by Sarah Sundin
The soldiers brightened. “Sure, ma’am.”
“Thank you. Please carry these boxes inside for Mrs. Paxton.”
Leah gave them an awkward smile, feeling inappropriately empty-handed. Even though she was three months along in her pregnancy, the time most ladies made their announcements, Leah had to wait another month.
She waved good-bye to Rita Sue and held the door open for the men. “Thank you, gentlemen. Please set them on the circulation desk.”
Miss Mayhew approached from the card catalog. “Oh my! Isn’t this wonderful?”
Leah thanked the soldiers and opened the first box. “I’m only partway through the Victory Book Campaign collection. More will be coming.”
“I’ll take anything I can. The Army prefers the Armed Services Editions, but those only go to the troops overseas. Here in the States, we’ve depended on the VBC to supplement our purchases. But the Army cut that off.”
Leah stacked books on the desk. “Such a shame.”
Miss Mayhew inspected a copy of William L. Shirer’s Berlin Diary. “Has the library in town decided what to do with the books we don’t want? It’s criminal to scrap them.”
“We received permission to do with them as we please. I’m determined to find good homes for them.”
Miss Mayhew rested one hand on the desk and the other on her hip, her blue eyes narrowed at the unfinished ceiling. “You said there are quite a few children’s books. How about the school libraries?”
“I talked to them last week. They already carry most of the books we have. Except the Davidson Academy said they never have enough.”
“That’s the school for colored children, isn’t it?” Miss Mayhew shuddered. “I can’t stand the segregation here in the South.”
“Me neither. I’m glad we can supplement their library. However, there are still lots of books they don’t want either.” Leah nibbled on her bottom lip. “Do you know if there’s an orphanage in the area?”
“I don’t know. I’ve only been in Tullahoma for a year.” She frowned at a copy of John Steinbeck’s The Grapes of Wrath. “Do orphanages have libraries?”
“Mine didn’t, but a true home, a good home, should have books. Mine will.” Somehow it would. The Bellamy home had a pair of bookshelves flanking the fireplace, with the bottom two shelves bright with children’s books. “Where there are books, children read.”
“It applies to adults too.” Miss Mayhew swept a smile around the bustling library. “Many of these boys only have an eighth-grade education. Even the high school graduates didn’t read much after they left school. But here they do. They’re bored. They’re too tired from training to do sports. So they read.”
“And they read a lot.” Leah enjoyed her conversations as the men discovered the joy of a good book.
“Your orphanage idea has merit.” Miss Mayhew opened a drawer and handed Leah the phone book for Coffee County.
Leah thumbed through, and her heart warmed. Right in Tullahoma, in an area Leah hadn’t explored. “Coffee Children’s Home, how would you like some books?”
FORT DIX, NEW JERSEY
WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 29, 1943
“Battalion dismissed!” Major Rudder called.
Five hundred Rangers broke formation on the parade grounds at Fort Dix.
Gene peered down the left sleeve of his khaki shirt. “Swell patch.”
“Sure is.” On his left shoulder, Clay stroked the brand-new patch. Yellow letters on a blue diamond declared “Rangers.” Too bad it didn’t read “2nd Rangers,” since five battalions had now been established. The 1st, 3rd, and 4th Battalions were fighting in Italy, and the 5th Battalion was training back at Camp Forrest.
“Look at us—privates first class.” Gene inspected the new silver-on-black chevron on Clay’s sleeve. All the privates in the Rangers had been promoted, and Clay wouldn’t turn down the extra six dollars a month.
“Say, let’s use your swanky new camera.” Gene posed, pointing at his sleeve. “Won’t our wives be proud?”
“Yeah, let’s.” When they’d arrived at Fort Dix, Rudder had issued weekend passes. Clay and Gene had visited New York City, and Clay had purchased a Brownie camera.
Leah had his service portrait and the wedding portrait, but he wanted the baby to have more pictures of her daddy.
Clay and Gene joined the stream of men heading to the mess for dinner.
“You heard ‘Big Jim,’” Clay said. “We’re getting five-day passes. Want to visit Washington, D.C.?”
