U.S. Army engineers will have to repair the docks quickly. We intend
to bring in our main supplies for the liberation of the rest of France
through Cherbourg when it is free.”
“Capitaine Dobay,” M. Blanc said, “I suppose no one knows how long the
Germans will hold out.”
“I’m afraid not,” replied Captain Dobie.
There was a second shaking of hands, and Victor and M. Blanc left.
André’s mind turned anxiously to the tale of heavy fighting which was
moving toward St. Sauveur le Vicomte and his family there. He felt more
cut off from them than ever, now that he knew they were surrounded by
such desperate enemies.
“Has anybody found that German pilot yet?” he asked Captain Dobie.
“No sign of him,” the captain replied. “Now, after breakfast, I have a
job for Slim. And I think you and your dog could go along.”
Half an hour later, André was telling a delighted Patchou, “They think
it’s safe now, for you to come out with me. But there’s still a war on,
so behave yourself.”
The cows, he found, had again been milked by the American
farmer-soldiers, and again most of the milk had vanished. The other
barn chores had also been neatly done.
He heard soft sounds in the loft over the cow barn, and crept up the
stairs to investigate.
A dozen or more soldiers from the night patrol were sleeping heavily in
the sweet hay. Full of good Gagnon milk, André thought with pleasure.
He tiptoed down the stairs and, freeing Patchou from his fastening,
answered Slim’s impatient halloo.
“Gotta find a commissary dump somewhere down the road,” Slim explained.
“Weller says it cain’t be far. Them 90th Division cooks told him about
it.”
After his long imprisonment, Patchou was blissfully happy. He ran rings
around Slim and André. He found excitement in every newly blasted hole
in the mossy walls, and inviting scents everywhere.
Slim marched rapidly along for nearly half a mile, with André keeping
up at a trot. Then Slim said, “Best we begin to ask questions now. Who,
’round here, knows everything?”
André pointed to a house ahead. “That’s M. Valjean’s home there. He’s
the cobbler. He will know.”
M. Valjean listened eagerly to André’s query. Did he know where there
was an American food dump headquarters nearby?
“Ah-h, _oui, oui, certainement_,” the cobbler responded
enthusiastically, and gave detailed directions in a flood of rapid
French.
André said, “I know where it is.” He added, “_Merci_,” to M. Valjean.
“You sure?” Slim frowned. “Sounded as if it must be on the Russian
border, what-all I could make of it.”
“I am sure, Slim,” André replied. “It is my own schoolhouse.”
Slim’s rapidly swinging long legs kept André at an almost breathless
canter. Because their minds were silently busy, they did not hear the
word, “_Kamerad_,” when it was first spoken.
But Slim’s reaction to something out of key stopped him short, .45 in
hand.
André was pushed back before the second, louder, “_Kamerad_” gave him
warning.
CHAPTER TWELVE
_Slim and the Trumpet_
Slim leaned forward intently, staring at a thicket to one side. “Who’re
you? Come out--hands up!” he shouted. “Get back, kid.”
A voice said, “It is not necessary. I vish to giff myself
up--villingly.”
A young German airman stepped from behind the litter of broken cherry
branches.
“Where’d you come from?” Slim demanded. “Keep those hands on your head.”
“I know who he is,” André cried. Then, to the stranger, “You’re the
pilot who jumped from the Messerschmitt, aren’t you?”
The German nodded. “I vish to make no trouble. Please take my gun--a
Luger only, in the holster.”
Slim snapped out the pistol. “Listen,” he demanded, “what gives here?”
The German said, “I haf vanted to giff up a long time now. I am glad
you haff come.”
“Well,” Slim shrugged, “maybe you can explain that to the captain. Come
on. March ahead of me to that schoolhouse yonder.”
When they reached the food dump, the prisoner was put under guard.
Meanwhile Slim carried out the captain’s orders for food supplies.
Slim pointed to the stacked cartons he had piled in the corner of the
schoolhouse. “See nobody lays a hand on that. A jeep’ll be over to pick
it up within an hour,” he told the commissary sergeant. He also asked
for an extra guard to accompany them back to the captain. “He says he
wants to give hisself up,” Slim said, “but how do we know he’s on the
level?”
Drawing his own gun, Slim added to André, as he led the way, “Wouldn’t
our flack gunners like to get a look at this Luftwaffe fellow?”
The prisoner smiled wryly. “Your flack gunners already haff seen me,”
he said. “That is vhy I am here.”
On their return, Captain Dobie greeted the German with surprising
enthusiasm. “I am delighted to see you,” he said. “You had us worried.”
“I vas vorried myself, sir,” the pilot replied.
