The Land Beneath Us

by Sarah Sundin

  But Leah knew his history, she understood, and she had the baffling ability to forgive the unforgivable—abandonment, rape, attempted murder. She’d suffered more than he had, but she didn’t live in bitterness and resentment.

  I do.

  Clay groaned and attacked the waves. Resentment was a sign that his forgiveness stopped at the surface. Somehow he had to let it penetrate his soul.

  TULLAHOMA, TENNESSEE

  TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 7, 1943

  Carrying only four books, Leah held open the door to the Tullahoma Public Library for Rita Sue and her box of books. “I wish I could carry more.”

  Rita Sue leaned close, her hazel eyes sharp. “You’re in your first trimester. No heavy loads.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Leah followed Rita Sue inside.

  She’d visited before on several occasions. The library was the smallest Leah had ever seen, but its rich perfume offered Leah some hope in her search for her sisters.

  A tall, large-boned woman approached wearing a tan suit. Hair like polished pewter wreathed her angular face, and a warm smile bestowed the beauty denied her by nature. “Good morning, Mrs. Bellamy. And . . . we haven’t met, young lady, but I’ve seen you in the stacks.”

  Rita Sue headed toward a side room. “Mrs. Sheridan, may I introduce Mrs. Clay Paxton. She’s a librarian at Camp Forrest. Mrs. Paxton, Mrs. Sheridan is our town librarian.”

  “Oh, you’re Myra’s new girl. She was so excited. I haven’t talked to her since you arrived.”

  Leah’s smile wavered. Mrs. Sheridan had missed the gossip. “I’m thankful for my job.”

  Rita Sue set down her box among stacks of books and boxes. “As a librarian, Mrs. Paxton might be able to help with your biggest problem.”

  Mrs. Sheridan clapped her hands together. “The Victory Book Campaign.”

  “So many books.” Leah set hers down on a long table.

  “They’ve been piling up since May.” Mrs. Sheridan swept her hand around the crowded room. “That’s when the Army and Navy announced they’d no longer accept VBC books.”

  Leah frowned. “Why don’t they want them?”

  “A third of the books are unsuitable. Folks donate books like this.” Mrs. Sheridan held up a battered book with only one cover.

  “Or this encyclopedia set.” Rita Sue set her hand on a stack.

  “Some sweet lady thought our servicemen would want to read the Bobbsey Twins, bless her heart.” Mrs. Sheridan cocked one eyebrow. “Also, hardbacks are heavy—expensive to ship and burdensome for our boys to carry in battle.”

  Leah remembered an article she’d read in the newspaper. “That’s why they’re publishing the Armed Services Editions.”

  “Yes. Titles our servicemen want to read, in thin paperbacks designed to fit in a back pocket.”

  Leah brushed her hand over The Bobbsey Twins at the Seashore. “What will you do with these?”

  “We’re awaiting word from VBC headquarters. Our poor little library is already packed to the rafters, so we don’t have room. Most likely we’ll donate them to the scrap paper drive.”

  “Scrap!” Leah clutched the sweet story. “Can’t we find them a home?”

  Mrs. Sheridan and Rita Sue exchanged a knowing smile, which they turned to Leah. “How would you like a project?” Mrs. Sheridan said.

  “Oh yes.” Ideas raced through her head. “Miss Mayhew is always complaining about her acquisitions budget.”

  “While we’re waiting for word from New York, why don’t you sort the books and ask Miss Mayhew? If the VBC grants permission, we’ll enrich the camp’s library.”

  “I’ll ask her today, and I can start sorting right now. I don’t have to go home for lunch for another hour.” Leah bent to pick up a box.

  “Let me,” Rita Sue said in a dark tone.

  “Yes, ma’am.” Lifting only four books at a time made her feel like an invalid again, but she wouldn’t do anything to endanger her baby.

  Rita Sue set the box on the table, then wiggled her fingers at Leah. “See you later, sugar.”

  “I’ll leave you to your work,” Mrs. Sheridan said. “Holler if you need me.”

  “I will, ma’am.” Leah unloaded the first box and sorted it. Questions arose to ask Miss Mayhew, and Leah pulled her composition book and pen out of her purse.

