by Sarah Sundin
That sound—the ripping sound of the German Maschinengewehr 42 that Clay had heard at Camp Ritchie and in his recurring dream. Yellow flashes lit up the far left of the cliff, and Clay fired eight rounds in that direction, slow and steady, the recoil of his M1 rifle thumping into his right shoulder. The clip pinged out, empty, and Clay slipped a new clip out of his bandolier and snapped it down into place in his rifle.
To the left, Rudder’s LCA dropped its bow ramp, and men poured out. The rockets fired, and six grapnels shot into the air, trailing ropes and white smoke behind them. The grapnels arced midair—and fell to the beach.
Taylor whipped around and cupped his hand to his mouth. “MacNab! Wait until—”
Two rockets fired at the rear of the craft, deafening Clay.
Taylor waved his arms frantically. “Wait until we’re closer!”
“This is as close as we get, mate,” the coxswain said.
The bow ramp slammed down into the water, a good twenty-five feet from shore.
Taylor swept his arm in a circle overhead. “Let’s go, men!”
Clay charged down the bow ramp and into frigid water up to his waist. He plowed forward, pointing his rifle to the cliff. A man in German field gray stood at the edge of the cliff and hurtled something over—a grenade.
Clay fired a shot, and the German scampered backward.
The last four rockets fired from their LCA, the rising grapnels passing two falling grapnels midair. “Please let them hold.”
Bullets zinged past, burrowing into the water.
Clay’s heart raced, and he plunged forward, his shins slicing the water, his boots fighting for traction.
Up onto the beach, maybe thirty yards deep. Pebbles scattered underneath his boots, hit his calves.
Clay scrabbled ahead, rifle and gaze high. Three grapnels disappeared over the cliff, and the ropes flopped against the earthen face. “Come on, boys!”
The fourth grapnel descended, and Gene dodged behind Clay, out of the way.
Clay grabbed the first rope, a plain line, and he tugged it hard. It gave way, and Clay jumped back. “Watch out!”
“This one’s good.” McKillop grabbed a toggle line and started climbing.
“So’s this one.” Ruby worked his way up a plain line.
Clay stood with his back to the cliff, waiting his turn, catching his breath.
Nine gray-blue LCAs sat just offshore, and Rangers flowed out, over the beach, skirting giant craters. Ropes dangled over the cliff, and men worked their way up.
That machine gun kept up its racket far to his right, and bullets skittered over the beach.
“Medic!”
Clay’s breath caught. Several men lay on the beach, and his feet edged their direction.
No. Not today. “There’s ‘a time to every purpose under the heaven.’ This isn’t my healing time.”
In front of his LCA, a man lay at water’s edge, clutching his leg and crying out.
Sergeant Lombardi!
Clay looped his rifle strap over his shoulder and ran to him.
Lombardi’s left knee was stained bright red, and his lower leg sat at an awkward angle. He spotted Clay and grimaced. “Get up that cliff, Pax!”
Clay hooked his hands under the man’s armpits. “In a minute.”
“What’ve I always told you? Leave the wounded for the medics.”
Clay dragged him across the beach, his heels digging into the loose stones. “If I leave you here, there won’t be anything left for the medics.”
A thumping sound, and Lombardi screamed. Red bloomed on his right ankle—hit again!
“Medic! Medic!” Clay pulled harder, right up to the cliff face, and he shoved Lombardi into a depression.
“Should’ve—made you—a medic,” Lombardi said through gritted teeth.
“Can’t hear you, Sarge. Got a cliff to climb, a gun to disable, and a road to block.” He wrapped his hands around the plain rope.
“And a—a section to lead.”
Clay stared down at his section leader. Lombardi wouldn’t be climbing any cliffs today, so Clay nodded. Granted, each man knew his objective, so they didn’t need much leading.
Above him the men of his squad were making their way up, with Holman following McKillop on the toggle line, and Gene following Ruby on the plain line. On the beach, the four men of the BAR squad strafed the cliff edge with their automatic rifles.
A bright orange flash out to sea. A destroyer fired at Pointe du Hoc, but a different ship than earlier.
