by Sarah Sundin
The girl lowered her chin.
Leah fingered one of her braids. “This isn’t nothing. I can feel it. It’s something.” She tapped her nose. “This isn’t nothing. It’s something.”
One slight shoulder shrugged.
Leah poked her lightly in the side, prompting a giggle. “See? Nothing can’t laugh. Only something can laugh. You are something. In fact, you’re something special.”
Mikey faced them, his hands coiled into fists. “Who’s your teacher, Hattie? I’ve a mind to pop her in the nose.”
“Hush,” Leah said. “No one’s going to pop anyone in the nose, you hear?”
Mikey groaned. “I hear. But I oughta. Miss King says we’re all created in God’s image—you, me, Hattie, the Negro boys and girls at the Davidson Academy. All of us.”
Leah smiled and hugged Hattie. “That’s right. Listen to Miss King. She’s a wise woman. Every person is special to God. You are special to him. Don’t you ever forget that.”
Don’t you either. The voice flitted into Leah’s ear, so faint, she thought Hattie had spoken, but the child was squirming out of Leah’s arms.
Made in God’s image. Special. Beloved. Belonging.
Leah glanced into the carriage to her darling sleeping daughter, then back toward the children’s home, where she was welcome, and where she’d come with her mother-in-law and her dear friend, who had enveloped her with friendship and love.
Yes, she did belong.
34
MARSHALING AREA D-5, OUTSIDE DORCHESTER, DORSET, ENGLAND
THURSDAY, MAY 25, 1944
The thirty-two men in Clay’s platoon gathered around a large table in a tent. Clay’s lungs filled with the heavy smell of damp canvas, but his veins filled with anticipation.
Lt. Bill Taylor leaned big hands on the blanket-draped table. “This is it, boys.”
Ernie McKillop whooped, and the men laughed.
Clay grinned. As soon as they’d arrived at the camp outside Dorchester, the MPs had strung barbed wire around their enclosure. Confined to the marshaling area, the Rangers knew what was happening.
Now they’d finally learn the plan Rudder and the other officers had sweated over.
“You are some of the few troops in this invasion who will know the full scope of the plan before we board our transports. That’s because you need to know not only your individual objective, but that of your squad, your section, your platoon, your company, and both Ranger battalions.”
That’s why Clay liked the Rangers. The combination of individual and group responsibility resonated with him.
Taylor flopped over part of the blanket, revealing a map. “This is where the Allies will be invading—in the Normandy region of France.”
Clay edged closer with his buddies.
Taylor pointed to the end of the map. “From the left flank to the right, the British will land here on Sword Beach, the Canadians on Juno Beach, and more British on Gold. US V Corps will land on Omaha, and US VII Corps on Utah. In V Corps, the 1st Infantry Division will land to the left, the 29th to the right. The 2nd and 5th Rangers are attached to 29th Division.”
Clay crossed his arms. A broad enough front to handle the large number of troops but narrow enough to support each other. Wise.
“This is the Rangers’ objective, Pointe du Hoc.” Taylor pointed to a triangle of land between Omaha and Utah. “The Germans have six French-made 155-mm guns on this point. These guns have a range of 25,000 yards. That’s over ten miles, boys. Far enough to reach Utah, Omaha, and the fleet offshore.”
Clay let out a low whistle at the semicircle around the point showing the range.
Lieutenant Taylor flung the blanket off the rest of the table, revealing a contoured rubber map. “This shows the assault area for the 29th Division. Here’s the plan. Ranger Force A will consist of Companies D, E, and F of the 2nd Rangers—you boys. We’ll land directly at Pointe du Hoc.”
Gene nudged Clay and grinned. Yep, they’d received the best assignment.
“Force B is Company C of the 2nd Rangers. They’ll land on Charlie Beach at the far right of Omaha, to the right of the D-1 draw at Vierville-sur-Mer. They’ll climb the cliff, proceed to Pointe de la Percée, take out the guns and radar station there, then meet us at Pointe du Hoc.”
A climb and a five-mile hike. Those fellows would be busy.