“Let me guess. A library.”
Clay gave his buddy a light punch on that chevron. “Only the Library of Congress itself.”
“The foolish things a man does for love.”
Clay shrugged. Love had nothing to do with it. “The price of being a married man.”
“But oh, the benefits.” Gene whistled.
Clay punched him harder in the chevron.
“Hey.” Gene rubbed his arm. “I wasn’t thinking of that. I mean, it’s nice to know someone cares about you, supports you, depends on you. Makes you feel good inside.”
“Yeah, it does.” Marrying Leah had complicated his life—but enriched it.
“Excuse me. Are you Private Paxton?”
Clay faced an officer about his height, Capt. Walter Block. He saluted. Swell. He’d avoided the new battalion surgeon since the man’s arrival at Fort Dix. “Yes, sir.”
Dr. Block returned his salute, a smile crinkling his friendly face. “Major Rudder wanted me to meet you.”
This again? Clay stifled a groan. “Sir, I don’t want to be a medic.”
The physician laughed. “He also told me you’d say that.”
Clay motioned for Gene to go on without him. “Sir—”
“I’m not trying to recruit you. Major Rudder said you have an interest in medicine, and I enjoy meeting people who share my interests.”
Rangers passed Clay and Doc Block with quizzical looks. If the fellows learned about his interest in medicine, they’d ask too many questions and bring up too many memories.
“I’m headed to the mess myself.” Doc Block gestured down the path. “Must keep up my energy for those marches.”
Clay fell in alongside the officer. He had to admire him. He’d been a pediatrician in Chicago before the war and had volunteered for the Rangers. Even though he was forty and medical officers weren’t required to participate in the long marches, he did.
“Major Rudder said you’d been accepted into a premed program.”
Major Rudder talked too much. “I went into the family business instead. The past is past.”
“I understand.” The captain strolled between the white clapboard buildings. “I heard you did an exemplary job performing first aid on a woman who was assaulted at Camp Forrest.”
Clay’s breath caught at the memory of Leah’s terrified eyes and gagged mouth. And the monster who hurt her still roamed free. “I—I did my best.”
“You saved her life. Do you mind if I ask what you did? Rudder is a football coach. He was no use at all.”
Clay hesitated, but clinical interest lit the doctor’s eyes, reminding him of his conversations with Dr. Hill in Kerrville. And the crowd had passed by.
Using medical terminology, Clay listed Leah’s injuries and the procedures he’d performed. Doc Block asked questions and contemplated what had been done during surgery, while Clay shared what he’d read in the text in the library.
It felt like going home to the man he’d once been. How many afternoons had he spent in Dr. Hill’s office, observing his mentor in the examination room, discussing patient care, and reading texts? Those had been good days, filled with promise and purpose.
A bittersweet ache formed in his chest over what should have been and would never be.
They reached the enlisted men’s mess, and Dr. Block offered his hand—not exactly military protocol. “A pleasure talking to you.”
Clay shook his hand. “Thank you, sir. I enjoyed it too.”
Dr. Block headed toward the officers’ mess. “If you ever want to chat, you know where to find me.”
“Thank you, sir.” But he didn’t plan to.
18
TULLAHOMA
TUESDAY, OCTOBER 12, 1943
In the town library after closing time, Leah tried not to crumple her sheet of paper. A dozen well-dressed ladies chatted, waiting for the board meeting. Despite Leah’s pinned-up curls and her camel-colored suit, she didn’t belong.
“You’ll do fine.” Rita Sue wore a bottle green suit that complemented her light brown hair and hazel eyes. “It’s a wonderful idea.”
“Good evening, ladies.” A woman in her seventies entered the library. Although she was only an inch or two taller than Leah, she carried herself as if she were taller than Mrs. Sheridan. Her gaze landed on Leah, and silver eyebrows rose. “Who have we here?”
Rita Sue gestured to Leah. “Mrs. Channing, I’d like you to meet Mrs. Clay Paxton. She’s a librarian at Camp Forrest and a new volunteer.”