That might not be Wyatt, but Clay sure appreciated the Navy.
Time to climb. The rope was wet, but Clay started up, familiar muscles tightening and working.
When his feet slipped on the muddy cliff face, his hands held. And when his hands slipped, his feet held.
McKillop scrambled over the top, and shots rang out.
“Come on, y’all. Faster!” Clay pumped his arms and legs, determined to catch up with his buddies.
Ruby went over the top too.
“I can’t do it.” Holman clutched the rope about ten feet from the top and lay flat on a hump on the cliff. He’d suffered from seasickness for over two hours, and he still looked green.
Clay kept climbing. “You have to. Ruby and McKillop need you.”
Holman moaned and resumed his climb. “I can’t.”
“You don’t have a choice. You can’t stay there. And you can’t hold up the line.”
“Move it, Holman!” Brady shouted from below, with Lyons right behind him.
Holman cussed, climbed another foot, then sagged. “I just can’t.”
At the top of the cliff, Gene crawled over the edge.
“G. M.! Wait up. Cover me.” Clay jammed his toes into the mud and hauled himself over the top.
Gene knelt before him, rifle raised. “You’re covered.”
Clay swung around to the other rope, went down on one knee, and leaned over the side. “Come on, Holman! One more step, then I can help you.”
Holman’s hand shook, but he wrapped it around the rope and pulled himself up.
“That’s it.” Clay grabbed both his friend’s forearms, dug in his heel, and pulled. “You’re almost there.”
Another foot higher, and Clay latched onto his collar and heaved the man up onto the cliff top like a dead fish.
Then Clay slung off his rifle and swept his gaze around.
“This way!” Gene jumped into a crater.
Clay scrabbled down inside. He’d never seen a crater so big—it had to be twenty feet across. So that was what a 14-inch shell did.
He flopped on his stomach against the side of the crater and peeked over the edge.
All those rubber maps. All those sand tables. Worthless.
The land before him bore no resemblance to any map, to any land he’d ever seen. Pocked by giant craters, swirling with wispy smoke, all landmarks obliterated.
“What now?” Holman slithered into the crater, with Brady and Lyons behind him.
Clay knifed his hand westward. “Let’s find that gun.”
CHICAGO
Today might turn out to be the saddest in Leah’s life, and yet sweet, joyful peace swirled inside. “Thank you, Lord. Thank you for showing me the good.”
In Leah’s lap, Helen sucked on her fist.
Leah kissed her tiny nose, then prayed for comfort and strength for everyone in the church. How many of them had husbands or brothers or sons or fathers fighting today? Even those who didn’t have a loved one overseas needed comfort. All those servicemen were America’s boys.
Across the aisle, a woman in her sixties stared at Leah.
Oh dear. She didn’t know the rituals of this church, and she’d probably violated some protocol. Leah gave the lady a little smile and nod, and she stood to leave. She had time to visit another orphanage or two before lunchtime.
In the foyer, dim light from the overcast day filtered through the windows of the door.
“Excuse me?”
; Leah turned.
The lady who had been watching her raised a nervous smile. “Please pardon me for staring. You must think me terribly rude. I—well, you remind me so much of a dear friend. I—oh my.” She pulled a handkerchief from the breast pocket of her beige suit.
“That’s all right, ma’am.”
The woman dabbed at her eyes, and her smile flickered. “Please pardon me. You do remind me of her. Something about you. Why, even the way you were praying and the way you walk and the way you’re holding your baby. Except the last time I saw my friend, she was holding two babies. Oh dear. Look at me. I promise, I don’t usually act this way.”
Two babies . . . ? Leah could barely breathe. “Your friend—she’s gone?”
“I’m afraid so. A long time ago.” She drew in a deep breath and gave her head a little shake. “Well, thank you. I’ve missed her, and it was—it was nice to remember her.”
Leah moistened her drying lips. “When did she die? In the ’20s—1929?”
The woman blinked large brown eyes. “Why, yes. I believe that was the year.”
“What was her name?” Leah stepped closer. “Your friend? What was her name?”
“Althea. Althea Karahalios.”