“Force C consists of our Companies A and B, plus all six companies of the 5th Battalion. They’ll wait offshore. If our mission is successful, they’ll land at Pointe du Hoc to reinforce us. If we fail—”
“Fat chance,” Manfred Brady said.
Taylor lowered his eyebrows. “If we fail, they’ll land at Dog Green Beach to the left of the D-1 draw, and they’ll make their way to Pointe du Hoc. No matter what, the Rangers are taking out those guns.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Come with me.” Taylor marched to another table and slid the blanket off another rubber map. “This is Pointe du Hoc.”
Clay murmured in appreciation, along with the other men.
A thin dagger of land stabbed the sea, surrounded by steep cliffs and a narrow strip of beach. At least their cliff-climbing skills wouldn’t go to waste.
“Here are the six guns.” Taylor touched six positions in a V, then the tip of the point. “And an observation post. The point is heavily defended with minefields, barbed wire, machine guns, antiaircraft guns, and a network of trenches and bunkers. But the defenses are set up against an attack from the land, not the sea. After all, these cliffs are one hundred feet tall.”
Laughter whipped around the tent.
“Come on, Lieutenant.” Gene elbowed Clay. “Can’t you get us a better challenge than that?”
Taylor sobered. “This time you’ll have Germans shooting down at you.”
The laughter dribbled away.
The platoon leader straightened up and crossed his arms. “Pointe du Hoc will get a thorough working over by Allied aircraft and ships. They’ll bomb the stuffing out of this place. But we must be prepared.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Before we embark and while we’re on board, you boys will be busy.” He gestured around the tent. “We’ll have more briefings. You’ll study maps, aerial photos, and sand tables. You’ll memorize the terrain, the tides, and the location of every gun and defensive position. You will each receive an individual objective and will know it well.”
Clay nodded. The triangle of land was marked up with indications for bunkers and gun emplacements. Which one was the structure from his recurring dream? Where would he die?
Something stretched and tugged in his chest, pulling him away from that dream—the longing to see Leah and Helen, Wyatt and Adler, Daddy and Mama.
Clay forced himself to look around the tent at Gene and Ruby and Holman and McKillop. At Taylor and Lombardi and all the others.
Every man in the platoon had loved ones back home. Every man had reasons to live. And every man was willing to sacrifice his life for the greater good. To take out those guns and protect the soldiers on Omaha and Utah and the sailors at sea. To assure the success of D-day and the Allied cause, to free the enslaved peoples of Europe and protect the folks back home.
Clay stifled a chuckle. It wasn’t as if he were solely responsible.
But if every man worked together and put others above self, the Allies would succeed.
Clay ran his finger along the rubbery rim of the cliff. Lord, don’t let me falter.
WEYMOUTH, ENGLAND
THURSDAY, JUNE 1, 1944
“Lovely day for a seaside stroll, old chap, what what?” Gene said in his affected English accent.
“Estás loco, viejo.” Clay shook his head at his crazy old man friend.
But Gene had a point. The Rangers marched in columns of two down the Esplanade in Weymouth. Filmy clouds and big silver barrage balloons floated in the bright blue sky. To Clay’s right, three- and four-story buildings lined the Esplanade, including the stately gray Victoria Hotel and a quaint
building striped with alternating red and white bricks.
The blue bay stretched away to his left. Sandbags and rolls of barbed wire served as a reminder of when Britain feared an invasion. Now they were launching one.
Sergeant Lombardi sang “I’ve Been Working on the Railroad,” and Clay joined in.
They were all dressed for combat, in Parsons field jackets, trousers tucked into Corcoran boots, and net-covered steel helmets emblazoned on the back with an orange diamond with a blue “2” in the middle for the 2nd Ranger Battalion.
Clay wore his pack on his back, his gas mask in a black neoprene case on his chest, and his cartridge belt around his waist, loaded to the brim. He carried an M1 Garand rifle, while others carried BAR Browning Automatic Rifles, Tommy guns, mortars, carbines, and pistols.
In front of him, Pete Voinescu paused to rearrange his hefty medical pack, and Clay halted his step so he wouldn’t run into the medic. Pete had better not waste too many supplies on Clay in his final moments.
