The Land Beneath Us

by Sarah Sundin

  Clay affected slow, even breathing, with startles and snuffles when the train jostled.

  After about half an hour, the door to the passageway opened. “Tickets?”

  “Please don’t disturb these chaps,” the veteran said. “They don’t have long.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  No, Clay didn’t have long. A few weeks? A few months at most. Not long ago, that would have filled him with relief. But not anymore.

  He wanted to live long enough to know Leah and the baby had come through childbirth. He wanted to see a picture of the child who would bear his name after he was gone. Just a while longer, Lord. Please.

  Clay marched under Paddington Station’s great arched ceiling. “We made it.”

  “That veteran helped. I think he was on to us.”

  “I’m sure of it.”

  About ten feet to their left, the gentleman looked their way.

  Clay stopped and saluted. Gene did too.

  The former Tommy clicked his heels and saluted them back, his expression sad and distant.

  He knew what the GIs were about to face, and Clay’s chest constricted. He didn’t feel bad for himself—he’d go to glory. But his buddies who survived would carry memories for life.

  A new thought struck him hard. Lord, please don’t let Gene see me die.

  Out in the ticket area, Clay pulled out his map. “We won’t be able to see much, but there’s a lot in walking distance.”

  “We’ll see more if we do things my way.” Gene set his pack on a bench, pulled out a K ration box, and removed the box that held four cigarettes. Then he tapped out the contents—rolled-up pound notes—and he kissed them. “This, my friend, is Underground fare and dinner and little gifts for our wives.”

  Clay laughed. “That, my friend, is initiative.”

  Close to midnight, Clay and G. M. trudged back through Paddington Station. They’d seen the major London sights and eaten at a real British pub.

  Clay’s feet had a familiar ache. “In Bude all we do is moan about twenty-five-mile marches. So what do we do in London?”

  “March twenty-five miles.”

  “Sure do.” And he’d loved it.

  Only a few people milled about the station, and some soldiers and sailors dozed on benches. Clay found two empty benches. “This here spot’s as fine as any.”

  “Yep.” G. M. stretched out with his pack for a pillow. “Nighty-night, Paxy.”

  “Nighty-night, Gee-Mee.” Clay arranged his pack, but he couldn’t sleep with London swirling in his memory—Buckingham Palace and Westminster Abbey and Big Ben, the Tower of London and St. Paul’s and the Tower Bridge.

  He’d always wanted to see London, but he never thought he would. Leah would love the book he’d bought with pictures of the city, including the British Library.

  But Wyatt filled his thoughts. His oldest brother had loved Charles Dickens and Sherlock Holmes and had talked about visiting someday.

  Clay hadn’t seen him for going on three years, and he . . . he missed him. Missed him with a gaping cavern in his belly. Wyatt was the quiet one, responsible and thoughtful, while Adler was the fun brother, mischievous and adventurous.

  Did they regret what they’d done? Had they changed?

  Clay would never see them again, which hurt. But honestly, what would he say to them? He didn’t trust himself not to punch them in the face.

  On the other hand, a good pop in the nose might make it easier to forgive them.

  He chuckled. Probably not what the Lord had in mind.

  A keening sound climbed high, dove low, and rose high again. Clay blinked his heavy eyes. Was that an air raid siren?

  Recently, the German Luftwaffe had been sending bombers back to London. This Little Blitz had followed a three-year lull in major air raids since the Blitz.

  Gene’s snoring competed with the siren, and Clay shook his friend’s shoulders. “Wake up. It’s an air raid.”

  “Huh?” G. M. sat up. Wrinkles from the canvas pack crisscrossed one cheek.

  “Air raid.” Clay grabbed his pack. “Big planes, big bombs, big booms. Let’s find a shelter.”

  “You fellas must be new in town.” Three American airmen sat on the next bench in leather flight jackets and crush caps.

  Clay’s breath caught, but Adler wasn’t among them. “Yes, sir.”

  “Rookies,” the second airman said.

  The first puffed out a plume of cigarette smoke. “Listen, pal. The Krauts do this ’most every night. Nothing to fuss about.”

  Gene closed one eye, switched eyes, and his head slumped forward.