A few minutes later the prisoner was dispatched to an interrogation
center by jeep, with Weller and a guard.
Captain Dobie suggested that André find M. Blanc and tell him that the
village could forget about that particular German pilot. “Glad to have
_him_ off my mind,” the captain added.
André found M. Blanc consulting with Victor near the end of the village
and gave them the captain’s good news.
En route home through the fields, André found an almost undamaged
yellow parachute. “How beautiful Marie will be in a dress of yellow
silk!” he thought. And he folded it carefully, tucking the bulky load
under his arm.
That evening, after supper, André took his trumpet into the kitchen.
He gathered cleaning rags and polish, and rubbed and cleaned the brass
of the horn. When the tubes had been cleared and the metal gleamed, he
piped a little trill of lonely notes.
They made him feel no better, and he tried a Normandy dance tune.
He heard the clump of feet behind him and Slim’s voice. “Holy cow!
_Where_ did you get that horn?”
André put the trumpet down shyly. Slim picked it up carefully and
rubbed the mouthpiece with his sleeve.
“Can you play a trumpet?” André asked curiously.
“Waal ... I used to play some in the school band in Pecos, Texas.
Matter of fact, I was pretty good. Shall I give ’er a try?”
André jumped when a ringing peal of notes rose from the brass to the
rafters. The notes slid down the scale, and Slim broke loudly into
“Turkey in the Straw.”
Weller’s bellow rose even above the music’s vibrations. “Stop that
racket!” Slim guiltily took the horn from his lips. The sergeant
shouted, “Captain’s on the phone to headquarters.”
“Tell you what, André,” Slim whispered. “Suppose we go try this out
somewhere?”
For the next hour, in the dimly lit springhouse, André enjoyed himself
more than he had for weeks. And when Slim said, “Time for bed now,”
André had learned half of Slim’s pet song, which was something about
Texas.
Next morning, André found that a thick fog, almost a drizzle, hung
over the treetops. The soft gray mist hid the harsh destruction of the
landscape.
André went out to find Raoul at work patching the Coty roof. “Just help
me with this thatch, will you?” Raoul called.
André gladly climbed up the old ladder with an armful of straw while
Raoul chattered.
But a moment later he stopped listening to Raoul’s talk. Somewhere in
the fog, he had detected the uncertain throbbing of a plane’s engine.
[Illustration: _André had learned half of Slim’s pet song_]
He sat still to follow the sound. The plane was flying in wide circles,
steadily coming in lower.
In a drift of the mist, André caught a glimpse of the markings--a white
star.
“He’s in trouble, Raoul. That’s an American plane,” André cried.
“How could he be in trouble?” Raoul objected. “He’s still in the sky,
is he not?”
But listening closely, he too, heard the engine sputter. “That engine
needs repairs!” he declared disapprovingly.
Hastily, André shouted, “DUCK!”
Their heads went down as the plane’s wings, trailing wisps of fog,
swept close overhead. André had just time to make out a high-wing
monoplane with patches and holes in its fabric covering.
The plane banked, sailed over a field behind the Coty house, and was
set down expertly.
André was already scrambling down the ladder.
He pelted across the meadow with no thought of danger. Racing toward
the plane, he thought only that the pilot might be hurt. Through the
plexiglass enclosure of the little ship, André saw a blond young
fellow, in an odd, peaked cap.
At the sound of pounding footsteps, the pilot whirled, an automatic
suddenly in his hand and pointed at André.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
_The War from the Air_
André was so surprised that he stammered, in English, “D--don’t fire!”
The flyer’s hand dropped. “_Parlez-vous_ English?” he faltered,
frowning.
André’s suspicions leaped up. Dirty brown coveralls, the strange cap,
the German-looking, tow-colored hair. And the plane. André had never
seen one like it, and the star insigne could be a Nazi fake.
André stood his ground, some distance away. When the pilot flung open
the side door and jumped out, André stepped back.
In a swift glance over his shoulder, André saw Raoul reach the bottom
of the ladder. He shouted, “Run get Slim, Raoul. And tell the captain.”
“For the love of Mike, kid, what gives with you? You think I’m a
German?” the pilot demanded.
“You could be,” André retorted.
“Holy mackerel!” the pilot laughed. “That’s what I thought you were, at
first. I didn’t even see you were a kid when I pulled the gun. Forget
it.”
“Well,” André admitted after a moment, “you do talk like an American.”
“How come?”
André laughed uncertainly. “Germans don’t say ‘How come,’ for one
thing,” he stated. “But what _are_ you doing here? It looks as though
you were lost.”
