With his stance and arms wide, Clay hunkered over and sized up Bob Holman. All around, men were throwing each other down into the red dirt. Years of wrestling had taught Clay to take his time and plan his attack. Ideally, he’d make his opponent act first out of impatience.

Holman was tall, with broad shoulders and skinny legs. He’d rely on his upper-body strength, and Clay would use that against him.

“Congratulations, Paxton,” Sgt. Tommy Lombardi yelled. “Holman just shot you dead. Don’t hesitate. Attack.”

Clay opened his mouth to defend himself, but privates didn’t do such things. “Yes, Sergeant.”

Of course, now Holman was ready. Clay lunged as if he planned to grasp Holman’s shoulders. Taking advantage of his lower center of gravity, Clay ducked under Holman’s raised arms and off to one side, grabbed him around the waist, and hooked one leg behind Holman’s knees. His opponent fell hard, and Clay scrambled on top to pin him.

Victory.

Then two fingers jammed up into his nostrils. Clay jerked back, and in a smooth move, Holman rolled him over and pinned him on his back, knife hand to his throat.

Clay wiggled his nose in pain. “You can’t do that.”

Holman chuckled. “I can and I did. You heard Knudson—Rangers fight dirty.”

With a groan, Clay closed his eyes. Capt. Dean Knudson had fought with the 1st Ranger Battalion in North Africa, but the dirty fighting techniques he advocated went against Clay’s training and sportsmanship.

Lombardi leaned over Clay. “This ain’t a high school wrestling match with rules and referees. You think the Jerries fight fair? The Japs?”

“No, Sergeant.” But that didn’t mean a man fighting fair couldn’t win.

Lombardi cussed and moved down the line.

“You’ll get it, Pax.” Holman stood and brushed himself off. “After all, aren’t Mexicans hot-blooded?”

“Better not test me on that.” Clay got to his feet but left the dirt in place. Of the three Paxton boys, only Adler had a temper—and he was the blondest of the bunch.

“All right, men, gather round,” Lieutenant Taylor called.

Clay found Gene and stood beside him in the sloppy circle. Gene’s right sleeve hung by a few threads. “More ventilation?” Clay asked.

“Courtesy of Lyons. Man’s as tough as his namesake.”

Yesterday Clay had gotten the better of Frank Lyons, but any pride in that feat was tempered by today’s humiliation.

“A new commander?” Gene flicked his chin toward a major striding into the center of the circle.

Clay snapped to attention and saluted. The 2nd Ranger Battalion had already gone through at least four commanders.

“At ease.” The new fellow stood tall and broad chested, and he assessed the motley group of soldiers sweating under the blazing sun. “Men, I’m Jim Rudder, your new battalion commander. I’ve been sent down here to restore order and get going with realistic training.”