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.