“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.