  Clay could carry him in a pinch, but this wasn’t a pinch. He sat beside his buddy.

  Curved girders arched high above him, with windows in a band along the top. Searchlight beams swung into view and out, brightening the cloudless sky.

  Above the siren’s wail came a new sound, steady and insistent. Airplane engines.

  The flyboys sat up straighter.

  A whistling sound high above.

  “Wake up, Gene. We’ve got to get down to the Tube.” He’d seen the stairs not far off. Rookie or no, it was time to move.

  “I’m coming.”

  More whistles, and the Rangers ran toward the stairs with the flyboys right behind them.

  A sound like shattering glass, screeching metal, ripping earth. A force slammed into Clay’s back and knocked him to his hands and knees.

  He cried out but couldn’t hear himself.

  The sound receded. Glass tinkled in the distance.

  Clay drew in a deep breath and assessed himself. Not even a scratch on his palms, thanks to his rope-climbing calluses.

  Gene and the three airmen sat back on their heels, dazed but unharmed.

  His ears ringing, Clay stood and turned around. Far down the tracks, smoke and dust rose and a gaping hole in the roof framed twisted girders. Thank goodness there were no trains or benches down that way. But what a lot of damage.

  One bomb among thousands. One night among hundreds.

  “This—this is why we’re here.”

  27

  TULLAHOMA

  WEDNESDAY, APRIL 12, 1944

  Leah caught her breath and looked at her watch. That contraction had arrived twelve minutes after the last one. Thank goodness Clay had sent her a wristwatch in February for her nineteenth birthday.

  She pushed herself out of the rocking chair and surveyed her home. All was ready. Her morning chores were complete. Her suitcase had been packed for weeks, and every morning she added her toiletries and nightgown.

  Mercer had put up a wall to divide the bedroom in two. In the new little nursery stood a bassinet with cheery lemony bedding. The bureau was a good height for changing diapers, and the drawers were filled with snowy diapers and the tiny shirts and kimonos and drawstring nightgowns she had sewn.

  Leah smoothed her hands over her gigantic belly. Dr. Adams had told her to call when the contractions were ten minutes apart, but twelve was close to ten. What if ten minutes came at noon and the nurse was on her lunch hour? What if Leah had to give birth all alone at home?

  She couldn’t risk her daughter’s life.

  Leah crossed the backyard and knocked on the Bellamys’ back door. No one answered, as expected. Mercer would be at the bank, Rita Sue volunteering at the Camp Forrest hospital, and the children in school.

  Leah opened the door. Rita Sue had told Leah to use their phone at any time, but the kitchen felt oddly unfamiliar without the Bellamy family, and the whir of the phone dial under Leah’s finger sounded loud enough to summon every police officer in Coffee County.

  “Good morning. Dr. Adams’s office.” Nurse Hutton’s high-pitched voice greeted her.

  “This is Mrs. Paxton. I’m in labor. My contractions are twelve minutes apart.”

  “I’ll let Dr. Adams know. Go to the hospital when they’re ten minutes apart.”

  “Yes—” Leah’s belly went rigid, not painful but very uncomfortable. She gla
nced at her watch. “That’s . . . now.”

  “All right, hon. Go on in. Dr. Adams will meet you at the hospital later.”

  In a few minutes, Leah headed down Washington Street with the suitcase Rita Sue had loaned her, feeling small and alone. Another contraction hit, and she braced herself on the trunk of an elm tree.

  She knew the Lord was her provider and true Father, but right then, all she wanted was someone to hold her hand and tell her everything would be all right.

  If only Clay could be that someone. He was so strong and calm and knowledgeable in that physician-like way of his.

  The contraction subsided, and she turned onto Grundy Street and inhaled spring-scented air. With Easter only a few days past, flowers blooming around front porches, and a baby about to be born, everything sang of life.

  If only spring didn’t mean death for Clay.

  She shuddered and stroked her belly. She wouldn’t think of that today.

  Thank goodness she only had one more contraction before she reached the Queen City Hospital. Since Leah was no longer employed at Camp Forrest, she couldn’t go to the familiar hospital on base.

  The building was small and simple in the modern streamlined fashion.

