Clay shrugged. That was beside the point, but he had to convince the lieutenant. “Not if we do it right. I’ll sneak up as close as I can. Soon as they spot me, have a couple fellows lay down covering fire. We’ll make a racket over here, make them think we’re attacking from the left. That’ll draw their fire.”

“Not for long.”

“It’ll make them duck, slow them down. Soon as they start moving that machine gun, Perkovich and Ellis make a run for it.”

Taylor rubbed his stubbled chin. “I don’t like it.”

“It’s the only way.”

Taylor’s gray eyes fixed hard on Clay. “You once told me it wasn’t your healing time. You’d better pray it’s your killing time.”

“Yes, sir.” It was also his dying time. But he was ready. He had to be.

Taylor assigned some to the demolitions squad and others to cover Clay with a BAR, rifles, and a whole lot of noise.

The men went to their positions, and Clay rested against the side of the crater.

Furrows cracked the dirt on Gene’s forehead. “Are you sure, Clay? I don’t like it.”

He’d never been so sure of anything in his life, and he smiled. “Just cover me, buddy.”

Clay turned his gaze to the gray clouds, the fragments of blue. How many more breaths did he have? How many heartbeats?

He reached inside his field jacket, pulled his Bible from the breast pocket of his shirt, and opened it to see the picture of Leah and Helen. Good-bye, my loves. A kiss, and he tucked the Bible back in place.

God had given him the dream so he’d have courage and peace at the end. He did, but it was a dark and sad peace.

At the saddle, Taylor exchanged hand signals with the demolitions team, then signaled Clay. Whenever Clay was ready.

He was ready. He was. But his muscles and brain felt like mush. Lord, get me through this. Get me home to you.

This was for a purpose, to take that casemate and protect the Rangers’ position. If the Germans wiped out the 2nd Battalion, they could move more artillery to the point, artillery that would endanger the fleet and the landing beaches.

For his buddies. For his brothers.

One long deep breath, and Clay crawled up to the rim of the crater. The German machine gun was still trained to the Rangers’ right flank. Soft German voices bounced over the battered landscape, light laughter.

Clay pulled out a hand grenade, the ridged cast iron heavy and cold, and it settled into his palm like a baseball.

It was time. Clay climbed over the side, Joseph rising from his pit, rising to what he’d been called to do, created to do.