by Sarah Sundin
“Out of the way! Medical emergency!” Clay had never run so fast, and he’d never been so thankful for log drills and daily runs and marches with full combat gear. Thank goodness Leah didn’t weigh any more than that gear.
He turned down the road to the hospital, breathing hard but evenly. Leah never cried out, but occasional moans meant she was still conscious. Lord, help me. Don’t let her die.
The hospital at last, a complex of long, low buildings, and Clay ran to the admissions building and kicked hard on the door. “Help! Medical emergency!”
A nurse opened the door and gasped.
Clay strode in, panting. “Get a stretcher.”
“My stars.” The nurse darted to a hallway. “Doctor Reeves! Emergency!”
A physician in his thirties ran out and stared at Clay and Leah. “What happened?”
“Her name’s Leah Jones. Eighteen-year-old female, assaulted, knife wound to the upper right chest below the clavicle, dislocated left shoulder, probably raped.”
“Prep the OR,” the physician said to the nurse, then addressed another nurse behind him. “Call the military police.”
Medics arrived with a stretcher, and Clay laid Leah on it.
Her head lolled to the side, her eyes shut and her mouth open.
Clay collapsed to his knees. Two years ago, he hadn’t been able to save Adler’s fiancée, Oralee. Please, Lord. Let Leah live.
7
CAMP FORREST HOSPITAL
TUESDAY, JULY 13, 1943
“‘Four hands were immediately laid upon me, and I was borne upstairs.’” Mrs. Bellamy laid the book in her lap and frowned at Leah. “Are you sure Jane Eyre is the best book for you?”
“It is.” From her bed in the Camp Forrest Hospital women’s ward, Leah smiled at the Red Cross volunteer in her gray uniform dress. The muscles in Leah’s face didn’t hurt, but her voice came out weak. “As dreary as it can be, Jane Eyre is a story of hope and fortitude.”
“All right.” Mrs. Bellamy was so pleasant to look at, a plump woman in her thirties with light brown hair in smooth rolls about her sweet face. “That’s enough for today, Miss Jones. I don’t want to tire you.”
“Thank you for reading to me. I miss books.”
Mrs. Bellamy tilted her head with a curious look that transformed into a smile.
Leah had only been in the hospital for five days, but if it weren’t for the volunteer, she wouldn’t be able to read at all. Her left arm was bound in a sling, and the knife wound and surgery had affected muscles she needed to move her right arm.
Mrs. Bellamy stood. “I’ll come back tomorrow if you’d like.”
“Please. It’s a comfort.”
The volunteer’s face buckled, and she laid a warm hand on Leah’s. “I’m so sorry this happened to you, but every day you’re going to feel better. I won’t lie and say your life will return to normal. Everything has changed, but you can come out stronger for it.”
“With the Lord’s help, I will.” Leah forced the words out, words she knew to be true, words she clung to when brutal memories darkened her mind.
Mrs. Bellamy blinked rapidly, squeezed Leah’s hand, and wheeled her cart of books and magazines to the next patient’s bed.
The Lord would indeed help Leah through this as he’d helped her all along. Hadn’t he sent Clay Paxton to save her life?
The instant the wolf had laid the knife on the floor beside her head, she knew he’d planned to kill her when he was done. Since he hadn’t used the knife in his initial attack or to threaten her to keep silent, the knife could only serve one purpose.
Leah’s thoughts careened. Her breath came fast and hard. She stared at the bare wooden ceiling and willed her breathing and her mind to calm. The Lord had been with her. The Lord would continue to be with her.
“Excuse me, Miss Jones?” Lieutenant Glassman, the ward nurse, stood at the foot of Leah’s bed. “Are you up for a visitor?”
Leah tried to sit up. Pain shot through her chest, and she winced and lay back down.
She’d only had three visitors. Darlene had made two short, cheery visits on her way to work. Miss Mayhew had visited the day after surgery, when Leah had been groggy. The librarian had voiced concern and shock and had asked Dr. Reeves how long until Leah could return to work. A month, and Miss Mayhew had not looked pleased.
