22

BUDE, CORNWALL
FRIDAY, DECEMBER 24, 1943

“Those artillery boys will be hopping mad.” Clay chuckled and ran with his squad back to the rendezvous point.

“Happy Christmas to you, old chaps,” G. M. called in an affected English accent.

Thank goodness the foliage kept them concealed from their opponents in the field exercise. And thank goodness Lieutenant Colonel Rudder had assigned the exercise to help the men forget they were spending Christmas far from home.

Not such a happy Christmas for the boys of the US field artillery battalion stationed in Bude. The Rangers had tracked the artillerymen’s position, infiltrated past their security, removed the breechblocks from the 155-mm howitzers, and let air out of the tires. Mission accomplished.

Clay’s squad ran along a narrow path lined with tall hedges and arching tree branches. A cool wind blustered up from the Celtic Sea onto the Cornish downs.

For the past three weeks, the Rangers had traipsed the downs in speed marches and runs. They’d trained with combat-seasoned British Commandos. And almost every day they’d scaled the hundred-foot-tall Upton Cliffs, first with a safety line and then without.

Clay hopped over a low rail fence into the clearing where his platoon gathered. He found Lieutenant Taylor and reported his squad’s success. With Bob Holman injured, Clay had led the squad on this exercise.

Holman sat propped against a tree, surrounded by Gene, Ruby, and McKillop.

Clay joined them. “We’ve scaled how many cliffs, and you sprain your ankle on level ground.”

“If I hadn’t, I wouldn’t have heard the scuttlebutt.” Holman’s blink was slow and uncoordinated. Just how much whiskey had he nipped before the exercise? “Overheard Big Jim talking to Tay-Tay. D’you ’member in Florida when that girl went missing?”

“Yeah.” Clay could still hear her father’s anguished voice.

McKillop tapped a cigarette out of a pack. “Betcha they found her holed up in a beach shack with some sailor boy.”

“Nope. Found her dead.”

Clay sucked in a breath. “Dead?”

“Yep. The school commander wrote to Rudder and the COs of the other units at Fort Pierce at the time. They found the girl raped, stabbed, and dumped in a swamp.”

Raped? Stabbed? Like Leah. Clammy air clogged his lungs, and he got to his feet. Where was Rudder? He needed to talk to him.

“Pax?” Gene frowned.

Clay motioned for his buddy to come with him, and he marched back to the rail fence.

“What’s the matter?” Gene sat on the fence.

“Wonder if it’s the same guy who attacked Leah. She was—she was stabbed.” He’d never told anyone she’d also been raped.

Gene’s face scrunched up in thought. “I’m sure it’s a coincidence. There were fifty thousand soldiers at Camp Forrest.”

“Yeah. True.” Clay pulled off his helmet and ran his hand through his damp hair.

Telling Rudder wouldn’t serve much of a point. Only five hundred men had gone to Florida.

But what if Leah’s assailant and the Florida murderer were the same man? What if he was in Cornwall? Clay hadn’t seen the attacker’s face, but the attacker had seen Clay.

His chest squeezed with fear, but he puffed it away. If it were true, the rapist had already had plenty of opportunity to attack Clay. Besides, Clay was going to die in battle, not at the hand of a Ranger.

“That poor girl,” Gene said. “Only seventeen.”

“I know.” Leah was only eighteen. Was she keeping safe?

Half a dozen letters waited at the home in Bude where he and Gene were billeted. When the mail finally caught up to the Rangers, he and Gene had decided to save it for a Christmas treat.

Now it would be bittersweet. In Florida, a family’s worst fears had come true.

SATURDAY, DECEMBER 25, 1943

Clay pulled the five-button olive drab sweater over his head and tugged it into place. Pretty snug. Mama didn’t know how much muscle the Rangers had put on him.

But those muscles, chilled in the under-heated Cornish home, softened at the warmth of the sweater and the thought of Mama knitting and praying for him.

Sitting in Mrs. Trevithick’s chintz armchair, Gene held up a red-and-blue striped necktie. “What was Betty Jo thinking?”

Clay laughed. “Unless that’s bulletproof, that ain’t gonna help you.”

“No fooling.” Gene knotted it around his neck. “Maybe I’ll wear it under my uniform on D-day to remind me what I’m fighting for—going home.”

“That’s what I like about you, G. M.—your patriotism.” Clay unfolded the note from Mama. She hoped he didn’t mind receiving only a sweater. They’d sent a nice check to Leah for the layette and the nursery.

Layette? Nursery? Babies needed lots of stuff, didn’t they? At least Leah would have more money from him now.

Rudder and Taylor had been pleased with Clay’s leadership the day before—and had been appalled at Holman’s drunkenness on duty. Holman had been busted down to private, and Clay was promoted to corporal and leader of the rifle squad.

“Grandma’s ribbon candy.” Gene held up a box and wrinkled his nose. “Wish we’d opened gifts last night. I could have brought it to the children’s party this morning.”

“Reckon you won’t have trouble getting rid of candy.” The kids had enjoyed the party the Rangers had thrown, with Santa Claus, cartoons, and gobs of candy mailed from the States. Since sweets were heavily rationed in Britain, the children were thrilled.

