The Land Beneath Us

by Sarah Sundin

  Darlene set her hand on her hip. “Sure, handsome. I know plenty of gals. But y’all had better take us somewhere nice. We’re plumb tired of the cafeteria.”

  Leah felt ill. Why, she didn’t even know these men, much less how to act on a date. “Not me, but thank you for the invitation.”

  The skinny soldier crossed his arms. “Got yourself a boyfriend?”

  “No. I just . . .” Leah twisted her purse strap and smiled in a way that she hoped would communicate polite regret. “I’m still settling in and getting used to my job.”

  The black-haired soldier at the end was looking at her chest.

  Leah pulled her purse in front of her like a shield.

  The man had a notch in his left ear like a tomcat who had been in too many fights. He met her gaze. His eyes were dark and as cold as midnight in Iowa in January, and a shudder ran through her. One of the wolves.

  “Any of you fellows have a pen?” Darlene asked.

  Two immediately sprang forth.

  Darlene uncapped one, took the hand of the blond soldier, and wrote on the back of his hand. “The number for my boardinghouse. Ask for Darlene. I’ll round up some friends.”

  He grinned at his hand. “Say, that’d be swell.”

  “Bye, fellas.” Darlene wiggled her fingers in farewell, took Leah’s arm, and headed outside. After both umbrellas were raised, they strolled down Atlantic past Sterling Stores and the First National Bank. For once, Darlene was silent.

  In front of Couch’s, where signs advertised appliance sales and repairs, Darlene stopped and huffed. “What’s wrong with you? You could have had a date.”

  “I don’t know those men, don’t even know their names.”

  Another huff and louder. “Sugar, you’ve got a lot to learn. I’m willing to teach you, but you’ve got to be willing to listen.”

  Leah’s lips twisted. “One thing at a time, please.”

  Darlene fell silent, and then she hugged Leah’s arm. “A new job, new clothes, new hairdo. And now that you look cute, men are asking you out. I suppose it’s a lot for you.”

  “It is.” She couldn’t even imagine herself on a date.

  Maybe with Clay Paxton, who was so kind and bright. He also knew tragedy, and she longed to talk with him again.

  But not on a date. She wasn’t ready, not even with Clay.

  4

  CAMP FORREST

  WEDNESDAY, JUNE 30, 1943

  With his stance and arms wide, Clay hunkered over and sized up Bob Holman. All around, men were throwing each other down into the red dirt. Years of wrestling had taught Clay to take his time and plan his attack. Ideally, he’d make his opponent act first out of impatience.

  Holman was tall, with broad shoulders and skinny legs. He’d rely on his upper-body strength, and Clay would use that against him.

  “Congratulations, Paxton,” Sgt. Tommy Lombardi yelled. “Holman just shot you dead. Don’t hesitate. Attack.”

  Clay opened his mouth to defend himself, but privates didn’t do such things. “Yes, Sergeant.”

  Of course, now Holman was ready. Clay lunged as if he planned to grasp Holman’s shoulders. Taking advantage of his lower center of gravity, Clay ducked under Holman’s raised arms and off to one side, grabbed him around the waist, and hooked one leg behind Holman’s knees. His opponent fell hard, and Clay scrambled on top to pin him.

  Victory.

  Then two fingers jammed up into his nostrils. Clay jerked back, and in a smooth move, Holman rolled him over and pinned him on his back, knife hand to his throat.

  Clay wiggled his nose in pain. “You can’t do that.”

  Holman chuckled. “I can and I did. You heard Knudson—Rangers fight dirty.”

  With a groan, Clay closed his eyes. Capt. Dean Knudson had fought with the 1st Ranger Battalion in North Africa, but the dirty fighting techniques he advocated went against Clay’s training and sportsmanship.

  Lombardi leaned over Clay. “This ain’t a high school wrestling match with rules and referees. You think the Jerries fight fair? The Japs?”

  “No, Sergeant.” But that didn’t mean a man fighting fair couldn’t win.

  Lombardi cussed and moved down the line.

  “You’ll get it, Pax.” Holman stood and brushed himself off. “After all, aren’t Mexicans hot-blooded?”