That day, the military police had questioned Leah, but she’d had so little to tell them. Khaki uniform with no insignia. Dark hair below the cap. He’d only spoken one sentence, with a Midwestern accent. The MPs kept questioning the man’s accent and skin color. Was she absolutely certain the man was white and not Negro? Yes, she was. Any hint of a foreign accent or smell or manner, as if a German prisoner of war had slipped out of the enclosure and slipped back in? No, none.
“I’ll tell him to come back later,” the nurse said.
“I’m sorry. Who is it?”
“The man who brought you in the other day.” A conspiratorial look flashed in her brown eyes. “Honestly, we all thought he’d attacked you—you know his kind—but the MPs cleared him.”
Light and air filled her chest. “He saved my life. Yes, I want to see him very much.”
“All right.” The nurse shrugged and walked away.
Leah checked to make sure her pajama top and blanket were in place, but Clay had already seen her in all her shame.
She shuddered. However, Clay had acted like a physician with her. A gentleman.
He approached, the shoulders of his khaki uniform shirt darkened by raindrops. “Hello, Leah.”
“Clay! I’m so glad you came.”
His smile relaxed, and he set a box on her bedside table. “I brought you chocolate from the PX.”
Only the sling could keep her from reaching for it. “A whole box? For me?”
He chuckled and sat in the chair by Leah’s bed. “Just a little box, and don’t you dare indulge without asking your doctor, you hear?”
“I won’t. I’m so glad you came.” Why was she repeating herself?
“I’m sorry I took so long. I came the next morning. They told me you’d come through surgery fine, but they wouldn’t let me see you. Then my commanding officer sent us on a three-day march and field exercise. This was my first chance to visit.” Clay pulled off his garrison cap and assessed her from head to toe, one corner of his mouth crimped. “How are you feeling?”
“Much better, thank you. I’m very tired, of course.”
“Are you in any pain?”
“Only when I move.”
“All the more reason to rest so you can heal.” He really did have a physician’s manner, even kinder than Dr. Reeves.
“I’m glad you came, because I need to thank you for saving my life.”
Clay lifted half a smile. “Reckon I ought to thank you too, for clearing my name with the MPs.”
“I can’t believe they thought—”
“Nah.” He waved one hand as if erasing her words. “When a man brings a battered woman to a hospital, they’d better ask questions and a lot of them.”
Leah couldn’t remember much about the trip other than a bumpy run and Clay’s strong arms. How could anyone have thought he had harmed her after he’d fought off an armed assailant and performed lifesaving first aid? “You were so brave.”
Clay shrugged. “I didn’t do anything special.”
“You fought him. You attacked him. You weren’t even scared.”
“I knew I wasn’t going to die.”
Leah’s mouth hung open. “But he had a knife.”
“That’s not how I’m going to die—” He sliced the word in half, his eyes wide and shocked.
What a curious thing to say. “What do you mean?”
Clay mashed his lips together and shook his head.
“Do you know?” Leah said. “No one knows how he’ll die. Right?”
“It’s not something . . .” He rubbed the back of his neck and glanced around. “I don’t tell people. They’d think I’m crazy.�
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Leah held her breath watching his discomfort. “I would never think that.”
His gaze returned to her, questioning and unsure and somehow vulnerable, as if he needed the faith of just one soul.
“I believe you,” she said.
He leaned his elbows on his knees. “You ever have a dream that you’re about to die? And you wake in a cold sweat?”
“Like when you’re falling. Yes.”
“Well, I have a dream like that about once a week, every time the same.” He spoke quietly but firmly. “Only in this dream, I do die. When I wake up, I feel complete peace.”
“Oh my.” She’d never heard of such a thing.
“I’m in battle, in a foxhole, and I have to throw a grenade into a pillbox.” Clay made a small throwing motion. “There’s a machine gun inside, and I can see the bullets coming nearer. I feel one hit, and I go down. My buddies storm the pillbox, then all goes black and quiet. And I know—I know without a doubt that’s how I’ll die. That’s why I joined the Rangers.”
“Aren’t you . . . shouldn’t you be trying to avoid it?”