  So many titles she’d never seen before. Could any of them hold clues to her past?

  A book about Mexico, and Leah flipped through. Clay’s heritage—so colorful and festive. For a wedding gift, Mr. and Mrs. Paxton had sent Leah a generous check and a length of intricate lace that had belonged to Mrs. Paxton’s grandmother.

  The most beautiful thing Leah had ever owned.

  Except Clay’s heritage didn’t belong to her. If he died, Leah would return the lace. Or if he divorced her.

  She shuddered and picked up four books from a box on the floor. On top lay Heidi.

  “My dear friend.” The dust jacket was tattered around the edges, but inside—oh, Johanna Spyri’s enchanting story and Jessie Willcox Smith’s wondrous colored illustrations of Heidi’s Alpine home.

  No children frequented the camp library, so the novel belonged in the discard pile.

  Leah hugged the book. How could she abandon a friend so dear? A friend who’d offered solace and inspiration when she was sick and alone and abandoned?

  She peeked into the reading room. The clock read 11:44—how time had flown. She caught the librarian’s eye. “Mrs. Sheridan? I’m going home now. I’ll come by next Monday morning, maybe before.”

  “Thank you for your help.”

  Leah grabbed her purse and the book and darted out of the library. Since the book was slated for destruction, no one could call it stealing.

  At the end of the block, Leah admired her new old friend in the warm sunshine. Other than her Bible, this was the first book she could call her own.

  16

  SCOUTS AND RAIDERS SCHOOL

  MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 13, 1943

  Clay paddled toward shore over waves sparkling with moonlight. The rubber raft rose and fell, but after a week, most of the Rangers had overcome their seasickness.

  At the stern of the raft, Lt. Bill Taylor peered through field glasses. “The blinking yellow light is straight ahead.”

  Along the shore of lengthy Hutchinson Island, which paralleled the eastern Florida coast, colored lights flashed, some steady and some blinking, each signaling to one of the Rangers’ six assault companies or the headquarters company.

  Tonight was the 2nd Battalion’s final examination at the Scouts and Raiders School.

  Clay shot a grin behind him at Gene, his friend’s face barely recognizable behind green and black camouflage paint. Tonight was going to be fun. Despite the jellyfish, sandflies, and mosquitos, his time in Florida had been great—full of adventure and learning useful skills.

  In “Plan Surfboard,” they were to assault the town of Fort Pierce and take it. The shore was guarded by Coast Guard patrolmen with dogs, Navy sentries, and Civil Defense wardens—who had been alerted for the exercise.

  This would make a great story to tell Leah.

  Clay had just received his first letter from her, written in fancy cursive. She’d included a poem she’d written. He didn’t know she wrote poetry, but then he hadn’t known her long.

  In third grade, she’d read a book about Greek mythology and learned her namesake, Thalia, was the muse of idyllic poetry. So she tried her hand at poetry and loved it. In her letter she’d said, “Words make delightful playthings. They cost nothing, they never wear out, and no one can ever take them away from you.”

  She certainly had a refreshing way of looking at things.

  “I’m glad you’re going in first, Pax,” Sid Rubenstein said from the back of the boat. “You’ve got a death wish.”

  “Nah.” But he joined in the chuckling. A few days ago, his squad had been ordered to land their raft on a rock jetty in rough seas. While the other men waffled, Clay had just leaped
onto the nearest rock.

  It wasn’t that he wanted to die, but since he knew how he was going to die, he also knew how he wasn’t. And it wouldn’t be in a training accident. That washed away fear.

  “Yeah, Pax,” McKillop said. “You go first and take the bullets for the rest of us.”

  Someday, but not today. “Don’t worry, McKillop. I’ll fend off those little old ladies with rolling pins for you.”

  “Watch out, Fort Pierce,” Holman said. “Paxton’s Latin blood is boiling tonight.”

  “Silence, boys,” Lieutenant Taylor said. “We’re getting close.”

  Clay aimed for that yellow light. Holman didn’t know what he was talking about. Sure, Clay had gotten in a few scrapes when he was little. But by second grade, he’d realized that in fights with white boys, Clay was always to blame. In fights with Mexican boys, Clay was never to blame. That’s when he’d decided to back out of scrapes.

