When he’d sailed from New York nine months earlier, he thought he’d never see America again. Now here he was. Not just in America, but in historic Boston. If he had to wait for a train to Tennessee, he’d see the Old North Church, Paul Revere’s House, and—

“Bunker Hill Monument!” A soldier pointed to the gray obelisk.

That too. Maybe the Boston Public Library for Leah’s sake.

But the sooner he could get to Tullahoma, the better. Then he’d head to Kerrville, with the timing dependent on Leah. He didn’t have to report to Fort Sam Houston in San Antonio until the first of September.

“First thing, I’m finding me a real American hamburger.” Sweeney, Clay’s bunkmate on the voyage, rubbed his belly.

Clay’s mouth watered, then even more as his thoughts drifted homeward. “Mama’s chili, that’s what I want.” Since San Antonio was only fifty miles from Kerrville, he might be able to indulge more than once during his three-month training period.

His healing time had come. Right after he’d decided to go to college and medical school, he’d also decided to train to become a medical technician. Only fitting. Might as well spend the duration of the war doing what he was meant to do.

Maybe they’d send him back to the Rangers. Sure would be nice to work as a medic alongside Doc Block and to see his buddies. Gene had returned to the battalion. He’d promised to write, but Clay missed him.

The ship slowed as it neared an empty pier.

The Rangers’ exploits on D-day were getting plenty of press, and Mama said the Kerrville Times had mentioned Clay’s involvement. He resisted the urge to stroke the third stripe on his sleeve for his promotion to sergeant, or the ribbons for the Bronze Star and the Purple Heart on his chest. Every man on the beaches of Normandy deserved a shirt full of medals.

Clay pushed away from the railing. “I’m going below to get my gear. I want to be the first one off this ship.”

Sweeney whistled. “Someone’s in a hurry to get home to the missus.”

“Yes, sir.” Although not for the reason Sweeney assumed. He worked his way through the crowd of men in olive drab to the stairway.

He passed a military policeman by the doorway. Clay laughed to himself. On his last Atlantic crossing, he’d seen Adler and hadn’t wanted to. On this crossing, he would have loved to have both brothers by his side.

They’d each visited him once more before he shipped out from Liverpool. Reading their letters of apology had only deepened his forgiveness, if that were possible.