The Land Beneath Us

by Sarah Sundin

  “Oh dear.” The nun clapped her hand over her mouth. “What an awful thing to do.”

  “It was, but I’ve forgiven them.” Leah wound her fingers around her purse strap. “I know you must be busy, but could you search your records for my sisters and me?”

  The nun pulled out a sheet of paper. “Your names, please?”

  “My name is Thalia, and my sisters are Callie and Polly—possibly short for Calliope and Polyhymnia. I think we were all named after Greek muses.”

  “Oh my.” Thin dark eyebrows rose. “Last name?”

  “I don’t know. I was only four, and I couldn’t pronounce it.”

  “Oh dear.” The nun nodded toward an office in the back. “Our records are filed alphabetically by last name.”

  Leah’s chest contracted around her shrinking heart. “It sounded like Ka-wa-los.”

  “I’m so sorry, ma’am.” Her light brown eyes went round. “Our records go back to the 1890s, and we had up to eight hundred children at a time during the Depression. You can imagine how many files we have.”

  Tall cabinets lined the wall in the office. If only Leah could search them, but of course, they wouldn’t let her.

  “Thank you anyway.” It wasn’t the nun’s fault, so Leah worked up a smile. On the paper she wrote down all the information she had and her contact information in Chicago and Tullahoma. “If you should happen to find something . . . but I understand. I do.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.” The nun’s smile looked thin but sympathetic.

  Leah headed outside into the balmy afternoon, and she leaned back against the rough stone façade.

  What now? She was supposed to visit two more homes before she returned to Juanita’s house to nurse Helen, but she’d have the same problem at every orphanage.

  Was it even worth it? Had she come all this way for nothing?

  Leah pressed her fingers to her temples. The familiar ache of longing for her family deepened, here in this city where she’d lost them.

  36

  OFF NORMANDY, FRANCE

  TUESDAY, JUNE 6, 1944

  The LCA cranked into a right turn away from the Ben-my-Chree, and Clay banged into Lt. Bill Taylor. “Sorry, sir.”

  “It’s all right.” Taylor looked over his shoulder. “It’s 0430, boys. Here we go.”

  Clay followed the lieutenant’s gaze. Somewhere above the overcast, the moon shone dim gray light on the other twenty Rangers and the British boat crew.

  The landing craft chugged forward at six knots over bumpy waves. It would take two hours to travel the twelve miles from the transport area to Pointe du Hoc, where the Rangers were due to land at 0630.

  He stood up so he could see over the side. Although he’d never be able to tell the story of what he’d done on D-day, he didn’t want to miss a single one of his last moments.

  Clay gripped the bow ramp, and cold saltwater misted over his face. He squinted at the two columns of boats—a British motor launch that would guide Force A to shore, four DUKWs, and twelve LCAs—ten carrying the Rangers and two carrying supplies.

  Lt. Col. Jim Rudder rode in the leading LCA. He was supposed to have stayed on the command ship USS Ancon to direct both the 2nd and 5th Battalions. But when the Force A commander had gotten rip-roaring drunk the night before and had punched Doc Block, the commander had been escorted off the transport. Rudder had taken his place.

  Clay didn’t mind having the football coach leading his team.

  What a team. Clay stood in the bow with Lieutenant Taylor on his left and Gene on his right. Holman, McKillop, and Ruby sat behind them. Clay’s rifle squad would be first off the boat. Behind them sat Sgt. Tommy Lombardi with the Browning Automatic Rifle squad, including Manfred Brady and Frank Lyons. In the rear sat the two squads from the other section.

  A wave hit the side of the LCA, and cold water slipped over the side of the boat. Clay fought off a shudder. If Lyons wanted to kill Clay, today would be the day to do it.

  Then he chuckled. He wouldn’t die at the hand of Frank Lyons.

  A low rumble built overhead, approaching from the north, a deep and persistent drone. Had to be the Lancaster heavy bombers of the Royal Air Force, which were scheduled to dump bombs on the point starting at 0450.

  A retching sound behind him. Bob Holman leaned over with a paper bag to his mouth. Then he tossed the bag overboard, wiped his mouth on his sleeve, and groaned.