  The only time he’d fought as an adult had been against Leah’s attacker, and that was to protect, not in hot blood.

  The sound of the breakers increased, and palm trees whished in the cool breeze.

  Another scene blinked in his head, as persistent as the yellow light on shore. Adler and Ellen in a knot of pale flesh, the stink of booze heavy in the air.

  Clay’s blood had boiled that night. He’d kicked and pummeled his brother, over and over, while Ellen scrambled under the truck, screaming her lungs out.

  Thank goodness she’d screamed.

  At some point, Clay had lost his balance and caught himself on Daddy’s workbench. His hand had landed on a tire iron, and he’d hoisted it overhead.

  In that moment, he’d wanted Adler to hurt. In that moment, he hadn’t been innocent Joseph cast into a pit. No, in that moment, he’d been Joseph’s brothers, thirsting for vengeance.

  Sweat tingled on Clay’s upper lip and his breath came hard, and not from the exertion of paddling.

  Two sharp vibrations in the raft—Lieutenant Taylor’s signal to catch the next swell.

  Clay shook off the memory and paddled with all he had. When the wave washed toward shore, he dropped his paddle into the boat and took his M1 Garand rifle off his back.

  Rubber scraped on sand, and Clay scrambled out of the raft, swinging his rifle in an arc. No sign of patrolmen.

  The other men hopped out, picked up the raft by the handles, and ran inland. At the tree line, the lieutenant joined Clay in the lead.

  Clay scouted the best path through the palms and pines, avoiding the sharp palmettos that could rip a hole in the boat—and would infuriate the Navy men at the school.

  On the far side of the narrow island, Clay pressed up to a palm tree. Only the sounds of the lapping waves and the distant town greeted him.

  He poked his rifle and his head to the right of the tree. All clear on the beach, so he stepped out onto the sand and peered back at the trees to check for hidden patrols. Looked good.

  Clay motioned the squad forward.

  The men quietly carried the raft to the water’s edge and launched it.

  The squad paddled across the Indian River, the long sound that separated Hutchinson Island from the mainland. The blacked-out town of Fort Pierce lay ahead. Tonight the town was meant to be a German submarine base, and each company had different objectives to take.

  If only Clay could engage in conversation to distract him. But his mind latched on to that night in the garage. Usually his memories stopped at his discovery of the traitorous pair.

  Not the fight. Not the tire iron.

  If Ellen’s screams hadn’t brought out Daddy and Mama, Clay would have used that tire iron. What if he’d hit Adler on the head? What if he’d died? Clay would have committed murder.

  He tried to calm his breath as he scooped saltwater over and over.

  Daddy had wrestled Clay back. Clay would have overpowered his father and resumed his attack on his brother if not for Mama.

  Sweet Mama shoving a shotgun into Clay’s chest, tears streaming down her face. “If you kill him, you’ll go to the electric chair. I’d rather shoot my own son than see that happen. I won’t lose both of you.”

  Clay squirmed in his damp fatigues, and his heart wrenched. He’d been gravely wronged that day, but he’d also committed a grave wrong.

  “Dear Lord,” he whispered, then silenced himself. Lord, I’m guilty too. Forgive me for hurting my brother, for wanting him to die.

  His chest folded in on itself. Did Adler feel the same swamping guilt when he contemplated his sins? Did Wyatt? Because it felt awful.

  Several pats on his side of the raft. He was paddling too hard, and he slowed down. He had to set aside his turmoil and focus on the mission.

  A pier came into view, and they paddled the raft up onto land to the left of the pier.

  Clay checked for patrols while the squad stashed the raft among bushes.

  Everything looked as it did on the map in briefing. City Hall lay about five blocks away by a zigzag path.

  Taylor knifed his hand west, and the Rangers ran. As scout, Clay led, with the lieutenant behind him. He paused at the corner and peeked around, but the street was deserted, and he only heard a radio playing “Begin the Beguine.” The residents probably knew to stay inside when the Scouts and Raiders came to town.

  Clay led the men one block north. Motion ahead, and he signaled for the squad to take cover. They pressed into doorways and behind palm trees.

  Six dark figures with the unmistakable silhouette of the M1 helmet. “Ours,” he whispered.