  A middle-aged nurse in crisp white greeted Leah. “I’m Nurse Simmons. Please follow me.” She came out from behind the desk and gestured to a row of chairs. “When your husband arrives, he can wait out here.”

  “My husband—he’s in England, in the Army.”

  “Well, never you mind.” She led the way down the hall. “Will your parents be coming?”

  “No, ma’am. I’m an orphan.”

  “Oh.” Nurse Simmons snapped her gaze over her shoulder to Leah. “I’m sorry.”

  Time to focus on the good, and Leah smiled. “My friend Mrs. Bellamy will visit. And I’ll telegraph my husband’s parents in Texas. My baby will never be alone.”

  Neither would Leah. Never again.

  Pain ripped through Leah’s body, searing all the places the wolf had hurt. But this was a good pain, a productive pain, a life-giving pain. Leah pushed into it and embraced it.

  Wet, warm, tumbling release.

  “Here we are,” Dr. Adams said.

  Panting, Leah strained to see between her knees. Where was she? Where was her baby?

  A tiny cry rose, as old as time and as new as spring.

  “Helen.” Leah laughed and flopped flat on her back, sweat tickling her hairline. “Thank you, Lord. Thank you.”

  “Congratulations, Mrs. Paxton,” Dr. Adams said. “It’s a girl.”

  “I know.” Leah grinned and laughed.

  The nurses and doctor moved in choreographed motion. So much activity for such a wee person.

  “I want to see her.” Leah glimpsed a tiny red foot, toes splayed wide. “I want to see my baby.”

  “All in due time,” Nurse Simmons said, her back to Leah.

  A young redheaded nurse came over and massaged Leah’s belly. “She’s a good size for being two weeks early.”

  Dr. Adams’s gray-eyed gaze darted to Leah. In this room, only he knew Leah’s story and knew she was actually two weeks late. “I’m not surprised. Mrs. Paxton followed my instructions and took good care of herself.”

  Why wouldn’t they turn around so she could see Helen? The baby’s cries spoke to a part of Leah’s soul she didn’t know existed, now awakened and alert and attuned to this young person. “Please. I want to see her.”

  “Do you have a name picked out?” The redhead kneaded Leah’s belly like bread dough. Freckles dotted her round cheeks.

  “Her name is Helen Margarita Paxton.” Leah smiled at the lovely, appropriate name. Helen, a Greek name that meant light. Margarita, after Clay’s grandmother on the Ramirez side, and it also honored Rita Sue. And Paxton, a precious gift from Clay.

  “We’ll help you send telegrams to your husband and in-laws.” Nurse Simmons flapped open a little blanket.

  “Thank you.” But they were trying to distract her from her dearest and only desire. Helen’s cries were gentling but still called to her. “How much longer?”

  “You’ll see your baby in the morning,” the redhead said. “We need to take her to the nursery, and you need to rest.”

  Dr. Adams held up one hand to the nurse and gave Leah a solemn and momentous look. “Are you sure you’re ready to see her?”

  Leah swallowed hard. What if something about Helen reminded her of the wolf? Although Leah hadn’t seen his face, what if she’d met him and recognized some feature in her daughter? But would that change her love? Never. “I want to see my baby.”

  Dr. Adams nodded to Nurse Simmons.

  “Here she is, Mrs. Paxton. Please stay flat on your back. It’s very important.” Nurse Simmons laid a blanketed bundle beside Leah on the mattress.

  Helen’s face peeked out, set like a jewel in the folds of white flannel, red and wrinkled and capped with black hair.

  “Hello, baby.” Leah laughed and stroked that sweet face, seeing her daughter for the first time, yet knowing her better than she’d ever known another human being. “My Helen. My daughter.”

  The baby’s face softened, and her eyes opened, dark and bright and soulful.

  “Hello, baby. Hello, sweet girl.” Leah stretched to kiss her baby’s warm, firm cheek. Her love swelled and strengthened and deepened until it filled every corner of her being.

  “She’s beautiful,” the redhead said. “She has your mouth.”

  Did she? Leah studied her, touched her, and memorized every detail.

  “Do you see your husband in her?” Nurse Simmons asked.

