The Land Beneath Us (Sunrise at Normandy #3) - Sarah Sundin Page 0,8

not appeal to you, we’ll transfer you out.”

Clay’s question had been answered. James Rudder had coached football at John Tarleton Agricultural College in Texas, and he’d tried to recruit Clay. He winced. Rudder had better not remember him. The last thing Clay wanted was reminiscing.

“Company commanders, take charge of your companies,” Rudder said.

That was about the shortest speech Clay had heard from a CO, and he and Gene exchanged a look. Would Major Rudder whip the battalion into shape, or would he fall to the wayside with the others?

“All right, men. Grab your packs,” Lieutenant Taylor called. “Twelve-mile speed march, then lunch if you’re still alive.”

The men grumbled as they trudged to their packs, but not Clay. He liked the conditioning, the drills, the weapons training, and the marches. Every day he felt stronger and more capable. If only that were enough.

Sitting on his cot in the pyramidal tent that evening, Clay peeled off his socks. Only one new blister, and it had already popped.

“What? No blood in your boots? Don’t you want to be a Ranger, Pax?” Gene showed off one blood-soaked sock.

Clay chuckled. “Don’t rat on me, buddy.”

“I won’t.”

“Bathe your feet well,” Clay said. “Dry them thoroughly and let them air out tonight. And don’t forget to use foot powder in the morning.”

“Yes, doc.”

Clay’s chest tightened, but how could he keep his mouth shut when he could help someone? “I’m not a doctor. I just—”

“Listened in class.” Bob Holman lay on his cot reading a magazine. “Yeah, we know.”

The tent flap swung open, and Sergeant Lombardi stepped in. “Listen up, men. Report to headquarters. Major Rudder wants to meet his men one on one.”

One on one? Clay would have to be careful to say little and get out fast.

All the fellows groaned as they slipped battered feet into shoes, so Clay’s groan went unnoticed.

The six men in his tent filed out into the humid purple dusk and traipsed down the dirt road in Tent City to HQ.

Never one to put off the inevitable, Clay led the pack, and Lombardi let him in first.

In the tent, Major Rudder and Lieutenant Taylor sat on campstools behind a field desk. Clay removed his garrison cap, halted in front of the desk, and saluted. “Sir, Private Paxton reports to the battalion commander.”

Lombardi stood to the side of the desk. “Clay Paxton from my section, sir.”

“At ease, Private.” Rudder had fair hair, light eyes, and a big old Texas smile. “Where are you from?”

Clay clenched his cap behind his back. No getting around that nugget of information. “Kerrville, Texas, sir.”

That grin grew. “Kerrville. I’ve been there. Beautiful country.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Say . . .” His eyes turned down at the corners. “What was your name again? Clay Paxton?”

Oh no. He did remember. “Yes, sir.”

“Well, I’ll be.” The major slapped his knee. “Kerrville High, class of ’39, am I right?”

“Yes, sir.” Maybe his memory would stop right there.

“I tried to recruit you. You were a fine linebacker.”

Clay forced a smile. “I’m honored you remember, sir.”

Rudder wagged a finger. “I also remember you turned me down. What was it again?”

That reason had disappeared. “I needed to work in the family business.”

The major frowned. “Top of your class, wanted to study medicine at the University of Texas. As an Aggie, I’d never forget that.”

“Medicine?” Lieutenant Taylor asked.

No, no, no. Not that. Somehow Clay kept his face impassive.

Rudder swung his grin to Taylor. “Took a war to do it, but I finally got this kid on my team.”

Taylor glanced at Lombardi. “Actually, we were talking about transferring him out.”

Clay fought the sagging in his shoulders. Had it gotten that bad? He’d started so well.

“Why is that?” Rudder asked the platoon commander.

Taylor shrugged. “Does great in conditioning, he’s a good shot and knows his material. But he overanalyzes, and he’s bound by rules. He’s a good soldier, but not a good Ranger.”

“He lacks the killer instinct,” Lombardi said.

Rudder studied Clay, but without the grin this time. “What do you have to say?”

Clay couldn’t mention his recurring dream and how it drove him, so he turned his gaze hard and sharp. “Sir, I want to be a Ranger more than I’ve wanted anything in my life. I can learn. I can do this.”

“There’s another option, Paxton.” Taylor leaned his elbows on the field desk. “Become a medic.”

“Sir, I—”

The lieutenant raised a hand to silence him. “You obviously have an interest in medicine. Our medics have to meet the same physical standards as the rest of the Rangers, but they don’t have