The Land Beneath Us

by Sarah Sundin

  Yet Clay would indeed make a frontal assault.

  “We need to take it from behind.” He nodded to John Perkovich from the other platoon. “You and Ellis still have a satchel charge, right?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “The machine gun is trained to our right, our best line of approach to the rear. To our left, there’s a bunch of rubble that would slow us down. We wouldn’t stand a chance going that way.”

  Clay set a finger near the pebbles Taylor was placing to indicate the rubble. “We need a distraction on our left flank to draw fire, so Perkovich and Ellis can circle round and blow the back door.”

  Taylor sat on his haunches and sighed. “I’m open to ideas, boys.”

  “I can run up here.” Clay drew a line beside the rubble. “I’ve got two grenades. I’ll toss one in, two if needed.”

  “No.” Taylor frowned at him. “It’s suicidal.”

  Clay shrugged. That was beside the point, but he had to convince the lieutenant. “Not if we do it right. I’ll sneak up as close as I can. Soon as they spot me, have a couple fellows lay down covering fire. We’ll make a racket over here, make them think we’re attacking from the left. That’ll draw their fire.”

  “Not for long.”

  “It’ll make them duck, slow them down. Soon as they start moving that machine gun, Perkovich and Ellis make a run for it.”

  Taylor rubbed his stubbled chin. “I don’t like it.”

  “It’s the only way.”

  Taylor’s gray eyes fixed hard on Clay. “You once told me it wasn’t your healing time. You’d better pray it’s your killing time.”

  “Yes, sir.” It was also his dying time. But he was ready. He had to be.

  Taylor assigned some to the demolitions squad and others to cover Clay with a BAR, rifles, and a whole lot of noise.

  The men went to their positions, and Clay rested against the side of the crater.

  Furrows cracked the dirt on Gene’s forehead. “Are you sure, Clay? I don’t like it.”

  He’d never been so sure of anything in his life, and he smiled. “Just cover me, buddy.”

  Clay turned his gaze to the gray clouds, the fragments of blue. How many more breaths did he have? How many heartbeats?

  He reached inside his field jacket, pulled his Bible from the breast pocket of his shirt, and opened it to see the picture of Leah and Helen. Good-bye, my loves. A kiss, and he tucked the Bible back in place.

  God had given him the dream so he’d have courage and peace at the end. He did, but it was a dark and sad peace.

  At the saddle, Taylor exchanged hand signals with the demolitions team, then signaled Clay. Whenever Clay was ready.

  He was ready. He was. But his muscles and brain felt like mush. Lord, get me through this. Get me home to you.

  This was for a purpose, to take that casemate and protect the Rangers’ position. If the Germans wiped out the 2nd Battalion, they could move more artillery to the point, artillery that would endanger the fleet and the landing beaches.

  For his buddies. For his brothers.

  One long deep breath, and Clay crawled up to the rim of the crater. The German machine gun was still trained to the Rangers’ right flank. Soft German voices bounced over the battered landscape, light laughter.

  Clay pulled out a hand grenade, the ridged cast iron heavy and cold, and it settled into his palm like a baseball.

  It was time. Clay climbed over the side, Joseph rising from his pit, rising to what he’d been called to do, created to do.

  With his gaze and ears fixed on the casemate, he crept closer, hunched over, his muscles taut and ready to sprint, his heart and lungs pumping in tandem.

  A sharp cry from the German side.

  Clay yanked out the pin and broke into a full run.

  Shouts and gunfire blasted behind him, good old American rifles.

  The Maschinengewehr 42 opened fire, ripping into his memories, the sound he’d heard in his dream, on the training field, and now in his final moments.

  It arced in his direction.

  Now!

  Running hard, Clay coiled for his final pitch.

  He could see Adler at bat, Wyatt squatting behind him with a baseball glove, egging him on.

  Clay would never see them again.

  “Ahhhh!” He yelled, lunged forward on his left leg, and let the grenade fly.

  The machine gun barrel swept his way, spattering out death.

  Clay saw his bullet. Impossible. No one could see a flying bullet, but he did.

  And he didn’t want it.

  He wanted to see his wife and daughter, the girls he loved. He wanted to hear their laughter. He wanted to hold them tight.