All the air rushed from Leah’s chest. “Karahalios. Ka-wa-los.”
“Are you—are you all right, ma’am?”
Leah laughed, high and staccato. “Karahalios. Althea Karahalios. She had children, you said. Tell me. Did she have three girls? Please tell me.”
The woman’s wide mouth drifted open. “Are you . . . ?”
“My name is Thalia. Did she have a daughter named Thalia?”
The woman clamped her handkerchief over her mouth, and tears shimmered in her eyes. “Little Thalia. Oh my. Look at you. All grown up with a baby of your own.”
A manic, joyful laugh burst out. “You knew me? You knew my mother? My sisters?”
“Why, yes.” She stretched out tentative, shaky fingers.
Leah grabbed her hand. “Tell me. Tell me everything you can.”
“Oh my. Oh my. I can’t believe this.” Her hand trembled in Leah’s. “Your parents—they came from Greece not long before you were born. Yes, Althea was expecting. Your father—Georgios was on faculty with my husband at the University of Chicago. Georgi was an expert in Greek poetry.”
Laughter tumbled out, idyllic and epic and sacred. “Of course. Of course he was. And my sisters? My sisters? Do you know what became of them?”
Her face crumpled. “We never heard what became of you girls. Your parents had no family in America, so you were taken to an orphanage. Everyone at the church wanted to help, but times were hard. By the time a family offered to take you in, you’d all been adopted.”
Leah nodded, over and over. “They were adopted. Good. Adopted.”
“You weren’t together? Oh dear. I’m so sorry.”
“I’m going to find them. Today. Today I’ll find them.” Leah shifted Helen on her shoulder, opened her bag, and pulled out one of the slips of paper she’d written out for the orphanages. “This is my information, where I’m staying in Chicago this week, my home address. Please, if you think of anything that might help me. Oh! Your name?”
That wide mouth turned up in a smile. “I’m Irena Demetrios.”
“Mrs. Demetrios. Thank you. You’re an answer to almost fifteen years of prayer.” Leah clutched Mrs. Demetrios’s shoulder and pressed a kiss to her wet cheek, shocked at her own impulsivity.
“Such a pleasure to see you again, Thalia.”
Leah raced out the door. “Thalia Karahalios, daughter of Georgios and Althea.”
For the first time in fifteen years, she knew who she was.
38
POINTE DU HOC, NORMANDY
Clay made a chopping motion to signal his squad forward.
He and Gene threw themselves against the wall of the crater and fired a few rounds, while Holman, Brady, and Lyons ran to the next crater. Then they laid down fire so Clay and Gene could join them.
“Don’t see any Krauts,” Holman said.
“Not yet.” With so many bunkers and trenches and craters, the Germans could pop up anywhere. Even behind them.
Clay peered over the edge of the crater. There it was! Their target 155-mm gun lay in a circular open gun pit rather than a closed casemate. Camouflage netting was draped over the barrel.
No sign of activity, but Germans could be hiding in the underground shelter behind the gun.
They’d have to approach from that direction. Clay signaled for Brady and Lyons to cover, and he motioned ahead.
Low and fast, Clay darted toward the unmanned gun.
Sensing Gene and Holman behind him, Clay yanked a grenade from his belt. He hurdled the concrete rim, found the dark opening to the shelter behind him, pulled the pin, and tossed the grenade inside.
The concussion made his legs wobble. Gene and Holman jumped inside the shelter to clear it while Clay covered Brady and Lyons’s approach.
“No one in here.” Gene climbed back out with Holman behind him.
Brady yanked off the shredded camouflage net and swore. “This ain’t a gun.”
Clay stared. “That—that’s a telephone pole.”
“Where’s the gun?” Gene asked.
Clay scanned the landscape, marred by days of aerial bombing and today’s naval bombardment. “The Germans must have moved the gun after the bomber boys did their work.” The telephone pole would have fooled the aerial photographers.
Brady spread his arms wide and snorted. “All this—for nothing?”
“Not for nothing.” Maybe the other five guns remained in place. Regardless, they had a second objective. “To the assembly point.”