“Lost is right--and out of fuel, too,” the pilot replied with angry
disgust. “Now I’ve got to find more gas and get over to Utah Beach in a
hurry. Where am I, anyway?”
“You are about four miles from the nearest invasion beach,” André said.
“But I’m not sure of the different names you Americans have given them.
Someone will be here soon. Captain Dobie can’t come himself, he has a
broken leg.”
“Is this Dobie’s command?” the flyer exclaimed. “Well, I’m in a hurry.
Cripes! I can’t keep the general waiting. He’ll give me hoop-la for
navigating myself into this mess--fog or no fog. Here’s somebody now.”
It was Slim, at a gallop, followed by two armed guards. They fell in on
each side of the pilot.
Slim took a quick look at the flyer and the plane, and asked, “What
outfit _you_ with?”
“Army Liaison Squadron, Lieutenant Bill Carson,” replied the pilot.
“You with the 82nd Airborne?”
Slim nodded and asked sharply, “Now, what’s up here? Don’t you guys use
landin’ strips any more?”
“Don’t pile it on, buddy,” Carson said. “I’m in bad enough already. I
got myself lost good, in this weather. And this kid here thought I was
a German--”
Slim turned sternly to André. “You can overdo this takin’ prisoners
without consultin’ us, you know, son,” he muttered coldly.
He explained to the pilot, more mildly, “This André and an old
Frenchman helped catch a car full of Nazi officers once. But once is
enough.”
The lieutenant stared at André. “Say,” he exclaimed, “are you the
French kid I heard about? Trapped those German staff officers? I bet
my general’d like to shake hands with you. He’s the one who questioned
them.”
Slim put on his best corporal’s manner. “Best we get back to your
business here, Lieutenant. How are you going to wangle your jalopy out
of this corner, now you got her wedged in so good?”
The pilot shrugged. “Get me some gas, and I’ll fly out okay. Might have
to wait till the fog lifts a little.”
Slim pondered a moment. “Listen, André. You think we could squeeze a
little more gas out of that pump of your dad’s? Take us an hour or
more to waylay a U. S. truck carryin’ gas.”
André smiled. “We’ve been telling everyone the pump was empty, but we
have a little left in case of--you know--”
Carson gave a yelp. “I know--emergency, you mean. Well, boys, I’m the
worst emergency you’ll ever meet.”
Slim ordered one of his men to guard the plane. At a frown from the
guard, Raoul, who had been standing close by, stalked off.
At the house Slim went in to report to the captain and came back with
word that Dobie had telephoned the general waiting at Utah Beach.
The general had sent a message to Carson: “What did that idiot mean
by getting stuck in a blasted cow pasture? And tell him to get out of
there in a blasted hurry, or I’ll have his blasted ...” and so forth.
Carson smiled wanly. “That’s my general,” he said.
Slim went back to duty, and André and the pilot refilled the plane’s
tank from the cans they had brought from the Gagnon pump.
Carson took a dismal look at the gray-blanketed landscape. With André’s
help, he rolled the machine around so that it headed away from the
hedge. “Want to get in while I taxi her into position?” Carson asked.
“You are permitted--?” André cried.
Carson laughed. “Of course I’m not permitted--but what’s the
difference? Climb in.”
André clambered into the seat beside the pilot’s. Carson turned a
switch, adjusted the throttle, swung the propeller, and the engine
started promptly. “Now, fasten that seat belt and hold on, this field’s
bumpy.”
With a surge of power, the plane began to move. Skillfully the pilot
ruddered a jolting course around the potholes and stumps, to the far
corner of the meadow. “Need all the run I can get for the take-off,” he
explained.
Faced around for a diagonal course, he throttled the engine. “Gosh, I
think the fog is beginning to break,” he cried.
He leaned out to observe the wind direction which already was beginning
to ruffle the tops of the trees.
“I’d feel better if I knew this country,” he said. “You know it like
your own hand, I suppose?”
André said he did, and the pilot stared down at him thoughtfully.
“Say,” Carson broke out again. “How about you coming along for the
ride, and point out landmarks for me?”
André’s eyes lit up. “But--” he began.
“You seen the Invasion beaches yet? I’ll show them to you,” he offered.
Before André could gather his wits, Carson exclaimed, “There’s a patch
of blue sky! We better grab this chance. Hang on. Here we go!” And he
pushed open the throttle.
André felt the engine quicken and then the forward jolt as the brakes
were released.
Smoothly, the little ship lifted after the short run. Banking sharply,
it swept toward the far rim of trees and, with inches to spare, skimmed
over them.
The mist was breaking up, revealing open vistas. As the plane rose, the
houses and fields below shrank away swiftly.
