With his hands clasped in the small of his back, Clay frowned at the name and the Texas accent. Jim Rudder? He knew that name, but from where?

“I’m going to work you harder than you’ve ever worked.” Major Rudder spoke with the authority of a football coach. “Before you know it, you’re going to be the best-trained fighting men in this man’s army. Now with your cooperation, there will be passes from time to time. I’ll grant as many leaves and passes as I can. If I don’t get your cooperation, we’ll still get the job done, but it’ll be a lot tougher on you. If such a program does not appeal to you, we’ll transfer you out.”

Clay’s question had been answered. James Rudder had coached football at John Tarleton Agricultural College in Texas, and he’d tried to recruit Clay. He winced. Rudder had better not remember him. The last thing Clay wanted was reminiscing.

“Company commanders, take charge of your companies,” Rudder said.

That was about the shortest speech Clay had heard from a CO, and he and Gene exchanged a look. Would Major Rudder whip the battalion into shape, or would he fall to the wayside with the others?

“All right, men. Grab your packs,” Lieutenant Taylor called. “Twelve-mile speed march, then lunch if you’re still alive.”

The men grumbled as they trudged to their packs, but not Clay. He liked the conditioning, the drills, the weapons training, and the marches. Every day he felt stronger and more capable. If only that were enough.

Sitting on his cot in the pyramidal tent that evening, Clay peeled off his socks. Only one new blister, and it had already popped.

“What? No blood in your boots? Don’t you want to be a Ranger, Pax?” Gene showed off one blood-soaked sock.

Clay chuckled. “Don’t rat on me, buddy.”

“I won’t.”

“Bathe your feet well,” Clay said. “Dry them thoroughly and let them air out tonight. And don’t forget to use foot powder in the morning.”

“Yes, doc.”

Clay’s chest tightened, but how could he keep his mouth shut when he could help someone? “I’m not a doctor. I just—”

“Listened in class.” Bob Holman lay on his cot reading a magazine. “Yeah, we know.”

The tent flap swung open, and Sergeant Lombardi stepped in. “Listen up, men. Report to headquarters. Major Rudder wants to meet his men one on one.”

One on one? Clay would have to be careful to say little and get out fast.

All the fellows groaned as they slipped battered feet into shoes, so Clay’s groan went unnoticed.

The six men in his tent filed out into the humid purple dusk and traipsed down the dirt road in Tent City to HQ.

Never one to put off the inevitable, Clay led the pack, and Lombardi let him in first.