“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.”