Clay set his gear on a bunk and slipped on his garrison cap. “Let’s explore, y’all.”

His squad followed. Soon they’d be restricted to the blue section of the ship at the stern, with other enlisted men in the red section at the bow and officers in the white section amidships.

For some reason, the Rangers had been allowed to board early and had the run of the ship.

Clay climbed a staircase with brass banisters. The ship hadn’t been fitted out in her ocean liner finery before the war broke out, but he could imagine how swanky she could have been.

He headed out onto the sundeck, but there was nothing sunny about Manhattan in November.

Under lifeboats suspended from davits, Clay stood at the railing and looked down the river, packed with warships, freighters, and tugboats. Skyscrapers poked toward the clouds, but he couldn’t spot the Statue of Liberty.

Gene leaned his elbows on the railing. “Say good-bye to the USA, boys. Next time we see her, the war will be over.”

Sid Rubenstein lit a cigarette. “Won’t be long, now that the Rangers are coming.”

“Reckon the invasion won’t come till spring though,” Clay said.

McKillop leaned toward Ruby’s Zippo lighter and lit his own cigarette. “Hope they send us on raids first, so we can shake up the Jerries and get some licks in.”

Raids. Chilly air stilled in Clay’s lungs. He’d always pictured dying in a big battle, but what if he died in a raid? That could come long before spring.

If only it could wait until after the baby was born. Not yet, Lord. Please.

HMT QUEEN ELIZABETH
NORTH ATLANTIC
THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 25, 1943

Clay stood with his rifle at “right shoulder arms” inside a door amidships, guarding the sundeck from any enlisted men foolish enough to venture into officers’ country.

The 2nd Ranger Battalion had been allowed aboard first because they had military police duty, which they hated.

Clay’s stomach rumbled. The passing officers kept grumbling about the ship’s British crew serving pork for Thanksgiving, but Clay was too hungry to care.

The door opened, admitting a blast of freezing North Atlantic air and two naval officers. Clay snapped his rifle vertically in front of him, presenting arms. They saluted but barely met his gaze.

Private First Class Nobody.

An Army officer dashed upstairs, green in the face. No time for protocol. Clay shoved open the door, and the man ran to the rails. They’d been at sea for three days, but seasickness still prevailed.

Not for Clay.

One summer his family had taken a vacation on the Gulf of Mexico. When they went sailing, not one Paxton had gotten seasick. Mama insisted her spicy cooking had toughened their stomachs.