  “Better not test me on that.” Clay got to his feet but left the dirt in place. Of the three Paxton boys, only Adler had a temper—and he was the blondest of the bunch.

  “All right, men, gather round,” Lieutenant Taylor called.

  Clay found Gene and stood beside him in the sloppy circle. Gene’s right sleeve hung by a few threads. “More ventilation?” Clay asked.

  “Courtesy of Lyons. Man’s as tough as his namesake.”

  Yesterday Clay had gotten the better of Frank Lyons, but any pride in that feat was tempered by today’s humiliation.

  “A new commander?” Gene flicked his chin toward a major striding into the center of the circle.

  Clay snapped to attention and saluted. The 2nd Ranger Battalion had already gone through at least four commanders.

  “At ease.” The new fellow stood tall and broad chested, and he assessed the motley group of soldiers sweating under the blazing sun. “Men, I’m Jim Rudder, your new battalion commander. I’ve been sent down here to restore order and get going with realistic training.”

  With his hands clasped in the small of his back, Clay frowned at the name and the Texas accent. Jim Rudder? He knew that name, but from where?

  “I’m going to work you harder than you’ve ever worked.” Major Rudder spoke with the authority of a football coach. “Before you know it, you’re going to be the best-trained fighting men in this man’s army. Now with your cooperation, there will be passes from time to time. I’ll grant as many leaves and passes as I can. If I don’t get your cooperation, we’ll still get the job done, but it’ll be a lot tougher on you. If such a program does 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 hum
id 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 to kill. It’s perfect for you.”

  “Great idea,” Rudder said.

  “No.” Clay sucked in a breath at his breach of military etiquette. “Sir, medics don’t fight. I volunteered for the Rangers because I want to fight. I need to fight. Please give me a chance, sir. I can do this.”

  Lombardi rolled his eyes at Taylor, and Taylor shook his head at Rudder, and Rudder appraised Clay again.

  He tried to look tough.

  Rudder didn’t let up his scrutiny. “As a linebacker, you were fast, strong, smart, and a team player. That’s why I wanted you on my team then, and that’s why I want you on my team now. I’ll give you another chance.”

  Clay’s grin burst free. “Thank you, sir. I won’t let you down.”

  “But you’ll need to show some serious improvement, or you’re out. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir.” Clay left the tent, traded a joke with his buddies, and marched back to his tent.

  His secret was out. The brass knew about medical school. If he didn’t learn to fight dirty, they’d make him a medic.

  Clay kicked a rock out of the road. Wouldn’t Daddy and Mama like that?

  “The Lord didn’t make you a killer,” Mama had told him when he received his draft notice. “He made you a healer.”

  Telling his parents about his recurring dream hadn’t helped, not even when he’d related how he felt overwhelming peace and joy each time he awoke. How he knew he was meant to die in combat saving his buddies—a good purpose he’d embraced. How the dream was a message from the Lord, a welcome one, assuring him the miserable years in the pit would soon end.

  In the Bible, not everyone liked Joseph’s dreams either, but they’d come to pass.

  Since that talk with his parents, Clay hadn’t mentioned his dream to a soul. It was a treasured secret between him and God.

  Daddy and Mama would love to see that dream thwarted.

  And his brothers? They’d shown him they believed a half-breed didn’t deserve fancy goals like going to college or becoming a physician or marrying the doctor’s daughter.

  His gut burned—he’d have to mine that anger next time they practiced hand-to-hand combat.

  Why did Leah Jones’s thoughtful little face flash before him? “I can understand why you haven’t forgiven them.”

  “Lord, they took everything from me,” he muttered. “Let me keep this dream. Don’t let anyone steal it.”

  5

  CAMP FORREST

  THURSDAY, JULY 1, 1943

  Miss Mayhew parked a cart in front of the circulation desk. “Here are this month’s acquisitions for you to shelve.”

  “What a treasure.” Leah leaned over to read the titles, including The Clinical Recognition and Treatment of Shock. She’d have to show Clay the next time he came in.