  A few blocks north, another block west, across the railroad tracks, and City Hall rose before them, a two-story Mediterranean-style stucco building with arched windows and a tile roof.

  Taylor motioned for a halt. Two men stood at either end of the building with rifles and tin-pan helmets from World War I—Civil Defense.

  Taylor tapped his watch and held up two fingers—two minutes. Then he gestured to Holman, McKillop, and Ruby, and pointed toward the back of the building.

  Holman checked his watch and led McKillop and Ruby behind City Hall. After two minutes, they’d attack the sentry at the west end, while Taylor, Clay, and Gene attacked from the east.

  They edged closer, low and ready. Clay couldn’t help grinning. Those poor wardens were in for a surprise.

  Taylor signaled the assault.

  Clay burst into running, his rifle raised. The sentry spotted them, startled, and reached for the whistle around his neck.

  “Drop it!” Taylor pointed his Thompson submachine gun at the sentry, right up to his chest. “Drop the rifle too.”

  Shoulders slumped, the middle-aged watchman obeyed and lifted his hands in surrender. Voices and a scuffling sound—the other watchman was disarmed too.

  Taylor pointed to the roof.

  Gene and Ruby shimmied up palm trees. At the top, they swayed back and forth and jumped to the roof. Then they pointed their rifles out over the street.

  McKillop and Holman escorted their prisoner to Taylor.

  The lieutenant pulled his handie-talkie radio from the case on his back and pulled out the antenna. “Taylor to Rudder. City Hall secure.”

  “What have you done with my daughter?” The first sentry’s voice warbled.

  “Your daughter?” Lieutenant Taylor asked.

  The man’s face agitated. “She’s only seventeen, and one of your men made off with her.”

  Clay frowned. The Rangers hadn’t had an hour free since they arrived.

  “Sir, our men haven’t set foot in town until tonight,” Lieutenant Taylor said. “Can you tell me what happened?”

  “Peggy went to the movies with her girlfriends on Saturday night, and she went home alone. Only she never came home.”

  “Have you reported this to the police?” Taylor slung his Tommy gun over his shoulder.

  The man pressed a trembling hand to his forehead, dislodging his helmet. “They think she ran away, but not my Peggy. She’d never do that.”

  “
I’m sorry this happened, sir.” Taylor had a soothing voice when he wanted to. “All our men are accounted for, but I’ll report the situation to our commanding officer and the commander of the school.”

  “Thank you.” He sagged back against the stucco wall.

  Holman and McKillop sauntered away, and Clay followed. Time to form a perimeter.

  Shouts rang out around town, and radios squawked. Sounded like the Rangers were taking their military objectives.

  “Bet I know what happened to that girl,” Holman muttered to McKillop. “One of those sailor boys knocked her up, and she went to ‘visit an aunt’ for nine months.”

  Clay stopped in his tracks. How could he talk about a girl in such a callous way? A girl like Leah. Had this Peggy found herself in a predicament like Leah’s, with disgrace or exile as her only choices?

  Clay breathed out a prayer for Peggy and her family, and another prayer of thanks that God had let him help Leah.

  17

  CAMP FORREST

  FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 24, 1943

  Rita Sue drove her pickup truck down Forrest Boulevard into camp. “Any news from Clay?”

  “Just yesterday.” Leah ran a finger under the waistband of her skirt. Tonight she’d let it out another inch. Thank goodness she wasn’t showing yet. “His battalion left Florida. The school said they were the best unit they’d ever had. In the final exercise they took Fort Pierce by storm.”

  Leah didn’t mention how the Rangers had taken Fort Pierce by storm the following evening on leave—a night of drunkenness and brawling. The entire battalion had been confined to quarters for the rest of their stay, even those who had behaved, like Clay and G. M.

  “Where’s he going next?” Rita Sue waved a jeep through at the intersection.

  “Fort Dix in New Jersey for advanced tactical training.” She spoke slowly to get the term correct. “He’s excited about it.”

  “I’m glad he’s doing well.” Rita Sue pulled the truck in front of the library, stepped out, and flagged down a trio of soldiers. “Excuse me, gentlemen. Could y’all lend us a hand, please? We could use a few pairs of strong arms.”