  He wanted to live.

  The grenade disappeared into the dark mouth of the casemate.

  The tracer fire was upon him.

  “No!” Clay twisted away, threw himself forward.

  Heat seared through his chest, cracking, roasting, tearing through his right side.

  He fell to the ground, hands splayed before him.

  An explosion rocked the earth, and he lifted his head, his mouth hot and wet.

  Smoke poured out of the casemate.

  Clay had succeeded. The Germans would be dead, injured, or too stunned to resist. His buddies would take the position.

  “Clay! Pax!” Gene cried, high and frantic. “Medic!”

  Too late for that, and Clay rested his cheek on the land beneath him.

  Now that he wanted to live, he wouldn’t.

  CHICAGO

  Three muses dance, their hands entwined,

  A circle of love, as one.

  Thalia laughs, an idyllic song

  Of earth and fields and home.

  Calliope calls, an epic ballad

  Of valor and heroes and might.

  Polyhymnia chants, a sacred hymn

  Of praise and truth and faith.

  Each one unique, each one must part

  And lift her voice alone.

  Leah pushed the baby carriage down the sidewalk, unseeing. The final stanza. That wasn’t what she’d wanted, what she’d planned.

  It was supposed to end with the three muses dancing off together forever. Not like this.

  But Callie and Polly’s circle was already complete.

  Greenery drew her, a park, and she wound her way down the path.

  Hadn’t she always prayed her sisters would be alive and healthy? They were. They had a beautiful home and doting parents. They had each other.

  But they didn’t have her, didn’t even know they had another sister. Didn’t need her.

  Pain pressed on her chest, and she gulped a breath. She didn’t belong, even with her own sisters.

  She parked the carriage and sank onto a wrought iron bench. What if she ran after her sisters and inserted herself into their circle?

  Leah hugged her stomach and folded over her knees. What would happen? They’d be shocked to learn that they had a sister, that they’d been adopted, and that their parents hadn’t told them the truth.

  Questions. Anger. Tears.

  What if one sister rejoiced at the news and the other didn’t? Would they be divided?

  A groan built in her belly and rumbled out. Mrs. Scholz was right. The girls were happy and well adjusted. Leah would bring chaos. Even if both girls embraced her one day, would it be worth the wedge she might drive between the girls and their parents?

  Leah’s belly contracted, and a sob ripped out. She didn’t know her sisters. She only loved the idea of them, not the young ladies they were today. She hadn’t been there for the late-night feedings, the measles, and the essays. Mr. and Mrs. Scholz had. They’d poured fifteen years of love into Callie and Polly—as Leah wanted them to do.

  She might have a right to reunite with her sisters, but to exercise that right would only be for herself. Not for the sisters she claimed to love.

  Sobs heaved through her, over and over, a sound she hadn’t allowed for years. In the Jones home, cr
ying led to a beating. In the orphanage, it led to ridicule and torment.

  Now she couldn’t stop. A lifetime of abandonment and loneliness and rejection poured out.

  Alone. Alone. Unwelcome. Unwanted. Unloved.

  Her sisters belonged. Leah didn’t.

  They were loved. She wasn’t.

  She didn’t want them to share her fate. She wanted to share theirs, and she never would. Too odd. Too foreign.

  Like Leah in the Bible, such an appropriate namesake, the unloved wife who yearned for love and never received it.

  “Clay. Oh, Clay.” All her grief smashed together. Clay wanted to die and might already be dead. If she’d been the kind of woman he could have loved, could she have given him a reason to live?

  No one loved her. Not her husband. Not her sisters. Not . . .

  The sound of her own cries penetrated her ears and shifted. Another cry, desperate and fearful and hiccupping.

  “Helen!” Leah sprang to her feet and blinked heavy-lashed eyelids. Helen lay in her carriage, her fists flailing, her face red and warped.

  “Oh, baby! My sweet girl.” Leah snatched her up and clutched her to her shoulder. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. I didn’t.”

  The blanket hung loose, and Leah grabbed it and dried her baby’s face and her own. “You poor baby. Mama’s here. Mama’s sorry.”