Leah shook the offered hand. “How do you do, Mrs. Channing.”
Eyes of indeterminate color bore into Leah’s. “Your name’s on the agenda. My, such confidence in one so young. Bless your heart.”
Leah had been in town long enough to know “bless your heart” didn’t always mean what it said. But she smiled. “Thank you, ma’am.”
Mrs. Channing swept past her to the head of the table. “Take your seats, ladies.”
Leah leaned close to Rita Sue. “Why is she running the meeting instead of Mrs. Sheridan?”
“She’s Mrs. Channing,” Rita Sue whispered, as if the name alone was the answer.
Channing . . . Come to think of it, Leah had seen the name on several businesses in town.
Over the next half hour, the ladies discussed the budget and maintenance and programs.
Mrs. Channing adjusted her reading glasses. “Next on the agenda, a proposal from Mrs. Paxton.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Channing.” Leah laid the typewritten sheet before her and read out loud. “As you know, the library has been collecting for the Victory Book Campaign and has accumulated a large quantity of books since May when the Army and Navy stopped accepting donations. Thank you for agreeing to donate books to the Camp Forrest Library. Miss Myra Mayhew sends her heartfelt gratitude, as do our men in uniform.”
Murmurs of appreciation circled the room.
Leah took a deep breath to smooth the wrinkles in her voice. “On the first of this month, the American Library Association voted to close the campaign at the end of the year. The first item in my proposal is for the Tullahoma Library to continue to collect books, with appropriate donations to be sent to the Camp Forrest Library.”
“The floor is open for discussion,” Mrs. Channing said.
“I love the idea,” Rita Sue said. “The Red Cross collection bins are already in place. I’m willing to continue collecting the books, and Mrs. Paxton is willing to sort them and bring them to Camp Forrest. We’d only need new signs on the bins.”
The proposal passed unanimously.
Leah’s heart raced with joy. “The second part of the proposal concerns the books that Camp Forrest does not accept. One-third of the donations are worn out or are not suitable for soldiers. The Victory Book Campaign allows us to scrap such books, but I propose that we find homes for those in good condition. The school librarians are interested in some of the titles. I propose that we donate those titles to the schools, with the remainder to be donated to the Coffee Children’s Home.”
Mrs. Channing wrinkled her nose. “I’m on the orphanage board. They don’t have a library.”
Leah smiled at her. “All the more reason to start one.”
Mrs. Channing sighed and removed her glasses. “They’re orphans, Mrs. Paxton. They come from the basest of backgrounds. Dirty, illiterate hooligans.”
Leah pressed back in her seat, the barbs stinging no less for their familiarity. Dirty orphans didn’t deserve books, and they didn’t belong at meetings with ladies from good homes.
“If there’s no further discussion . . .”
“There’s further discussion.” Rita Sue nudged Leah.
How could she speak up? But if Leah didn’t speak up for the orphans, who would? “My parents died when I was four years old. I was raised in an orphanage.”
A few gasps.
Something kindled inside Leah. “As a child, I found my home in stories. Good literature teaches children to be resourceful and brave and cheerful and compassionate. Don’t we want orphans to learn those lessons so they can become good citizens?”
Ladies nodded around the table.
Not Mrs. Channing. “You are the exception. The orphans here are a filthy, unruly lot. Far better to donate the books to the scrap drive. With such a serious paper shortage, that would be most patriotic.”
Some murmurs and more nodding.
Leah couldn’t afford to lose this battle. That kindling built in heat. “Hitler burns books.”
Every eye turned to her. Mrs. Channing’s gaze sliced but didn’t penetrate.
Leah’s shoulders had never felt straighter. “The slogan of the Victory Book Campaign is ‘Books are weapons in the war of ideas.’ To destroy a book that would benefit someone else seems most unpatriotic. We must train the next generation, even children who are unwanted—especially children who are unwanted. Arm them in this war of ideas. Give them books.”
“Brava, Mrs. Paxton.” Mrs. Sheridan clapped her hands together.