In leapfrog fashion, Clay led his makeshift squad to a crater, then followed them toward the next. On the way, something caught his eye—parallel tracks. Partly obscured by chunks of earth, the tracks led inland from the gun pit. Maybe they could find that gun after all.
The crack of a gunshot. Clay squatted and saw a depression to his right. He jumped in.
A trench. He slammed back against the wall and whipped his rifle in a semicircle.
The trench ran about twenty-five feet south, then bent to the right.
Clay huffed out a breath. Not a safe place, but also not where he was going to die. At least the trench ran in the correct direction.
He edged toward the bend. With his finger on the trigger, he said a quick prayer, then popped around the corner, leading with his rifle.
No one, and his breath tumbled out.
He crept forward to the next zig in the trench.
A scuffling sound behind him. Friend or foe?
Clay spun around to his left, rifle at his hip.
Someone barreled into him, butted his rifle up and away. It fired into the air.
Lyons!
Clay’s foot swept out beneath him. Lyons threw him to the ground, his forearm across Clay’s throat, his knee grinding into Clay’s rifle arm above the elbow.
Clay grunted in pain. “I knew it was you.”
“You’re the only one who ever will.” Lyons tossed aside his BAR and unsheathed his knife. “And not for long.”
Clay gripped the wrist of the man’s knife hand, his heart pounding. This wasn’t how he was supposed to die. It wasn’t. But how could he defeat Lyons when he was losing air and stars flickered in his vision?
Lyons breathed vomit-scented breath in Clay’s face and brought the knife closer to his neck. “I’m looking forward to watching you die.”
“Like the girl . . . in Florida.” Clay ran through all the dirty fighting tactics in his head. None fit. “The girl . . . in Braunton.”
Lyons chuckled, confirming both suspicions. “Your turn.”
Clay’s vision turned gray, and his arm shook with the effort of keeping the knife away. He bumped his hips under Lyons, anything to slow him down.
Lyons readjusted his position, sliding one leg down next to Clay’s.
A
nd he lost.
Clay’s favorite wrestling move. He twined both his legs around Lyons’s knee. Then he jerked Lyons’s leg hard to the side and heaved his hips.
Lyons cried out and tumbled to the side.
Clay scrambled away and gasped for air. Where was his rifle?
With a string of curses, Lyons rose with knife in hand.
There! The rifle lay on the ground, pointing at Clay. He grabbed it by the barrel.
Lyons lunged forward.
Clay spun his rifle around and groped for the trigger.
Then Lyons grunted and halted, his eyes wide in surprise. His body jerked, he grabbed his neck, and he crumpled to the ground.
But Clay hadn’t fired! His finger slipped into the trigger.
Behind Lyons. A man in gray. A machine pistol.
Clay squeezed the trigger.
He hit the man square in the left upper quadrant of the chest, and the man flew backward.
Clay sagged to his knees. He didn’t want to kill the German, but he had no choice.
Before him, Frank Lyons moaned and squirmed.
Clay tossed Lyons’s knife over the side of the trench, then yanked open the pouch for his first aid kit. “Let me see.”
“What?” Lyons grimaced. Blood pulsed between his fingers. An artery had been hit. He’d bleed out in minutes.
Clay tore open a field dressing, applied it to the wound, and clamped Lyons’s hand over it. “Press on this hard. It’ll buy you a minute to pray. Pray God will forgive you, ’cause you’re going to meet him mighty soon.”
Lyons’s lip curled. “You’re not going to try to save my life?”
“Not even Doc Block could do that. And I’ve got a road to block.” Clay unbuckled Lyons’s cartridge belt. The Rangers could use the extra BAR ammo, and he didn’t want to leave grenades with Lyons.
A bloody hand clamped around Clay’s forearm. “That dame in the library—her kid’s mine.”
Clay found himself smiling. “Nope. She’s all mine. Your name dies with you today.”
He broke free, slung Lyons’s BAR over his shoulder, and held his rifle in position. He gave the dying Ranger one last look. “By the way, she forgave you. And so do I.”
Clay edged around the corner and stepped around the dead German. He prayed for forgiveness and thanked God for saving him to finish the job he’d been given.