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Back The Land Beneath Us
Chapters (62)
  1. Cover
  2. Endorsements
  3. Books by Sarah Sundin
  4. Title Page
  5. Copyright Page
  6. Presidential Radio Broadcast
  7. 1
  8. 2
  9. 3
  10. 4
  11. 5
  12. 6
  13. 7
  14. 8
  15. 9
  16. 10
  17. 11
  18. 12
  19. 13
  20. 14
  21. 15
  22. 16
  23. 17
  24. 18
  25. 19
  26. 20
  27. 21
  28. 22
  29. 23
  30. 24
  31. 25
  32. 26
  33. 27
  34. 28
  35. 29
  36. 30
  37. 31
  38. 32
  39. 33
  40. 34
  41. 35
  42. 36
  43. 37
  44. 38
  45. 39
  46. 40
  47. 41
  48. 42
  49. 43
  50. 44
  51. 45
  52. 46
  53. 47
  54. 48
  55. 49
  56. 50
  57. Epilogue
  58. Acknowledgments
  59. Discussion Questions
  60. About the Author
  61. Back Ads
  62. Back Cover

Lieutenant Bill Taylor stood behind the medics.

Clay’s heart hammered harder than it had running the course. Time to play dumb again. “King here fell off the wall. Reckon he broke his leg.”

“What? You should have heard Paxton a minute ago,” Holman said. “Talking about fibulas and all. He ought to be a doctor.”

He winced and let the medics take his place. “Nah, I ain’t smart enough. I just paid attention in first aid class. Y’all should have done the same.”

“A medic then.” Rubenstein pointed to the men splinting the remnants of Bertie King’s leg. “Say, Lieutenant, didn’t you say you need more medics in this unit?”

“Very much.” Keen eyes fixed on Clay, and Lieutenant Taylor beckoned to him.

No, no, no. Clay trudged over. Medics didn’t heave hand grenades into pillboxes like in his dream.

Taylor crossed muscular arms. “We need medics who can handle the physical training. You’re doing well here, Paxton. You’re the ideal candidate.”

If the brass dug into Clay’s records, they might learn he’d been top of his high school class, admitted to the University of Texas as a premedical student.

Clay sharpened his gaze. “Sir, I didn’t volunteer for the Rangers to patch people up. Doesn’t the Good Book say there’s a time to every purpose? A time to kill, and a time to heal?”

“It certainly does.”

“Well, sir, this ain’t my healing time.”

The lieutenant grinned. “I can’t say I’m not disappointed, but I like your fighting spirit. You’re dismissed.”

Clay released a long breath. He had to be more careful.

He couldn’t allow the shards of his old dream to shred his new dream.

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TULLAHOMA, TENNESSEE
SUNDAY, JUNE 13, 1943

Leah Jones studied the poem in her composition book as the bus jostled down the road.

Between these lines

Begins a tale

Of hope, of chivalry beheld.

Beguiles my soul,

Becalms my heart,

And here I find where I belong.

“Is begins too mundane?” she asked her new roommate, Darlene Bishop. “Beget perhaps? Bespoke? No, neither is right.”

“Sugar, you need to get your head out of the clouds.” Darlene’s Southern accent rocked in unison with the bus.

Leah listed more “be” words in the margin. “Librarians are supposed to have their heads in the clouds.”

Darlene’s bright red lips twisted. “You’re working at an Army camp, sugar. These soldiers are wolves, every one of them. If you don’t keep your eyes open, they’ll eat you alive.”

Leah laughed and smoothed the threadbare gray charity-barrel dress that hung on her like a gunnysack. “They won’t give me a second glance.”

“Nonsense.” Darlene’s blue eyes narrowed in scrutiny. “When you get your first paycheck, I’ll take you to the beauty shop and the dress shop. You won’t need much makeup with your dark coloring. Why, we’ll smarten you right up.”