  The hiccups disappeared but the cries continued, and Leah walked and rocked and cooed.

  What a horrible mother she was. How could she have ignored the person who needed her most, the only person who loved her?

  She stilled, her hand on her daughter’s head. Yes, Helen loved her. Leah wasn’t unloved.

  Leah resumed the rocking and pacing. “Mama loves you. Jesus loves you.”

  And sweet, warm peace flowed about her. “Jesus loves me too.”

  She’d never truly been alone or unloved, and she never would be. “Lord, forgive me. You saw me when I was abandoned and rejected, and you stayed by my side. You’re my true Father.”

  In the Bible, God had seen Leah too. He’d seen that Jacob didn’t love her, so he opened her womb and gave her children.

  Leah kissed her own gift from God. “Thank you. Thank you for giving me Helen, for sending Clay so I could keep her.”

  Love for her husband built inside, strong and deep. He didn’t love her in a romantic way, but he loved her in the best way, protecting and giving everything he had. A true husband.

  That wasn’t all. She had Rita Sue, as dear as any true sister. And Mama Paxton, who loved Leah like a true mother.

  Fresh moisture filled her eyes. “Oh, Lord. I’ve been searching for the family I lost, and I didn’t see the family you gave me.”

  42

  POINTE DU HOC

  WEDNESDAY, JUNE 7, 1944

  The pain—it hurt to breathe.

  Another explosion, lower and deeper. It jostled Clay, and he cried out.

  Sharp retorts in the casemate. Rifle fire?

  “Position secure!” Perkovich called.

  His buddies had taken it, just as in his dream, and Clay’s smile dug into the dirt.

  “Casualties?” Taylor yelled.

  “One dead Jerry, two injured. No Rangers hurt.”

  “Paxton is!” Gene shouted. “Pax is down. Medic!”

  “Don’t—bother,” Clay mumbled.

  Footsteps pounded his way, and someone rolled him onto his back.

  Pain carved into Clay’s chest, and he groaned.

  “He’s alive!” Ruby grasped his shoulders. “Come on, Clay. Stay with me. Tell me what to do. You paid attention in first aid class, remember?”

  “Let me go.” He squeezed his eyes shut.

  “Don’t talk that way.” Ruby ripped open Clay’s field jacket. “Tell me what to do.”

  “Come on, Clay. Don’t give up.” Gene hobbled over, using his rifle as a crutch.

  He had to give his buddies a task so they’d feel better. Clay lifted his head enough to see his chest. So much blood. “Check—check to see if the bullet went through.”

  “Sorry, pal.” Ruby pushed on Clay’s shoulder and hip.

  It hurt like blazes, and Clay bit his lip so he wouldn’t scream.

  “Yeah, another hole in your back and bigger.”

  “Pack ’em with field dressings. Sit me upright.” His breath was fast, shallow, painful.

  More footsteps. Lieutenant Taylor knelt in front of him, and so did Pete Voinescu, a medic.

  “Clay said to put on field dressings, sit him upright.” Gene clenched Clay’s shoulder.

  “That’s right.” Pete opened his bag.

  So much activity. Ruby eased Clay up to sitting and supported him. Someone tore off Clay’s shirt. Packets were ripped open. Dressings pressed to his chest. Nothing—nothing had hurt worse in his life.

  “My—Bible.” Clay reached for his discarded shirt. “G. M.?”

  “Sure, buddy.” Gene dug into the pocket and pressed the Bible into Clay’s hand.

  With effort, Clay shoved it into a trouser pocket.

  A sharp pinch in his thigh. Morphine to ease the pain and prevent shock. “Only—a quarter grain. I need—to be able to cough.”

  Pete’s blond eyebrows arched up and under his helmet. More information than in the first aid manual, but what did it matter?

  “Let’s get him to Doc Block. Ruby, get between his knees, grab one leg under each arm.” Pete came behind Clay and reached under Clay’s armpits. “This’ll hurt, Pax. Stay with me.”

  He lifted. Clay stifled a cry and more cries when the men ran across the pockmarked land. Why hadn’t they just let him bleed out? It would’ve hurt a lot less.

  Finally they went down steep steps into a dark concrete bunker, reeking of sweat and blood.