The pilot said, “Keep a close watch for low-flying bombers. They’re all
over the place today, cleaning out isolated German pockets.”
Almost at once they were over the marshes.
“That’s our road to the sea.” André pointed.
The mists broke away sharply over the Channel.
André gasped.
A staggering panorama had been unveiled. Pigmy files of marching
troops, pigmy tanks and trucks crawled up the sea road in an endless
procession. Oceanward, beyond the shore bluff and wreck-strewn beach,
lay a sight which André could scarcely take in. Hundreds of ships
extended as far as he could see across the gray waves. Over the ships,
huge balloons lolled and bobbed and tugged at their anchors. Destroyers
and landing craft darted between the shore and a line of hundreds of
transports.
André could make out a fleet of planes heading toward Cherbourg to the
north. And from that direction, the dull thud of bombs rolled back on
the wet air.
“It is grand,” he managed to say breathlessly. “But--” he hesitated,
and added slowly, “it is terrible for the French people. So many guns
and bombs pointed at us.”
Carson glanced down at him. “They are pointed at the Germans,” he
corrected André. “Don’t forget that we’re trying not to hurt France
more than necessary.”
“_Oui_, I know,” André said. “But sir, I did not know there were so
many ships and guns in the whole world.”
“Well,” said Carson, “take a good look while you’ve got the chance.
I’ve got my bearings now.”
André studied the beach below. In the shallow water, wrecked landing
craft swung uselessly, half-awash. On the sea’s edge lay tanks which
had reached shore only to be shelled into wreckage. Savage battles had
turned the sands into a disorder of blasted, blackened gun pits and
machine-gun nests.
[Illustration]
Twice, while Carson circled, André saw him fiddling with the radio.
Then he spoke into the hand microphone, and listened for a few moments.
“Got ’em at last,” he said. “They say we’ve got to hold off awhile
longer. Some Luftwaffe guy got through last night and bombed the strip.
They’re just finishing repairs. See them down there?”
André looked directly down. Tiny men laying strips of steel mesh moved
in groups, like ants. Bulldozers swept along one side. And between the
airstrip and the sea, supplies were piling up steadily into mountains.
Carson grinned. “I’ll bet that’s my general pacing up and down in front
of that big tent.” A second later, he said, “As long as we can’t get
down right away, how about we take a look at the English and Canadian
beachheads?”
He swung alongshore and headed eastward.
Carson pointed out the little city of Carentan. There was a rattle of
machine guns below, and the pilot threw the plane into a series of
violent turns. Noises like angry wasps streaked past their ears.
André swayed dizzily.
“Oh-oh! What am I doing in here?” Carson yelled. “That’s the way I get
holes in my ship.” He pointed out new tears in the fabric. As they
zoomed away, he explained, “That was a Nazi machine-gun. There are
still German troops and guns between Utah and Omaha Beaches and the
British beachheads.”
The plane climbed steadily away, and André relaxed.
The fury of Omaha and the British beaches was very like that which he
had seen at Utah.
Unconsciously, André shuddered. Far to the right, under a pall of smoke
and the flickering of explosions, lay a city being pounded to rubble.
“That must be Caen,” André murmured. “My mother was born in Caen.”
Then, after a moment, “The houses, the farms, the cows and the horses
... the people ...” he counted sadly.
Carson sat thoughtfully quiet. He swung the ship in a wide circle for
the return.
“Don’t think about it, kid,” he said presently. “Just remember the big
German guns that aren’t there any more.”
André replied slowly, “I don’t think we really knew the Liberation
would be as bad as this. We will be glad when it is over.”
Suddenly the pilot jammed his control stick forward. The plane nosed
into a violent dive. “Hang on! Fighters overhead. Up there!” he shouted.
André’s head had jerked back. In his range of vision, a formation of
six Thunderbolts with white stars roared past.
“Wow!” Carson gasped, and pulled the ship level.
“They’re after a bridge,” he yelled.
André watched plane after plane go into a dive and the bombs leave the
racks to arc downward.
In the successive rain of bombs a black, flame-flecked cloud shot
skyward.
“They have hit it!” André cried jubilantly.
The Thunderbolts zoomed upward out of the haze, reformed, and
disappeared toward England.
Some time later, Carson talked once more into the radio. “It’s okay.
They say to come in now. The runway’s ready,” he announced.
He throttled back. “Well, now you know what the beaches are like,” he
sighed. There was a smooth descent, Carson slid in over the steel mesh
and brought the machine to a stop beside a group of officers.
He snapped open his own seat belt and André’s.
“Oh-oh!” Carson gasped. “I’d better try to explain _you_.”
