The housing shortage in town was bad indeed, and Clay grimaced.

“And, you know . . .” Gene gazed away with a smile. “I sure wouldn’t mind some time together as husband and wife before we ship out.”

Clay chuckled and rolled his eyes. “Yeah, that’s a foundation for a strong marriage.”

“It’s worked since the dawn of time. Don’t knock it.”

Clay would never find out, and he no longer minded.

His company gathered around the pit, about eighteen feet on each side, waist deep, lined with logs on the sides and sawdust on the ground.

“First platoon, shirts off. Second platoon, shirts on. Everyone in.”

Clay unknotted his shirt from around his waist, and Gene unbuttoned his. Poor man fought a losing battle against sunburn. But the shirtless platoon had an advantage.

Rudder and Taylor and Lombardi stood nearby.

Clay had to do his best. He’d decided on his new approach—fast, fierce, and fair. Wrestling and football had taught him to be fierce and fair. He only needed to add speed. By now he knew the strengths and weaknesses of the men in his company. When replacements arrived, he could size them up during drills so he could act quickly when it was time to fight.

Abandoning good sportsmanship didn’t seem fitting, even in time of war.

Clay jumped into the pit and plotted his strategy. His platoon had to toss out all the members of the other platoon—without getting tossed out themselves. There were no rules, and injuries were common.

Manfred Brady stood by the wall, cracking his knuckles. About four inches taller than Clay and built like an ox, he’d expect to be the last man attacked.

Lombardi blew the whistle.

Clay charged at Brady from the side, low and fast, and barreled into the man’s torso. Using the judo moves they’d been taught, Clay kept his momentum going, swung one shoulder down behind the man’s hips, and used Brady’s own height and weight to heave him out of the pit.

Brady swore at him.

Clay kept moving. Frank Lyons shoved wiry little Ernie McKillop out of the pit. McKillop’s high-pitched scream said Lyons was fighting dirtier than dirty.

From behind, Clay clamped his left arm around Lyons’s chest and grasped his head with his right arm.

A sharp pain in his forearm. Lyons had bitten him. So the man was used to biting—was that how he’d lost that chunk out of his ear?

Clay didn’t lose his grip. He boxed the man’s ear so he’d stop chewing him, and he buckled his knees. Lyons sagged in his grip. Now to hoist him out.

Someone yanked Clay’s hair and swept one leg out from under him. Lyons turned, jammed his fingers into Clay’s windpipe, and the two men flung Clay out of the pit.