  Come to think of it, the ride was pretty rough for any stomach that hadn’t been toughened by Mama’s chili peppers. Clay pulled his bag from inside his field jacket and handed it to Holman.

  One less thing for Clay to carry. The Rangers were traveling light. Two bandoliers of ammo crisscrossed Clay’s chest, and his cartridge belt was loaded with ammo, grenades, and one chocolate D ration bar. All the men’s packs and extra ammunition and rations and demolitions would land with the two supply LCAs. As for luxury items, Gene wore Betty Jo’s red-and-blue necktie under his uniform, and Clay carried his serviceman’s Bible with Leah and Helen’s picture tucked inside.

  Gene leaned in front of Clay. “Say, Lieutenant? Should we bail?”

  An inch or two of water sloshed around Clay’s boots. With the extra layer of armor, the British LCAs rode lower in the water than the American LCVPs.

  “We’re fine.” Taylor peered into the darkness and nodded behind him. “But I don’t like the looks of that boat—D Company, I think.”

  Sure enough, one landing craft rode even lower in the water. Motion flickered above the top line of the boat—the Rangers bailing, most likely.

  “Just to be safe.” Gene took off his helmet, scooped some water, and flung it over the side. The wind caught it and flung half of it back in. He scrunched up his face at Clay. “The wind is fighting for the Germans.”

  Clay chuckled and scooped a helmet-full himself. Bailing didn’t hurt, and it might help. But he emptied it on the other side.

  Taylor cursed. “Forget what I said. Everyone, bail.”

  What had changed? With his next scoop, Clay glanced back toward the low-riding LCA—only the bow was showing, and small white splashes appeared in the inky water. It was going down.

  Clay wanted to order the coxswain to swing around and pick up the men in the water, but the coxswain wouldn’t listen. And rightly so. Not only did they have to stick to their timetable, but the extra weight would endanger their own craft.

  “Lord, send someone to rescue them.” Clay’s helmet scraped along the plywood bottom of the hull.

  For the next half hour, the LCA plodded through the waves, and the men bailed off and on and vomited off and on.

  Clay’s years working in Dr. Hill’s office had also steadied his stomach. For the first time in years, he smiled at the thought of his former mentor. A good man who had given so much to a boy he’d believed in and supported, despite the color of his skin.

  The gray light rose, and faint colors emerged—the dark khaki of the men’s field jackets, the brownish-green of their trousers, the orange diamonds on the backs of their helmets and the blue diamonds on their sleeves. Gene’s red hair and Holman’s green face.

  Clay peered across the water. A dark band appeared between gray sea and gray sky, and orange fires glowed from the aerial bombardment. Normandy.

  A sound like a train approached, loud and furious, and Clay ducked with all the other men. A naval shell and a big one.

  The boat shuddered, and the concussion wave pressed Clay even lower. Had to be the battleship USS Texas, which was supposed to bombard Pointe du Hoc starting at 0550.

  He sat up. More shells crossed in streams of colored light, too many to count. Whopping 14-inch shells, bigger than basketballs. The thunder of the impact, the fires that rose—how could any man stand it?

  But . . . the shells should have been landing straight ahead. They weren’t. They were landing about forty-five degrees to their right. “Say, Lieutenant, are we off course or is the Texas?”

  Lieutenant Taylor frowned. “Don’t thi
nk it’s either. Must be another ship and another battery. Look—there’s a destroyer ahead shelling the point. Must be the Satterlee.”

  “Must be.” But the Texas was the only battleship in their sector. The others were shelling gun batteries around Omaha and Utah Beaches.

  Another half hour of chugging and bailing. The sun rose behind the clouds, the last sunrise Clay would ever see.

  His gut squeezed, but he kept pitching water over the side. He’d done everything he needed to do. Today he had to focus on the mission and the mission alone.

  With both elbows on the bow ramp, Taylor lowered his field glasses and wiped sea spray off his face. But he didn’t wipe off the frown. “You might be right, Paxton.”

  “Right?” Clay shook out water from his helmet and put it on his head. The land features grew clearer and clearer.

  Taylor pointed straight ahead. “That’s not Pointe du Hoc. I’m pretty sure it’s Pointe de la Percée.”

