“Sure as sure can be.” Rita Sue leaned over the banister and beckoned with her chin. “You write that husband of yours and tell him you have a new address, with people who care for you.”

Leah followed her friend upstairs, but a swirl of nausea filled her belly. She’d have to tell Clay why she’d moved. She’d have to tell him about Darlene’s accusations and Mrs. Perry’s verdict and her own past. Never once had she told Clay she used to steal.

She clamped one hand on the banister for balance. Clay had been the victim of theft. What would he think to learn his wife was a thief?

“Lord, no,” she whispered. She was preparing to lose him in battle, but to lose his respect and regard as well?

How could she bear it?

20

NEW YORK CITY, NEW YORK
SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 21, 1943

Clay whistled at the sight of the massive gray ship rising before him. “Y’all can’t say the Army isn’t good to us. We’re taking a cruise on Britain’s finest ocean liner.”

Behind him in line, Bob Holman snorted. “Something tells me we ain’t getting staterooms.”

Nope, they’d cram some fifteen thousand troops onto the HMT Queen Elizabeth.

Clay stepped forward in line, his M1 steel helmet heavy on his head, his field pack on his back, his rifle on his shoulder, and his duffel bag in hand.

A Red Cross lady stood beside a stack of boxes. “Everyone take a book. There are thirty titles, so you can share on board.”

“Thank you, ma’am.” Clay took Walter Lippmann’s U.S. Foreign Policy—one of the new paperback Armed Services Editions.

“I got The Adventures of Tom Sawyer,” Bob Holman said. “How about you, Ruby?”

“Hopalong Cassidy Serves a Writ.”

Something for every taste, and Clay grinned. Wouldn’t Leah like to see?

An officer stood at the foot of the gangplank with a roster. “Paxton!”

“Clay!” He took a blue card from the officer and headed up the gangplank. The card read “Keep this card. Sleeping quarters: Room M 21.” M had to be for the main deck, and the card’s color designated their shift for eating at the mess.

The steep gangplank clanged below Clay’s feet. They’d spent the past week and a half at Camp Shanks, outside New York City. Since the crack of dawn, they’d been marching and riding in trucks.

Higher and higher, until a sailor admitted them inside and motioned toward the stern of the ship. They jostled down passageways designed for genteel passengers, not grungy Rangers.

Clay opened door M 21. A nicer sign below read “Second-class lounge.”

A large room filled floor to ceiling with four-tiered canvas bunks. No room for lounging, that was for sure.

McKillop pointed. “Hey, look! A bar.”

“Yeah, like they’d leave us any booze,” Holman grumbled.