“There’s soldiering on and there’s stupid, son. I admire your effort to stay in the game. But you’ll be no good to anyone if you let things like this go in the future.”

“Yes, sir. It’s not something you’ll send me home for, is it?”

At the beginning of training, Tom knew that most boys would have gladly taken an injury that was just bad enough to send them home and just good enough to have no long-term consequences. He’d originally had that impression of William. But the Airborne weeded out the boys from the men, and by the time they’d arrived on the shores of England, they were a band of brothers, toughened and determined to stay in the fight. He was proud of William for how much he’d grown.

The doctor grinned. “I like your spirit, Private. Don’t worry. You can resume some duties with the cast—not jumping, of course—but if you treat it properly, you should be doing much better in a few weeks and you’ll be good as new in a few months.”

Tom watched a mix of emotions wash over William’s face. Months seemed like a long prognosis, but the good news was that William could stay. Sobel might try to send him elsewhere, but Tom was confident that Dick Winters would stand up for him and find work in some capacity. William had trained hard and by the time they were called up, he’d be ready.

If he took care of himself. Which Tom and John would insist upon.

The doctor left them, saying a nurse would be in to complete the cast.

The sun was growing low through the window, and Tom hoped that their team had made it to Swindon.

“Well, looks like I’m going to need a little help.” William sighed, lying back on the cot.

“Just as long as you can shower and piss by yourself. But anything beyond that, yeah, I’ll help.”

“Ha-ha, Tom. Very funny. I mean writing to Margaret.”

Tom nodded. For the couple of letters William had written to the girl in Brooklyn, he had dictated and Tom had volunteered his handwriting. He’d also drawn the teasel flower on the first letter and a primrose on the second. Now he seemed to have established a pattern—one she might be looking forward to—and he wondered what he might find to sketch today.

“What day is it?” asked William.

“Friday.”

“That means there’s a mail plane leaving tonight. Can you help a chap out and write again so that I don’t have to wait another week to send a letter off to Margaret?”

“Chap?” Tom smiled. “Sure, ol’ pal. I’ll ask the register nurse for some paper.”

Tom stood up, but William grabbed his arm with his good hand.