The Land Beneath Us (Sunrise at Normandy #3) - Sarah Sundin Page 0,77

Somewhere above the overcast, the moon shone dim gray light on the other twenty Rangers and the British boat crew.

The landing craft chugged forward at six knots over bumpy waves. It would take two hours to travel the twelve miles from the transport area to Pointe du Hoc, where the Rangers were due to land at 0630.

He stood up so he could see over the side. Although he’d never be able to tell the story of what he’d done on D-day, he didn’t want to miss a single one of his last moments.

Clay gripped the bow ramp, and cold saltwater misted over his face. He squinted at the two columns of boats—a British motor launch that would guide Force A to shore, four DUKWs, and twelve LCAs—ten carrying the Rangers and two carrying supplies.

Lt. Col. Jim Rudder rode in the leading LCA. He was supposed to have stayed on the command ship USS Ancon to direct both the 2nd and 5th Battalions. But when the Force A commander had gotten rip-roaring drunk the night before and had punched Doc Block, the commander had been escorted off the transport. Rudder had taken his place.

Clay didn’t mind having the football coach leading his team.

What a team. Clay stood in the bow with Lieutenant Taylor on his left and Gene on his right. Holman, McKillop, and Ruby sat behind them. Clay’s rifle squad would be first off the boat. Behind them sat Sgt. Tommy Lombardi with the Browning Automatic Rifle squad, including Manfred Brady and Frank Lyons. In the rear sat the two squads from the other section.

A wave hit the side of the LCA, and cold water slipped over the side of the boat. Clay fought off a shudder. If Lyons wanted to kill Clay, today would be the day to do it.

Then he chuckled. He wouldn’t die at the hand of Frank Lyons.

A low rumble built overhead, approaching from the north, a deep and persistent drone. Had to be the Lancaster heavy bombers of the Royal Air Force, which were scheduled to dump bombs on the point starting at 0450.

A retching sound behind him. Bob Holman leaned over with a paper bag to his mouth. Then he tossed the bag overboard, wiped his mouth on his sleeve, and groaned.

Come to think of it, the ride was pretty rough for any stomach that hadn’t been toughened by Mama’s chili peppers. Clay pulled his bag from inside his field jacket and handed it to Holman.

One less thing for Clay to carry. The Rangers were traveling light. Two bandoliers of ammo crisscrossed Clay’s chest, and his cartridge belt was loaded with ammo, grenades, and one chocolate D ration bar. All the men’s packs and extra ammunition and rations and demolitions would land with the two supply LCAs. As for luxury items, Gene wore Betty Jo’s red-and-blue necktie under his uniform, and Clay carried his serviceman’s Bible with Leah and Helen’s picture tucked inside.

Gene leaned in front of Clay. “Say, Lieutenant? Should we bail?”

An inch or two of water sloshed around Clay’s boots. With the extra layer of armor, the British LCAs rode lower in the water than the American LCVPs.

“We’re fine.” Taylor peered into the darkness and nodded behind him. “But I don’t like the looks of that boat—D Company, I think.”

Sure enough, one landing craft rode even lower in the water. Motion flickered above the top line of the boat—the Rangers bailing, most likely.

“Just to be safe.” Gene took off his helmet, scooped some water, and flung it over the side. The wind caught it and flung half of it back in. He scrunched up his face at Clay. “The wind is fighting for the Germans.”

Clay chuckled and scooped a helmet-full himself. Bailing didn’t hurt, and it might help. But he emptied it on the other side.

Taylor cursed. “Forget what I said. Everyone, bail.”

What had changed? With his next scoop, Clay glanced back toward the low-riding LCA—only the bow was showing, and small white splashes appeared in the inky water. It was going down.

Clay wanted to order the coxswain to swing around and pick up the men in the water, but the coxswain wouldn’t listen. And rightly so. Not only did they have to stick to their timetable, but the extra weight would endanger their own craft.

“Lord, send someone to rescue them.” Clay’s helmet scraped along the plywood bottom of the hull.

For the next half hour, the LCA plodded through the waves, and the men bailed off and on and vomited off and