He smiled as if amused. “You’d think so. It’s hard to explain, but I know the dream came from the Lord. I want it to come true.”
For his sake, she wanted to understand, but how could she?
“I was in a pit.” Clay studied the cap he held between his knees. “My brothers stole my future. I told you that. Wyatt stole my college money, and Adler stole the girl I’d planned to marry.”
“Oh dear.” He hadn’t mentioned the girlfriend before.
“That was only the start of it. My life was a pit. I was miserable. Then God gave me this dream and showed me the way out. Never once has it bothered me. It always brings peace, even joy.”
And peace radiated from his face.
“I know I’ll die for a good cause.” His eyes shone with . . . anticipation? “Then I’ll be with Jesus, so what’s to fear? ‘To die is gain.’”
“Philippians,” Leah whispered, but she didn’t quote the first part of the verse, the part Clay seemed to have forgotten—“To live is Christ.”
Clay gave her a sheepish smile. “Thanks for trying to understand. My parents don’t. They think I’m fatalistic because I’ve lost so much. But that isn’t it. Not at all.”
“No. I can see that.” She saw a man embracing a purpose. What a shame that the purpose was to die.
“I haven’t told any of the fellows.” He fiddled with his cap and glanced around the ward. “The Army might deem me mentally unfit and boot me out.”
“I won’t tell a soul.”
“I’d appreciate that.” Then he laughed. “Say, I promise I didn’t come to talk about death and dying. I came to cheer you up.”
She laughed a little, but pain zinged through her wounds.
“Maybe I shouldn’t cheer you up after all.” He made a comical face.
“Just having company cheers me up. The pain isn’t as bothersome as the boredom. I can’t hold a book, but the Red Cross lady read to me today, which was lovely.”
Clay’s brow creased. “Your arms.”
Leah wiggled the fingers in both hands, determined to regain strength. “Yes, but she promised to read to me tomorrow. Stories are the best medicine, don’t you think?”
“Distraction does help control pain.”
“It’s more than that. Stories lift you.” Leah closed her eyes to savor the memory. “When Mr. and Mrs. Jones left me in Des Moines, I was very sick and very sad. But a volunteer—we called her Granny Norris—she read to us in the sick ward. She read Heidi and Pollyanna and The Secret Garden, tales of orphans and invalids who learned to be cheerful, to seek good, and to prevail. I learned to do the same.”
“Even now.” Only the hint of a question colored his deep voice.
“Even now. I don’t have to look hard to find the good. You stopped that man and brought me here, and the doctors were able to operate and stop the bleeding. And Mrs. Bellamy from the Red Cross attends my church, and I think we could become friends. And now . . . why, I have my very first box of chocolates.”
Black eyebrows sprang high. “Your first?”
“Mm-hmm. There are even more blessings I can’t yet see. But I will. I only have to watch.”
Clay had a most unusual expression, his mouth bent in a slight smile, but his eyes were dark and sad. “I reckon you will.”
8
CAMP FORREST
THURSDAY, JULY 22, 1943
In the mock Nazi village built for Ranger training, Clay and the other five men in his squad crouched beside “Butch’s Biergarten.”
Another squad hunkered behind an enormous oak tree in front of the fake town hall, the company’s objective. Sniper fire from the Biergarten pinned that squad in place.
Sergeant Lombardi leaned forward, sweat dribbling from underneath his helmet down his lean face. “Mayer, Paxton—count to twenty, then through this window to distract the sniper. Rest of you, follow me through the front door.” He led the squad around the corner to the left.
Counting in his head, Clay eyed the window about five feet above the dirt. “My turn.”
Gene nodded and got onto hands and knees.
At the count of twenty, Clay readied his M1 Garand rifle, used Gene’s back as a stool, climbed through the open window, and jumped to the floor.
Only six feet away to his right, a soldier leveled a rifle through a window facing the street. He spotted Clay.
Clay’s mission wasn’t to take out the sniper, only to distract him while Lombardi’s force stormed the building. But at the door, a sandbag “soldier” had swung down, and McKillop was struggling to bayonet the thing out of the way.