A twinge in his chest. He’d tied up his loose ends, but Daddy had unraveled one.
With Mama still in Tullahoma, only Daddy had read the letter in the pack Clay had mailed. Daddy—always quick and impulsive—hadn’t read it carefully. He assured Clay that if the worst should happen, he’d mail Clay’s letters to Wyatt, Adler, and Leah.
Except Clay had only asked him to hold Leah’s letter until after his death. He’d wanted his brothers’ letters mailed immediately. Now they wouldn’t receive his forgiveness before the invasion.
Nothing Clay could do about it now.
Lieutenant Taylor led the platoon into a tent along the Esplanade. A sign read “From the folks back home through the American Red Cross.”
The smell of coffee and donuts filled his nostrils, and he pulled out his tin canteen cup and lined up.
American women in gray-blue uniforms ladled coffee from a giant vat into the Rangers’ cups and passed them donuts.
“Thank you kindly, miss.” Clay nodded to the young lady, small and dark haired like his Leah, and he took a swig of nice hot coffee.
“Thank you,” she said in a soft voice, also like his Leah.
Clay’s throat contracted, and he almost choked. Was that the last time he’d hear a woman’s voice? See a female face?
Outside, on the far side of the tent, Clay passed photographers and a movie camera, and he faked a grin and lifted his cup to those folks back home who’d sent young ladies to serve him his last donut. To his parents. To Leah.
Clay chewed his donut as the Rangers fell back into formation and resumed their march. A seagull swooped down for a bite. Clay shooed him away, and the bird squawked in protest.
He didn’t want to die anymore, but he was ready. He’d been praying constantly. The joy hadn’t returned, but the peace had, and resolve had taken root and held.
At the end of the Esplanade, a spit of land thrust into the harbor, topped with the massive white Weymouth Pavilion, covered with domes and balconies and other turn-of-the-century ornamentation.
Clay crossed the spit of land to a canal, where a dozen gray-blue landing craft were docked. His squad and three others lined up by their vessel. They’d used the same LCA in numerous amphibious exercises, and today it’d take them out into the harbor to their LSI transport, Ben-my-Chree.
“We’re ready for you chaps.” A Royal Navy officer checked off their names on his manifest.
Clay gave his name, then led his squad down concrete steps cut into the pier and out onto a floating wooden dock. The British crew gave him a hand, and he stepped down into the belly of the LCA. The men took their seats on two benches along each side and one down the center.
Clay straddled the center bench and arranged his pack and rifle to make room for the other men.
“Smoke?” McKillop held up a pack of Lucky Strikes, and Clay passed it on by.
When all the men were crammed in, Lieutenant Taylor signaled to the coxswain. The motor revved, and the boat putted down the canal.
The side of the landing craft was above Clay’s head, and he couldn’t see where he’d come from or where he was going.
Low in a pit once again.
The pit had turned out to be the right place for him, and he was thankful for all that had happened there, but it was time to leave.
Clay stood and braced himself against the armor-plated plywood of the hull, and other Rangers stood too. Brisk air flowed over his face and into his soul.
The boat trotted over the blue waves with its herd, each LCA with a wake like a plumy white tail.
Farther out in the harbor sat giant gray warships and transports, as the huge invasion fleet received the horde of soldiers and prepared to sail.
The Rangers were scheduled for another briefing tonight on board the Ben-my-Chree. At last they’d hear the date for D-day.
How many days, how many hours until he left the pit for good?
Behind him, Lombardi sang “Over There” in his rough bass.
Clay laughed at the song from the previous war and then joined in the appropriate lyrics. The Yanks were indeed coming, and someday soon it would be over, over there.
Clay grinned at Gene and Ruby and Holman and McKillop. He wouldn’t see that day, but he’d do his bit to make it happen.
Resolve and peace and purpose wove together into a rope, strong and true. It would hold.
35
DEARBORN STATION, CHICAGO, ILLINOIS
SUNDAY, JUNE 4, 1944
Leah clutched sleeping Helen to her chest as she fought to keep up with Mama Paxton’s brisk pace down the train platform.
