He’d done it. A small thing in light of William’s sacrifice, but in that one action, he felt like he’d earned his father’s regard.

He scooped up a handful of dirt and deposited it in his pocket. This was hallowed ground, the resting place of martyrs. It would remind him of William and bolster him through what lay ahead. And when this war was over—as it had to be someday—he would send this dirt to William’s family and tell them about his sacrifice.

Hours later, they’d all made their way to Utah Beach. Muddy. Tired. But grateful to be alive.

Until it started up again.

It was only after Tom woke up in the hospital days later that he recalled the rest. His right hand had been broken when another soldier’s bullet-riddled body fell and the butt of his rifle hit Tom’s hand like a stone. Likewise, his femur and collarbone had snapped. He called for a medic, but there were too few of them to attend to so many.

He lay back, unable to move, and passed out.

*  *  *

“Bonjour, Capitane. Comment vous sentez-vous aujourd’hui?”

The French nurse who had attended him since he was first brought in gave him her usual greeting. She called everyone “Captain”; there was no time to learn names. Soldiers either recovered enough to return to battle or were sent home.

Or they died.

Only a handful had been there as long as Tom had.

“Bon,” he answered to the question she asked every morning: “How are you doing today?”

It was not the only French he’d learned. He could say balle for bullet, douleur for pain, and triste for sad.

These were words he longed to share with Margaret, even if they were acquired by listening to the badly wounded French soldiers around him. Maybe she would enjoy learning some French words along with the fancy English ones she collected. He’d have to find some with happier translations.

Flowers. Chocolate. Love.

And he might get his chance. William’s actions and those of all the men on that battlefield in Normandy had significantly propelled the Allied cause. He’d heard that they were going to make a push into Paris soon. If they succeeded, the Allies will have won back France.

Hank. Dr. Weinstein. The McClintocks. William.

Margaret.

It was worth it.

But that was an easy thing to think, knowing that despite his injuries, he was expected to live. Would John and William have said it was worth it?

The thought of them brought tears to Tom’s eyes, and he didn’t even try to wipe them away. All the men here cried. There was no shame in it.