On the far side of the river, Clay ran through the forest, hurdling logs and darting around boulders. Gene’s long legs gained on him.

As soon as Clay had seen the notice about the Rangers at basic training, he’d volunteered. Styled after the British Commandos, the US Army Rangers had already seen action in North Africa. In April, the 2nd Ranger Battalion had been activated at Camp Forrest, and now Clay hoped to replace one of the original volunteers who hadn’t made the cut.

Clay jogged to a dangling rope and climbed ten feet to the single rope line across the Elk. Hand over hand, Clay swung like a monkey over the green water.

An explosion to his left, and a geyser shot up and soaked him.

He didn’t lose his grip or his nerve.

“Do that again, boys,” Gene shouted. “Feels good.”

It did, and Clay laughed.

On the other side, he sprinted toward a ten-foot-tall wooden fence.

“They don’t call me king for nothing.” Bertie King straddled the fence and beat his chest like Tarzan. “You girls might as well give up, ’cause they only take the best. Me.”

Clay worked wet fingers between the planks and made his way up. Didn’t King realize the Rangers wanted men who worked together?

“No stinking Jews.” King kicked at Sid Rubenstein’s hand.

Ruby dropped to the ground, yelling and swearing.

King threw back his head and laughed.

A mistake.

He lost his balance and toppled backward. With a scream, he cartwheeled to earth and landed hard on one leg.

A crack.

Two years ago, a scream, a fall, and a crack had changed the course of Clay’s life. Once again, he scrambled down to help.

King’s lower right leg bent at an unnatural angle. The man cussed and struggled to sit up.

“Lie down, Bertie. Stay calm.” Clay pressed on the patient’s shoulders. “Gene, go get the medic.”

Bertie swore at him, insulting his heritage, his paternity, and his intelligence.

“Lie still, or you’ll make it worse.” Clay unsheathed his knife and sliced the trouser leg open from knee to ankle. “Y’all back up and give him some air. Ruby, Holman, open your first aid kits, get out the field dressings.”

“How bad is it?” Bertie said between gritted teeth.

The blood and the angle of the leg made the diagnosis simple. “Complicated compound fracture of both the tibia and fibula—the bones in your shin.” The man would need surgery, and he’d be out of the Rangers.

Clay took a field dressing from Ruby and opened it, careful to touch it as little as possible with his filthy hands. Right now stopping the bleeding was more important than sterility, so he pressed the dressing to the bloodiest part of the wound.

“Medics are here!” The circle of men opened.

Two fellows ran up with a litter and medical kits. “What happened?”