The station lights illuminated the Dixie Flagler’s sleek aluminum sides. What a sumptuous journey, with reclining seats and an elegant dinner. The ladies’ lounge and restroom had even been roomy enough for her to nurse and change the baby.
Since the train left Nashville at one thirty, Leah had spent her time playing with the baby and watching the Midwest roll by.
A year had passed since she’d taken the train south from Des Moines. The year before, she’d worn that dumpy gray dress with a long braid down her back, wide-eyed and innocent.
Now she was a mother in a chic grassy green suit with her hair rolled up under her sweet summer hat. She was no longer innocent, but she felt stronger and wiser.
At the baggage car, Mama gave the porter their claim ticket, and the man stacked their bags onto a trolley.
Three stylishly dressed black women stepped out of the baggage car, and Leah’s heart lurched. How unjust that segregation in the South required them to ride back there just because of the color of their skin. No reclining seats. No elegant meals.
Leah gave them a nod and a small smile as they passed. She would acknowledge their worth, even if no one else did.
The porter wheeled the trolley into the station, and Leah followed with Mama.
Although it was ten o’clock at night, hundreds of people filled Dearborn Station. So many sailors in bright white tunics and bell-bottom trousers, their “Dixie cup” caps at rakish angles.
Three soldiers passed in olive drab service uniforms, like Clay had worn at their wedding. She’d received a letter from him yesterday, each letter a treasure. The invasion hadn’t occurred, but the nation crackled with tension as summer rose on the horizon.
By the ticket windows, a poster showed a crowd of soldiers boarding a train. The caption read “Is your trip necessary?”
Leah winced and did a double step to catch up to Mama. Should she have taken a seat in wartime for a personal errand?
“Daddy!” Three school-age children darted through the crowd and slammed into a sailor. He lifted the youngest high, laughing and grinning.
Leah’s shoulders relaxed. Yes, her trip was necessary. If she had even the slightest possibility of reuniting her fractured little family, she had to take it.
The porter led them outside and hailed a taxi.
Behind Leah, a tall square clock tower soared above the red brick station building.<
br />
The scent of the city was gently familiar, reaching into her mind and whispering to sleeping memories, urging them to awaken and step into the light.
A yellow taxi pulled up. The porter loaded the luggage into the trunk, the driver held open the back door, and Mama motioned Leah inside and tipped the porter.
Leah settled in. Helen made a face and turned toward Leah’s chest. “A little longer, sweetheart,” Leah cooed.
Mama sat and gave the address to the driver, and the cab pulled away from the curb.
“I’m so excited.” Mama folded gloved hands over her purse. “Tomorrow morning we’ll sit down with Juanita and a map and the list of orphanages, and we’ll plan your trip.”
“Tomorrow morning.” Leah gazed out at the darkened city and smiled. Somewhere out there were the answers she longed for. Somewhere out there her sisters might even be sleeping.
They’d be fifteen years old now. What did they look like? Sound like? Did they love school as she had? Books? Poetry? Or did they love jitterbugging and movie stars and baseball? She couldn’t wait to find out.
Please, Lord, let me have the chance.
CHICAGO
MONDAY, JUNE 5, 1944
The massive gray stone building didn’t look familiar from the outside, nor when Leah stepped inside.
But how long had she been in an orphanage before the Joneses adopted her? All she remembered was struggling as Mr. Jones carried her over his shoulder—crying for her sisters.
Leah shuddered. A horrible day, but today she had a chance to reverse it.
“May I help you, ma’am?” the nun behind the desk asked, her young face round and smiley under her habit.
“Yes, ma’am—sister.” Since Leah didn’t see any Greek Orthodox orphanages on the list, she’d try all the homes—Catholic, Protestant, and Jewish. “I’m looking for my little sisters. My parents died when I was four, and my sisters and I were placed in an orphanage, but I don’t know which one. I was adopted, but without my sisters.”
The nun folded her hands on the desk. “Your adoption papers should list the orphanage.”
“I don’t have them. The family who adopted me—they abandoned me at an orphanage in Des Moines without my birth certificate or adoption records.”