The sniper turned his rifle in Clay’s direction.
No time. Clay swung his rifle butt up under the sniper’s rifle, making the man fling up his arms.
Clay slammed his rifle across the man’s chest, then grabbed the man’s upraised arm and twisted it down around the rifle.
The man cried out and folded down to the ground to release the pain in his shoulder.
Gene hopped through the window. “Well done, Pax.”
Holman, Rubenstein, and Lombardi burst into the room, while McKillop shook his bayonet free from the sandbag.
“Dirty fighting.” Lombardi broke into a grin. “Nice work.”
“Thanks, Sergeant.” Clay released the sniper’s arm and helped him to standing.
The soldier rubbed his shoulder and glared at Clay. “Yeah. Real nice.”
“Next objective.” Lombardi motioned them out of the Biergarten.
“Sorry.” Clay gave the sniper an apologetic look and followed his sergeant. He was sorry the man was in pain, but not sorry he’d used the move.
Ever since he’d fought off Leah’s attacker, his philosophy had shifted.
When Leah’s life was at stake, the rules of sportsmanship hadn’t applied, and they wouldn’t apply on the battlefield either. In combat, all that mattered would be his unit’s objective and his buddies’ lives.
If he wanted to fight well in combat, in training he needed to practice every technique at his disposal.
Clay ran with his squad, low and fast, hugging the buildings. When they passed the giant oak, the second squad fell in behind Clay’s.
After he’d helped Leah, Lieutenant Taylor and Sergeant Lombardi had stopped making noise about transferring him. But he had to continue to prove himself. The praise lavished on him for that rescue had an expiration date.
The town hall stood at the end of the street. To its right, a trio of Rangers tossed charges into a shed meant to be an enemy outpost.
The building exploded, and a man screamed and fell to the ground.
Lombardi passed the man by.
Clay dropped to his knees beside the wounded man. “What happened?”
He could only scream. His hand was blackened and bloodied, and he might have lost a finger. He must have held on to the charge too long.
“Ho
ld still.” Clay opened the pouch on his cartridge belt that held his first aid kit. “Let’s get this ban—”
“Paxton!” Lombardi dropped back and glowered at Clay. “Leave him. Get your tail in motion.”
“Rangers don’t leave men behind.”
“The Rangers won’t, but you will. Leave him for the medics.” A sarcastic smile split his dirtied face. “Unless you’d rather be a medic.”
“No, Sergeant.” He’d reached the expiration date. Clay ran after Lombardi and shouted “sorry” to the wounded man.
Holman kicked open the front door of the town hall, Ruby threw in a smoke grenade, and the rest of the men stormed inside. Within five minutes, the hall was secured.
Afterward, Clay headed back outside. Two medics were loading the injured man onto a stretcher.
Clay fastened the pouch for his first aid kit. The urge to heal was strong, but he had to suppress it for the greater good.
The company fell into formation and marched back to camp double time for lunch. In the afternoon they’d have lectures and demonstrations on demolitions and booby traps.
G. M. marched beside Clay on the dirt road while cicadas hummed in the grass and scrub oak. “Going to the hospital again tonight?”
“If I can.”
“Sounds like a date.” Gene’s grin spread wide and goofy. “Mark my words. You’re going to join the ranks of us married men.”
Clay whistled. He still couldn’t believe Gene was getting married on Saturday. His friend had never been happier, but how many of these rushed wartime marriages would last?
“So . . . ?” Gene turned the full goofiness to Clay.
“So what? She’s like a little sister.” Clay swatted away a cloud of red dust.
Gene swatted too. “I’ve got a little sister, and I don’t treat her that nice.”
“You’re a bad brother.”
Now Gene swatted Clay. “I’m a great brother, but I don’t play violin for her.”
Clay had borrowed a violin from the service club, and when the nurse allowed it, he played classical music and American folk songs for the ladies on the ward.
He avoided mariachi tunes to keep the memories of playing with his brothers at bay. The Gringo Mariachis—stupid name for a group. Clay was only half gringo.
