"Amen to that," said their squad sergeant, who wore the name Rinaldi above his pocket. "You're a good man, Macurdy, in more ways than one." He shook Macurdy's hand, and one by one the others followed, only Carlson abstaining. Rinaldi scowled. "What's the matter, Carlson. You short on brains? Or just can't admit you acted like dog shit?"

Carlson stalked out, but in the supper line spoke quietly to Macurdy: "I shouldn't have cut your laces. I know it and everyone else knows it. But goddamn I was pissed when they railroaded Potenza! Six months for chrissake, for one lousy brawl! I've seen guys do lots worse in Phenix City and not even draw company punishment. And you couldn't ask for a better trooper than he was."

Macurdy didn't point out the differences between Phenix City and London. He simply smiled slightly, as much as he thought Carlson was up to having just then. "It's an imperfect world," he said, "but Potenza will be back. If not to the 503rd, then to one of the other outfits forming up. And whoever gets him, they'll have themselves a real fighting man."

Carlson nodded soberly. "You got that right," he said, then put out his hand and they shook on it.

Colonel Raff was a fanatic on endurance and toughness, and pushed his battalion mercilessly. In June, soon after landing, it had undergone intensive combat training by officers of the British 1st Airborne Division, and in July they underwent sixteen tough but valuable days at the Mortehoe Commando School. They became skilled in night operations, learned the proper way to silence sentries, became competent demolitionists, and could fire and field-strip German, Italian, and British weapons as readily as their own.

And the lessons they learned were passed on to replacements like Macurdy by the battalion's own officers and noncoms. What they didn't do for two months was jump out of airplanes. Transport planes were in short supply, and none were available to the battalion till after Macurdy had joined it. Then they jumped frequently, from altitudes as low as 350 feet. Once they jumped in Northern Ireland as part of joint English and American maneuvers.

Meanwhile Macurdy transferred his marksmanship with the S amp;W Model 10.38 caliber police revolver to the army's heavy M1911A1 Colt.45 automatic.

It seemed to Macurdy that Varia's invisibility spell would be very useful, even though it was less than completely reliable. But he didn't know how she did it, except in a very general way. However, he'd had further input on invisibility spells later, from a tomttu named Maikel. Among other things, Maikel had said that intention was a key element. And Maikel's spell, at least, had only to be cast once. It could then be activated and deactivated by consciously willing it.

Working from this basis of limited knowledge, Macurdy experimented when he could, until wearing his American uniform with its airborne insignia, he walked one evening through a well-lit pub full of British servicemen (engaged with their beer, girls, and conversations), and wasn't noticed.

Obviously' it was at least somewhat effective, but its parameters of protection were uncertain. Maikel's could be seen through, at least by some, if a person knew where to look, and Varia's wasn't reliable in full sunlight. But almost certainly, his wasn't the same as either of theirs.

Those were things he'd keep in mind. Meanwhile he soon had a reputation for his stealth at night. He avoided testing it by day. At night his skill could be written off as "natural"-an ability to move silently and skillfully in darkness and shadow. But by day? To explain his talent as sorcery didn't seem wise.

In his fifth week in the 503rd, Macurdy was called into the office of Captain Grady, the company commander. Grady wasn't the only officer waiting for him: a Lieutenant Netzloff was there. "Macurdy," Grady said, "we've been looking through your service record. Everywhere you've been, your older has accumulated favorable comments and commendations. Lieutenant D'Emilio and Sergeant Boileau agree with them. So although you haven't been with us long, I'm promoting you to corporal, to take over for a man we lost this morning." He turned to Netzloff. "Lieutenant, he's yours. Tell him what he needs to know."

Macurdy and Netzloff left then. Beyond telling him what squad he'd be in, the lieutenant didn't say much except: "There's two or three in the squad who might be a little sour about you ranking them without having the training and experience they have. But Lieutenant D'Emilio says you've got a knack for handling things, and his men like and respect you. So the captain and I are trusting you to handle any objections your new squad might have. Now, let's go find Sergeant Ruiz. He's your platoon sergeant."

Staff Sergeant Ramon Ruiz was as large as Macurdy, and looked as strong, a calm direct man who neither in words, face, or aura showed any resentment toward this relative greenhorn coming into his platoon as a noncom. "Where you from, Macurdy?" he asked.

"Nehtaka, Oregon."

"A westerner! I'm from a ranch near Penasco, New Mexico. What'd you do before you joined up?"

"I was a deputy sheriff." Then, in case this sergeant had reservations about lawmen, Macurdy added, "Before that I logged."

"A deputy sheriff? How come the army didn't put you in the MPs?"

Macurdy grinned. "I sure don't know. I speak pretty good German, too; I'm surprised they didn't send me to the Pacific." The sergeant grunted. "Speak German? You don't have a German name."

"I married into a German family, and my wife and I lived with them. The grandmother didn't speak any English, so they all talked German in the house, and I had to learn it."

This sharpened Ruiz's interest. "What do they think of you fighting the Germans?"

"They think of it as fighting Nazis. The whole family hates Hitler, especially the old lady. She says he'll be the ruin of Germany."

"She got that right. Well, it's a good thing to have another guy in the platoon that speaks German. A guy named Mueller speaks it, too; he's from North Dakota." Ruiz got to his feet. "Come on. Al. introduce you to Sergeant Powers. He's your squad leader."

The battalion had read and heard about the disastrous cross-channel Dieppe raid by seven thousand commandos, a few weeks earlier. And eager though they were to see action, the debacle at Dieppe was sobering. Even elite units could come to grief in an operation sufficiently ill-conceived.

One day they were visited and inspected in ranks by the First Lady, Eleanor Roosevelt, who paused to ask questions of the men. Macurdy was as impressed by her aura as by her height, and she was taller than most of the troopers.

Meanwhile Mary had written that she was pregnant. Curtis didn't much fret about it; he was remarkably focused on where he was and what he was doing. Which helped him get another quick promotion to buck sergeant, replacing a squad leader who'd broken a collarbone.

Shortly afterward, the men were put on restriction and briefed on their upcoming operation, until th knew their drop zone and missions about as well as they coup considering they still didn't know where in the world that drop zone was.

Not that they'd drop there, or carry out that mission-a remarkable set of snafus would intervene-but they'd make themselves valuable regardless, on the ground and in the evolution of new warfare.

Finally they were loaded onto trains and taken to Land's End, in the extreme southwest of England.

As it turned out, Macurdy had no problems at all in his new squad. It already knew of him by reputation; he was a man people noticed.

As summer waned into autumn, their officers were briefed on what was to be the battalion's-and the Army's-first airborne operation. And although for some weeks the troopers were not told what was up, training intensified, carrying now a sense of urgency.