  A flashlight shone at him.

  “Corporal Paxton, shot through the chest,” Pete said. “Bullet went through. Gave him a quarter grain of morphine. He said not to give him the entire half grain.”

  “Set him here,” Dr. Walter Block said.

  Pete and Ruby sat Clay on a litter, and he leaned back against the concrete, dank and cold against his bare skin.

  Doc Block examined the field dressings. “Well, Paxton. What treatment options would you recommend?”

  Dozens of wounded men filled the bunker. “Let me go. Help the others.”

  “Can’t hear you, young man.” He eased Clay forward to examine his back.

  A dagger of pain, and he cried out. “Did you—hear that?”

  The physician smiled. “Loud and clear. Now, tell me how to treat you.”

  “Dressings with petrolatum in case they’re sucking wounds.” Clay forced a deep breath. “Keep me upright or on my right side to prevent hemothorax. Get me coughing to clear secretions. Plasma if I show signs of shock.”

  “Do you?”

  Sweat tingled on his cold face, and his respiratory rate and pulse were high. “Yes.”

  “Where should I place the line?”

  Clay pointed to the inside of his elbow.

  “Oh, so close to a perfect score. No, I’ll put it in your ankle, then it won’t be in the way when you go into surgery.”

  “Surgery?” The battalion had no surgical equipment.

  “When we evacuate you.” His voice sounded tight. “Now, cough. The morphine should be kicking in.”

  Clay pulled in a long, fiery breath, and he coughed it out. “Dying—dying would’ve hurt less.”

  “Yes, it would have.” Something in the physician’s tone told Clay dying was still an option.

  He leaned back against the rough concrete. Why had he twisted away from that bullet? If he’d let it hit square in the heart, he’d already be with Jesus. No pain ever again. The half made whole.

  Instead, he’d let love pull him toward life—more likely, to a painful, protracted death.

  But Leah. His tingling lips bent upward. His muse. This pain, this delay in his home-going was worth it for the joy she’d brought him.
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br />   Clay bumped, and pain reverberated in his chest.

  “Careful!” Gene barked.

  Clay opened his eyes to a partly cloudy sky.

  “First you say, ‘Faster,’ and now you say, ‘Careful.’ Can’t have it both ways, pal.” A voice Clay didn’t recognize.

  A plywood wall to his right. A rising and falling sensation. Was he in a landing craft?

  Seated to his left, Gene shielded his eyes. “I want him to get to the battleship, but I want him to get there alive.”

  “Battleship?”

  Gene grinned at him. “There you are.”

  Clay nodded, but the movement pulled on his chest wall and made him wince. His body felt like lead. He couldn’t even move his arms. Oh, he was strapped in a basket litter under a brown blanket. “Doc Block wouldn’t give up, would he?”

  Gene’s face clouded. “It—it’s been touch and go with you all day.”

  “All day?” Clay only remembered a haze of pain.

  “Yeah. We’ve been calling for reinforcements and evacuation all day, but these two LCVPs were the first boats to make it to the point. It’s 1500.”

  “The Rangers?” His chest felt tight, his breathing compressed and rapid.

  “We’re holding on. We took the observation post at the tip of the point, and the LCVPs brought in sixty Rangers from Omaha. That’ll help a lot.” Gene grimaced at his leg. “I wanted to stay, but Doc put me on this boat. Guess I’m not much good for fighting with this leg.”

  “You did all right by me. More than all right.” Each word cost.

  Gene waved him off. “You were the hero. Rudder says you’ll get a medal for it.”

  He wanted to shrug, but it wasn’t worth the pain.

  The landing craft engine noises changed, and the boat turned. Sailors in dungarees and life vests and helmets moved about and called out orders—something about heaving to.

  “This man first.” A sailor grabbed the end of Clay’s litter. “Doc says he needs surgery.”

  Metallic clanks around him, and ropes swished into and out of his line of vision.

  Gene leaned over. “See you on board, buddy.”

  Clay smiled although he wouldn’t see Gene again. His symptoms indicated he was in shock and had a lot of blood in his lungs.

  A jerk on the litter, and Clay winced. Sailors shouted and turned the litter in the air.