  She shouldn’t . . . and yet. “Her eyes. They’re Clay’s eyes.”

  It couldn’t be, yet it was. How sweet of the Lord, and how fitting. Every time Leah looked at her daughter, she’d see the man she loved, the man who’d allowed them both to live.

  28

  SWANAGE, DORSET, ENGLAND

  MONDAY, APRIL 17, 1944

  “Mail call!”

  Silence fell over the mess hall. As hungry as Clay was after a day of training, he craved letters more than food.

  Names rang out, and Rangers got up from benches. A week earlier, three of the six assault companies had transferred to Swanage on the south coast between Weymouth and Southampton. The other three companies remained at the British Assault Training School in Braunton, not far from Bude. Clay had enjoyed his week at Braunton, which had focused on taking out fortified positions. Like the pillbox in his recurring dream.

  “Paxton!”

  Clay forked the last bite of mutton into his mouth and retrieved an envelope addressed in Daddy’s strong script. He worked his finger under the lip and headed back to his seat.

  “Paxton!”

  Two in one day. He grinned and reversed course. A smaller envelope this time—a cablegram. From Tennessee!

  Clay ripped it open. “HELEN MARGARITA PAXTON BORN APRIL 12 STOP 7 POUNDS STOP MOTHER AND BABY WELL STOP YOURS LEAH.”

  He whooped. “It’s a girl! I’m a daddy!”

  Clay laughed and read each word again. Of course it was a girl. Hadn’t Leah known from the start? His funny mystical bride.

  His pals crowded around, congratulating him.

  “Too bad our rations don’t come with cigars,” Ruby said.

  McKillop waved him off. “Pax doesn’t smoke anyway.”

  Gene slapped him on the back. “Good job, old man.”

  “Helen Margarita Paxton,” Clay murmured. Leah’s Greek heritage, Clay’s Mexican heritage, and Clay’s white heritage, all wrapped up in one fine name.

  His friends occupied themselves with mail and meals.

  Clay leaned back against the stone wall in the mess hall of the school where the Rangers were billeted, and he studied Leah’s message. He’d met his goal and lived long enough to hear the news.

  Why did it feel insufficient?

  He wanted a picture. He wanted to see that baby. He wanted to drop everything and fly across the Atlan
tic to the two of them. Forget D-day. Forget the dream.

  Clay sighed. He’d feared this would happen. His resolve was weakening, his desire lessening. The dream still came at least once a week, increasing in intensity. The end was coming, but now the thought filled him with sadness rather than joy.

  His dinner finished, Clay turned in his tray and headed outside to read Daddy’s letter.

  It was still light out, thanks to Britain’s wartime double summertime. The school perched on a cliff overlooking the bay, and silvery clouds stretched in ribbons over the water.

  Clay sat cross-legged on the sparse grass and opened the letter, written well before the baby’s birth.

  Dear Clay,

  I have good news. Wyatt wrote home! Finally, we’ve heard from one of our prodigals, and your mother and I couldn’t be happier. He’s alive and well and serving as a naval officer on the same island you are.

  He wants you to know he’s sorry he stole your money. He meant to pay you back that summer, but he made a bad investment and lost it all. That’s why he joined the Navy—so he could earn money to pay you back. He’ll send the check soon and write you at that time. He feels awful for what he’s done.

  We’ve written back, telling him you’re in the Army and that Adler ran away, but we didn’t tell him what happened between you and Adler. That’s not our tale to tell.

  Wyatt asked us not to give you his address right now, and we’ll honor that. We did send him your address so he can send his apology. We pray you’ll accept it, and we pray you two can meet overseas.

  If only we could hear from Adler too. Nothing would make us happier than to see our family whole again. When that day comes, you three boys will see Mama and me running to you down the road, and you’ll smell the fatted calf on the barbecue.

  “Great news,” Clay said from between gritted teeth. “Just great.”

  He stuffed the letter inside his Parsons field jacket and shoved himself to standing.

  Like Adler, Wyatt hadn’t suffered one whit, and Clay marched along the cliff. A naval officer, was he? Walking around in a smart navy blue uniform, probably in some swanky headquarters, far from cliffs and foxholes and machine-gun bullets.