“I move that we table this proposal.” Twin red dots flamed on Mrs. Channing’s pale cheeks. “Next month I expect to see a report on all options for disposal of those books. On to the next item on the agenda.”
Rita Sue clasped Leah’s hand under the table. “Good job,” she whispered.
Was it? The starch dissolved in Leah’s spine. Was it right for her, a stranger in town and so young, to speak that way to her elder?
She’d just made an enemy of one of the most influential women in town.
US ARMY MILITARY INTELLIGENCE TRAINING CENTER
CAMP RITCHIE, MARYLAND
FRIDAY, OCTOBER 22, 1943
On the drill field, the instructor pointed the German machine gun toward hills painted in green and gold and red. “The Maschinengewehr 42 fires over 1500 rounds per minute.”
Clay let out a whistle, as did others in his platoon. The 2nd Ranger Battalion had come to Camp Ritchie in Maryland for two days of instruction at the Military Intelligence Training Center. After an all-night field exercise taking Hill X from German-speaking defenders wearing Nazi uniforms, the Rangers were receiving a speed course in German weaponry.
The instructor spoke with a German accent. Many of the “Ritchie Boys” were Jewish refugees from Germany who wanted to use their knowledge of German language and culture to fight the Nazis.
“This is the first time you will hear this sound, but it will not be the last.” The instructor fired the machine gun.
A sound like fabric ripping rent the air and Clay’s soul.
Everything blurred around him. It was not the first time he’d heard that sound. And it would be the last sound he would ever hear.
At least once a week, he heard it in his recurring dream. He didn’t know whether to be impressed at the accurate detail in his dream—or to be stunned with the fresh knowledge that it would come true.
He stared at the hills in the distance until the colors became distinct again and his lungs filled with the crisp, cool air. This would be his last autumn, and he would never experience summer again. Neither would many of the men around him, but only Clay knew it for a fact.
The Rangers lined up to try their hand at the Maschinengewehr 42. In combat they might need to use German weapons.
Clay stood at the end of the line so he could compose himself as the ripping sound tore him apart again and again.
Since the dream first appeared, he’d only experienced a peaceful, driven sense of anticipation. Why the sudde
n melancholy?
Clay crossed his arms in his green herringbone twill fatigues. Was it because he’d soon leave the United States, never to return?
His wedding ring rubbed against his other fingers, and he sighed. No, it was Leah. Before he married her, his only joy had come from pursuing the dream. Now he found joy in giving to her and through their friendly correspondence.
In the process, he’d lost his focus.
But he wouldn’t change a thing. The thought of Leah at a mother’s home preparing to give away the only person she loved—well, it broke his heart.
Still, he had to be careful. God had sent the dream to assure Clay that his earthly misery was coming to an end, but also so he wouldn’t waver when life didn’t seem so miserable, so he wouldn’t falter when that ripping sound came his way.
Besides, he’d promised Leah he was going to die, and he was a man of his word.
That made him chuckle.
Gene faced him. “What’s so funny?”
Clay fished around for something. “Can you imagine me infiltrating behind enemy lines and passing for German?” He lifted his brown hands.
Gene cracked up, then gave a comical Nazi salute. “Jawohl, Herr Kamerad!”
The instructor sent Gene a sharp, dark-eyed look. “Do it right, or even your Aryan looks won’t save your hide.”
He then demonstrated the salute and made the platoon do it until they did it right.
Clay had to be prepared for whatever mission he received.
FORT DIX, NEW JERSEY
MONDAY, OCTOBER 25, 1943
On his cot, Clay set aside his olive drab service jacket, freshly marked with his name. Yet another requirement in the Rangers’ “Preparation for Overseas Movement.”
“I swear.” Bob Holman marked a pair of underwear. “If we have to watch another Army film, I’ll shoot the projectionist.”
Clay laughed. They’d completed their stateside training. Now they waited. While they waited, Rudder kept them in shape with physical conditioning, marches, and weapons drills.
“Mail call!”
Clay dashed outside with everyone else.
In the street between the wooden-walled eight-man tents, a private stood beside a jeep loaded with bags of mail.