Clay picked up a brown-paper parcel from Leah, postmarked November 1 and labeled “Don’t open until Christmas.” He’d obeyed and hauled it over on the Queen Elizabeth.

Inside lay an olive drab scarf. He looped it around his neck and tossed one end over his shoulder. In her note Leah stressed that she’d purchased the yarn from her library earnings. When would she feel comfortable spending his money—their money?

She’d also written him a Christmas poem, decorated around the edges with crayon bells and candles and angels and mangers, compliments of the Bellamy girls.

Light on the snow, through a Child, in our hearts,

On the hearth, in his words, in ours.

Song in the bells, by the Host, on our lips,

Ringing bright, winging high, bringing hope.

Life in a tree, through the Cross, in our souls,

Ever green, evermore, ever His.

My, how he preferred that to a necktie. In the hands of his dreamy wife, words were more than just playthings.

He found the next letter, dated November 15. It wasn’t like her to leave long gaps between letters. Why hadn’t he noticed that before?

Clay ripped open the envelope. Was something wrong?

Dear Clay,

This is a difficult letter to write. You have given me your good name, your money, and your family. You’ve also given me your kindness, trust, and respect. With this letter I am prepared to lose many, if not all, of these.

Clay’s eyes hazed over. Had she cheated on him? Had she found someone else and cheated on him? They might not be in love, but their vows meant something, didn’t they?

He bolted to standing. “I’m going for a walk.”

“Sounds good.”

“By myself. See you later.” He marched out, tossed a wave to elderly Mrs. Trevithick in the kitchen, and jogged downstairs from the flat above the fish-and-chips shop.

He ran alongside the Bude Canal, past holiday cottages and tourist shops. The locals were used to seeing Rangers running. Even if it was Christmas Day.

Clay ran faster, hating himself for getting fooled by another woman—and hating himself for thinking the worst of Leah before he had the facts.

He crossed the footbridge over the lock at the end of the canal and jogged onto the beach. The tide was way out, and Clay sank to his knees on the sand under the overcast sky. Waves crashed before him, and low green bluffs curled around the beach.

“Lord, please let me be wrong.” He opened Leah’s letter again.

On November 2, Darlene accused me of stealing twenty dollars from her. The money was my own pay from the library, but Mrs. Perry believed Darlene and evicted me from the boardinghouse. It’s taken me all this time to work up the courage to tell you.

You see, Clay, Mrs. Perry had a reason to believe Darlene. When I was younger, I often stole. I stole food. I stole lovely things that other children misplaced. I stole lonely things that other children mistreated. A few months ago, I mentioned this to Darlene, and she told Mrs. Perry when she accused me of stealing her pay.

I haven’t stolen anything in years, and the Lord has forgiven me and has wiped my slate clean. However, Darlene and Mrs. Perry will never see me as anything but a thieving orphan. I’ll understand if you see me the same way. When you proposed, I should have told you about my past. I knew you’d been gravely injured by theft, and telling you would have been kind and fair. I’m sure you never would have married me if you’d known I used to steal. Since I didn’t tell you at that time, I’ll understand if you should annul the marriage.

For future correspondence, see the address below. Mr. and Mrs. Bellamy are letting me rent a little house on their property.

Please know I’m sorry for all I’ve done.

With deep regret,
Leah

The scarf itched and choked, and Clay tugged it off and dropped it to the sand.

Leah had a history of stealing?

Who was she? Was she an “Allotment Annie,” one of those women who tricked soldiers into marrying them so they could collect the allotment, maybe even the life insurance?

Clay rested his hands on his knees, stared at the golden sand, and groaned. No, of course not. She hadn’t tricked him. He was the one who’d pushed for marriage.

He sighed, smoothed the letter, and tucked it inside his sweater.

Growing up, he’d always had everything he needed. What if he hadn’t? What if he’d spent his childhood in an orphanage? Or on the streets? Would he have turned to theft? “I don’t know, Lord. I don’t know what I would have done in her place.”

The scarf lay rejected in a heap beside him. Clay drew it across his lap and brushed away grains of sand.

He couldn’t blame her for not telling him earlier. First, it was all in her past, in her youth, forgiven and overcome. Second, if everyone thought like Darlene and Mrs. Perry, she was wise to keep quiet.

He dug his fingers into the knit where Leah’s fingers had worked. Telling him had taken courage, especially since she thought he’d annul the marriage. Why would she think that? Why would she think he’d abandon her and make her give up that little baby?

Realization slammed into his chest. Abandonment was all she knew. Why would she expect anything else from him?

He had to reassure her. Clay pushed to his feet and draped the scarf around his neck.

A chill wind slapped him in the face.

November 15? She’d written that letter a month and a half ago. By saving her letter for a Christmas treat, he’d left her in the lurch.

She wouldn’t receive his reply for another week or two, maybe four.

That wouldn’t do. He marched back across the sand. He’d send a cablegram today.

No, it was Christmas. First thing tomorrow morning. He’d make the message vague enough for all the eyes that would see it, yet clear enough for her.

“I won’t abandon you, Leah.” He crossed the footbridge and broke into a run, desperate to write his reply. “I won’t.”