  The point ahead was soft and round. To their right, where the shells were exploding, the point was sharp. Through the smoke and fire, a familiar notch in the tip took shape.

  Taylor cussed and faced the stern. “MacNab! We’re off course.”

  The coxswain waved him off, but then he shaded his eyes, frowned, and called out orders to the other three crewmen.

  The LCA made a sharp right turn, and Clay thumped down to the center bench. He grabbed the ramp and got back to his feet.

  All the LCAs turned right, with Rudder’s craft leading the way.

  “Man alive.” They were indeed off course, and Clay’s jaw fell open, collecting a mouthful of seawater. He spat it out.

  The relentless noise of naval shells suddenly stopped, and Clay yanked up his left sleeve. It was 0630—H-hour, when they were supposed to land. When the naval bombardment was scheduled to lift. And their objective lay about three miles away.

  “Good Lord, help us.”

  CHICAGO

  “That’s my sweet girl.” Leah tied a bow to the side of Helen’s kimono, pressing tiny kicking legs out of her way with her forearm.

  A smile curved into her baby’s plump cheeks, and she kicked harder.

  Leah kissed those cheeks, one after the other. “Who has the prettiest smile? Helen does.”

  Helen grabbed a lock of Leah’s hair.

  She eased herself free and lifted the baby to her shoulder. “Ready for another fun day with Abuelita?”

  Out in the living room, Mama and her cousin’s daughter, Juanita Romero, sat by the radio. They both looked at her, faces stark.

  It was today, and Leah sank onto the couch and tuned her ears to the announcer’s cultured voice: “Under the command of General Eisenhower, Allied naval forces, supported by strong air forces, began landing Allied armies this morning on the coast of France.”

  “That’s all the news they have.” Mama’s voice wavered, and she turned off the radio dial. “Naval forces—my Wyatt. Air forces—my Adler. Allied armies—my Clay. Our Clay.”

  Helen wiggled in Leah’s lap, and Leah tightened her grip on her daughter. The child didn’t know that at that moment her daddy was fighting for his life. Might even be dead.

  Leah sucked in a breath, and it snagged all the way in.

  “Let’s pray.” Mama moved to the couch and clamped her hand on Leah’s forearm. “Almighty God, we pray for our boys. Please keep them safe and hold them in your hand.”

  Leah prayed along, but something about the prayer felt askew. What if Clay was correct and it was God’s will for him to die today? Was it right to pray only for his safety?

  She sprang to her feet. “I think—today I’ll go to that Greek Orthodox church I wanted to visit.”

  Sympathy flooded Mama’s brown eyes. “Maybe you should take a day off from your search.”

  “I can pray there just as easily as I can pray here. And I need—I need to be busy.” She returned to the guest room, laid Helen in the bassinet, and packed baby supplies in her bag. “I’ll take Helen. I’ll come back at noon to feed her.”

  “Are you sure?” Mama leaned against the doorjamb.

  Leah tied on the baby’s bonnet. “I need to have her with me.”

  Before long, Leah stepped off the bus on LaSalle Drive with the baby in her arms. The Annunciation Cathedral stood grand and golden brown with twin square towers framing the entrance.

  Something tugged at Leah’s memory, but in a flimsy way.

  She joined the stream of people flowing through the door to pray for the boys in France.

  In the cross-shaped sanctuary, a riot of color met her eyes. Stained glass flung light in all directions. Paintings, overlaid with gold, sparkled in every hue. A screen blocked one branch of the cross, covered with more paintings of saints and the Holy Family.

  “I’ve been here,” she whispered, and she sank into a pew.

  All around, people chanted prayers. Leah had hoped to speak to a priest, to see if anyone remembered a family with three little girls with poetic names. There were only a few Greek Orthodox churches in Chicago, and this was closest to the university.

  Now her search felt trivial with the man she loved fighting on Nazi-occupied shores.

  Leah settled the baby on her lap and bowed her head. With everyone chanting around her, she felt no need to pray silently.

  “Oh, Lord. You love Clay even more than I do. You know how much I want him to live. But more than that, I want him to do your will.”

  Her breath clogged her throat, but she swallowed her fears and breathed in conviction. “Grant him courage, Lord. Grant him strength to do all he has to do. No matter the cost. No matter . . . the cost.”

