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.