She laughed a little, but pain zinged through her wounds.

“Maybe I shouldn’t cheer you up after all.” He made a comical face.

“Just having company cheers me up. The pain isn’t as bothersome as the boredom. I can’t hold a book, but the Red Cross lady read to me today, which was lovely.”

Clay’s brow creased. “Your arms.”

Leah wiggled the fingers in both hands, determined to regain strength. “Yes, but she promised to read to me tomorrow. Stories are the best medicine, don’t you think?”

“Distraction does help control pain.”

“It’s more than that. Stories lift you.” Leah closed her eyes to savor the memory. “When Mr. and Mrs. Jones left me in Des Moines, I was very sick and very sad. But a volunteer—we called her Granny Norris—she read to us in the sick ward. She read Heidi and Pollyanna and The Secret Garden, tales of orphans and invalids who learned to be cheerful, to seek good, and to prevail. I learned to do the same.”

“Even now.” Only the hint of a question colored his deep voice.

“Even now. I don’t have to look hard to find the good. You stopped that man and brought me here, and the doctors were able to operate and stop the bleeding. And Mrs. Bellamy from the Red Cross attends my church, and I think we could become friends. And now . . . why, I have my very first box of chocolates.”

Black eyebrows sprang high. “Your first?”

“Mm-hmm. There are even more blessings I can’t yet see. But I will. I only have to watch.”

Clay had a most unusual expression, his mouth bent in a slight smile, but his eyes were dark and sad. “I reckon you will.”

8

CAMP FORREST
THURSDAY, JULY 22, 1943

In the mock Nazi village built for Ranger training, Clay and the other five men in his squad crouched beside “Butch’s Biergarten.”

Another squad hunkered behind an enormous oak tree in front of the fake town hall, the company’s objective. Sniper fire from the Biergarten pinned that squad in place.

Sergeant Lombardi leaned forward, sweat dribbling from underneath his helmet down his lean face. “Mayer, Paxton—count to twenty, then through this window to distract the sniper. Rest of you, follow me through the front door.” He led the squad around the corner to the left.

Counting in his head, Clay eyed the window about five feet above the dirt. “My turn.”

Gene nodded and got onto hands and knees.

At the count of twenty, Clay readied his M1 Garand rifle, used Gene’s back as a stool, climbed through the open window, and jumped to the floor.

Only six feet away to his right, a soldier leveled a rifle through a window facing the street. He spotted Clay.