  It hurt. It hurt so much to say, but it needed to be said. She needed to release Clay. She needed to grasp the only hand that would always be there for her.

  “Thank you. Thank you for giving him to me, for all he’s done for me and the baby, for all he’s meant to me. But he’s yours, Lord. He’s yours.”

  Leah gathered her baby closer. “She’s yours too. And so am I. You’re my Father, my only true Father, now and forever. I know—I know you’ll never leave me. Even if you take Clay from me, Helen from me, Mama Paxton from me, you’ll never leave me.”

  Helen cooed.

  Leah kissed her bonneted head. “Please hold me together, come what may. Comfort me. Help me be strong for Helen, for Mama. You are my rock and my tower and my Father.”

  All around her, frantic and desperate prayers sounded.

  Leah lifted her face to a dome soaring above, to the image of the Father with his arms outstretched, surrounded by the soft blue of peace and the glittering gold of heaven, the promise of joy, of eternal belonging.

  And she smiled.

  37

  OFF POINTE DU HOC, NORMANDY

  A bullet pinged off the steel-plated hull of the LCA, and Clay hunkered low, his uniform drenched in frigid water. To reach Pointe du Hoc, the Rangers had to race parallel to the coast, only a few hundred yards offshore.

  Except LCAs didn’t race. The Germans were taking plenty of potshots.

  “What about Force C?” Gene clamped his helmet on his head.

  Clay groaned. “Doesn’t look good.”

  The 5th Ranger Battalion and two companies from the 2nd waited offshore. If they didn’t receive the signal from Force A by 0700, they would land on Omaha Beach instead of at Pointe du Hoc.

  Clay’s watch read 0644. How could they possibly reach the point and climb those cliffs in only sixteen minutes? “Guess we’re on our own.”

  “Good thing we only need the two of us to clear that point.” Gene winked at him.

  A roar overhead. Naval shells!

  Clay rose just enough to see over the side. Not far offshore a small warship belched smoke and fire. “A destroyer. They must have seen us in trouble.”

  “Trouble?” Sid Rubenstein snorted in a sarcastic way. “We’re not in trouble.”

  “You tell that destroyer then.” McKillop punched Ruby in the arm. “I’ll take
the help.”

  Taylor removed his helmet. “Now that we have cover, let’s bail.”

  Clay obeyed. The extra weight of water slowed the plodding LCA even more.

  Each time he stood, he surveyed the scene. Naval shells flew overhead and slammed into the bluffs to their left. Ahead, Pointe du Hoc drew nearer and higher, its light brown cliffs jutting out to sea.

  Taylor made hand signals to the LCA ahead of them. “All right, boys. Rudder just signaled us. All three companies will land on the east side of the point rather than dividing up. Makes sense. It’d take too long for D Company to round the point and land on the west.”

  Clay nodded. The narrow beach would be more crowded, but they’d make do.

  “I saw a DUKW go down,” Brady said. “Took a Jerry shell.”

  Several men swore. Somewhere along the way, they’d lost one of the supply LCAs too. Now Force A had only nine assault craft, one supply boat, and three DUKWs. That left about two hundred men, with no reinforcements coming.

  Clay blew out a sharp breath. Lord, please don’t let me die until after we meet our objectives. We need every man.

  The remaining water wasn’t worth scooping, so Clay strapped on the assuring weight of his helmet. Chilly rivulets tickled down his scalp, but he couldn’t get any wetter or colder.

  If the cliff facing him were in England, Clay wouldn’t have thought anything of it. Sure it was steep, but at one hundred feet it wouldn’t challenge the Rangers.

  However, it was in Nazi-occupied France, and the USS Texas had lifted her fire a half hour before. Any Germans who had survived the bombardment would have had time to recover and man their positions.

  Motion at the top of the cliff caught his eye.

  “They’ve seen us,” Taylor called. “Prepare to return fire.”

  Clay shrugged his rifle strap off his shoulder and hefted the familiar twenty pounds of dark wood and steel. After he flipped off the safety, he poked the rifle barrel over the bow ramp. He didn’t want to kill. He didn’t. But he had to climb that cliff, disable a 155-mm gun, and set up a roadblock to protect the troops on Omaha and Utah.