the last time he’d hear a woman’s voice? See a female face?

Outside, on the far side of the tent, Clay passed photographers and a movie camera, and he faked a grin and lifted his cup to those folks back home who’d sent young ladies to serve him his last donut. To his parents. To Leah.

Clay chewed his donut as the Rangers fell back into formation and resumed their march. A seagull swooped down for a bite. Clay shooed him away, and the bird squawked in protest.

He didn’t want to die anymore, but he was ready. He’d been praying constantly. The joy hadn’t returned, but the peace had, and resolve had taken root and held.

At the end of the Esplanade, a spit of land thrust into the harbor, topped with the massive white Weymouth Pavilion, covered with domes and balconies and other turn-of-the-century ornamentation.

Clay crossed the spit of land to a canal, where a dozen gray-blue landing craft were docked. His squad and three others lined up by their vessel. They’d used the same LCA in numerous amphibious exercises, and today it’d