André looked across at a glistening, brilliant red face that belonged
to a bulky man in a sweat-stained uniform.
“It’s the general,” Carson whispered. He pushed the door open and
saluted.
He spoke more rapidly than usual. “This is the French boy, sir, who
helped catch the Nazi brass from Paris.”
The general seemed to be caught between fury and curiosity.
“Is it!” he sputtered at last. “And _what’s_ he doing in an army plane?”
“Well, sir--” Carson blinked. “I needed--”
“Oh, never mind,” boomed the general explosively. “He’s here now, and I
want to shake hands with him. Come on, boy.”
André leaped down from the plane, and his hand disappeared in the
general’s bear clutch.
“Glad to thank you personally--” roared the huge man gruffly.
He mopped his neck. “Want to tell you--what’s your name again? André
Gunion? Can’t get these foreign names. Rotten at languages, but I can
judge people. Where’s that old fellow--friend of yours--Vilmer, was
it?--who shot the tires off the Nazis?”
André had tried to speak several times. Now, he said loudly,
“Victor--Lescot.”
“Lescot? Lescot? That means green vegetable, doesn’t it?” barked the
general. “No? Well, never mind. Congratulate him for me. Found out
a lot from those Nazi colonels, we did. Tell you what. We expect
the biggest generals we got, here on this bridgehead in a couple of
days--Eisenhower, Marshall, Arnold. They’ll be glad to know how you
French kids have helped.”
He paused for breath. “Well, got to get going. Lieutenant!”
Carson emerged from inspecting the bullet holes in the plane, again
chattering rapidly. “How are we going to get this boy home, sir? He
can’t walk. It’s too far.”
The general snorted. “Send him in a jeep, of course--with some new
orders for Captain Dobie.”
An iron-faced sergeant appeared and saluted.
“Oh, there you are, Streukoff,” shouted the general. “Take this boy
to Captain Dobie. Boy knows where his command post is, over there
somewhere.” He jerked a large thumb toward inland Normandy.
At the plane, he called back, “And mind you get a receipt for him.”
Carson called to André, “We had fun, eh? Be seeing you,” and opened the
throttle.
Half an hour later, a jeep bearing André in the front seat, rocketed
around a line of trucks and soldiers into André’s own village.
He had been busy for some minutes thinking how he was to explain his
trip to Captain Dobie.
As the jeep rolled down the village street André saw that something
unusual had happened. The neighbors were running toward a little
gathering of people.
His eyes raced over them and stopped.
In front of the parish house, worn, gray with fatigue, his clothes
dusty and torn, loomed a tall old man.
André’s heart stood still.
“Father Duprey!” he shouted.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
_Father Duprey’s Story_
“My dear boy!” Father Duprey held out his arms.
André cleared the space to the parsonage steps as though shot from the
jeep.
“Did my mother come--my father--Marie?” he cried.
He looked up at the priest’s long, bony face, lined with weariness, and
halted. The old man’s embrace was kind, but André knew at once that the
news he brought was not good. His expression held too much sadness.
“The father needs rest,” someone in the crowd of neighbors called out.
And Anna, the parsonage housekeeper, bustled from the door.
“Come in, come in, André,” she called anxiously. “And bring in the
father. I will give you tea. And _then_ you may talk.”
[Illustration: _“My dear boy!” Father Duprey held out his arms_]
“I must tell you, André,” Father Duprey said, “my news of your family
is not too bad. So do not be anxious. However, I do not know where all
of them are now. But come into the house.”
After tea was served, the old man sighed deeply. “Now, André,” he said,
“to relieve your anxiety as well as I can.
“To begin. The hospital where we left your mother is small. And it
is well outside the town of St. Sauveur le Vicomte--in the country,
really. The doctors there are good. Your father, Marie, and I waited
for some time to get a report from them about your mother.
“At about ten-thirty o’clock, Monday night--that was June 5th--one of
the doctors came to tell us that Mme. Gagnon needed only the right
medicine and a week or two to get well. That is good news, eh?”
André sighed. “Yes, very good.”
“Ah! another thing.” The priest held up a thin finger. “The Maquis met
us exactly on time, at the rendezvous not far from the hospital. And
your brave English flyer--Ronald Pitt--ran for it. What a sight! Two of
the roughest looking of our Maquis and a nun, racing toward a near-by
building. But--well, they got away safely. That _was_ good, no?”
“Wonderful,” André murmured.
“Well, then. At about eleven-thirty that night, your father and I
stood at the hospital door. We were to start back home, and Marie was
to stay with your mother. We heard bombing all around us. Your father
said, ‘The bombing is getting bad.’