  The previous Sunday he’d insisted she call him Clay. Sometimes he visited on weekday evenings too. Although he always looked exhausted from training, he never failed to be cheerful.

  Leah sorted the books by category. Darlene had coached her on how to act with Clay, to be friendly but not too eager. She’d also taught Leah some flirtation techniques, but when Leah practiced them, Darlene said perhaps it would be better for Leah to be herself.

  Why would she try to be anyone else?

  Beside the Army technical and field manuals, plenty of other books enticed Leah to explore. Would any yield clues about her background? Finding those would require serendipity, and one couldn’t plan serendipity.

  “Good evening, Leah.”

  She smiled at the familiar Texas twang, grabbed the medical handbook, and spun around, coaching herself to look friendly but not eager. “Hello, Clay.”

  He had a friend with him, taller than he, but lankier, with strawberry blond hair and freckles.

  Leah hugged the book. Clay had asked her not to mention his medical interests, and she’d honor that.

  “Leah, this is my friend Jim.”

  She extended her hand. “Nice to meet you, Jim.”

  They both laughed. “It’s G. M.,” Clay’s friend said. “Short for Gene Mayer. We’ve got to teach this cowboy to talk right.”

  Clay pointed with his thumb at G. M. “Got to teach Mr. Hollywood here to listen right.”

  Leah joined the laughter. It felt strange to laugh with men, but very nice.

  “Clay isn’t as stupid as he looks,” G. M. said. “He speaks fluent Spanish.”

  “Do you?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Clay nodded at her. “My mama’s Mexican.”

  “Oh!” That explained his bronze coloring and obsidian hair. “But Paxton . . . your father—”

  “As white as the pages of that book. Blond hair, blue eyes, the works.”

  Why, yes. She studied his features. He’d certainly received excellent traits from each side. “How fascinating.”

  Clay dipped his chin. “Never heard it called fascinating before.”

  “It is. I’m a firm believer that our country is richer for the mixture of her various cultures.”

  “That’s Clay, all
right.” G. M. slapped him on the back. “All mixed up.”

  “Speaking of being mixed up . . .” Clay pulled a slip of paper from the pocket of his khaki shirt. “We’re here to find Elementary Map and Aerial Photograph Reading. Field Manual 21-25.”

  Leah pointed to her right. “All our field and technical manuals are in the second aisle in numerical order. Would you like me to show you?”

  “We’ll find it. Thanks.” A big grin, and Clay and G. M. left.

  Behind the circulation desk, Miss Mayhew cleared her throat and frowned at Leah. Yesterday she’d reprimanded Leah for flirting with the patrons, which had rendered Leah speechless. Was having a friendly conversation considered flirting? My, she had a lot to learn.

  Leah mouthed “Sorry,” loaded her cart again, and pushed it to the fourth aisle, away from Clay and G. M. She picked up a pile of books and searched for the correct locations.

  “Hear about the party at the USO on Saturday?” G. M.’s voice filtered through the stacks.

  “For Independence Day?” Clay said. “I heard.”

  “Get a date and join Betty Jo and me.”

  Leah held her breath, a book suspended midair.

  “No, thanks,” Clay said.

  “How about that Leah? She’s pretty cute, and she seems to like you, though I don’t know why.”

  Leah scrunched her eyes shut, dreading both the yes and the no.

  “I’ve told you, G. M. I’m not interested in dating right now, all right?”

  “Still—”

  “Not interested. Now here’s the manual, Mr. Busybody.”

  Not interested. Leah’s arm drooped, but she gave her head a good shake and slid the book into place.

  What would she have done if he’d asked her? She probably would have frozen or declined as she had with the soldiers in the drugstore.

  She ought to be thankful she’d learned Clay wasn’t interested in her before she let herself become infatuated.

  But it bruised. Even with a divine camel-colored suit and a cute haircut and makeup, she was still odd and foreign.

  MONDAY, JULY 5, 1943

  “Assume position!” Sergeant Lombardi yelled.

  Clay tossed his shirt into a heap with the other men’s. The six Rangers from his tent stepped alongside the twelve-foot log for the morning log drill.