About ten feet to their left, the gentleman looked their way.

Clay stopped and saluted. Gene did too.

The former Tommy clicked his heels and saluted them back, his expression sad and distant.

He knew what the GIs were about to face, and Clay’s chest constricted. He didn’t feel bad for himself—he’d go to glory. But his buddies who survived would carry memories for life.

A new thought struck him hard. Lord, please don’t let Gene see me die.

Out in the ticket area, Clay pulled out his map. “We won’t be able to see much, but there’s a lot in walking distance.”

“We’ll see more if we do things my way.” Gene set his pack on a bench, pulled out a K ration box, and removed the box that held four cigarettes. Then he tapped out the contents—rolled-up pound notes—and he kissed them. “This, my friend, is Underground fare and dinner and little gifts for our wives.”

Clay laughed. “That, my friend, is initiative.”

Close to midnight, Clay and G. M. trudged back through Paddington Station. They’d seen the major London sights and eaten at a real British pub.

Clay’s feet had a familiar ache. “In Bude all we do is moan about twenty-five-mile marches. So what do we do in London?”

“March twenty-five miles.”

“Sure do.” And he’d loved it.

Only a few people milled about the station, and some soldiers and sailors dozed on benches. Clay found two empty benches. “This here spot’s as fine as any.”

“Yep.” G. M. stretched out with his pack for a pillow. “Nighty-night, Paxy.”

“Nighty-night, Gee-Mee.” Clay arranged his pack, but he couldn’t sleep with London swirling in his memory—Buckingham Palace and Westminster Abbey and Big Ben, the Tower of London and St. Paul’s and the Tower Bridge.

He’d always wanted to see London, but he never thought he would. Leah would love the book he’d bought with pictures of the city, including the British Library.

But Wyatt filled his thoughts. His oldest brother had loved Charles Dickens and Sherlock Holmes and had talked about visiting someday.

Clay hadn’t seen him for going on three years, and he . . . he missed him. Missed him with a gaping cavern in his belly. Wyatt was the quiet one, responsible and thoughtful, while Adler was the fun brother, mischievous and adventurous.

Did they regret what they’d done? Had they changed?

Clay would never see them again, which hurt. But honestly, what would he say to them? He didn’t trust himself not to punch them in the face.

On the other hand, a good pop in the nose might make it easier to forgive them.

He chuckled. Probably not what the Lord had in mind.

A keening sound climbed high, dove low, and rose high again. Clay blinked his heavy eyes. Was that an air raid siren?