CHAPTER ELEVEN
André and the Nazi Pilot
FALLING into bed, André’s thoughts had turned to his family, but his worries were quickly drowned in sleep.
When he awoke, he ran downstairs to see what the sunrise had brought.
It had brought Victor.
André saw the old man—scrubbed pink and bristling—beside the guard at the door. With Victor was another of the village fathers—a farmer who had once been a schoolteacher. M. Blanc was a tall, square man, in a rough tweed suit.
“I am here,” said Victor, speaking to both André and the guard—who did not understand a word—“about a matter which demands attention. It is the exasperating fact that an unexploded shell reposes in my—”
André cried, “Wait!” and hastily translated for the guard’s benefit.
Victor remained standing, with open mouth. The guard shouted, and Slim came running. The captain was swiftly consulted, and a demolition squad was rounded up. This took only a few seconds, since disposing of unexploded shells was an ever-present problem.
On being questioned about where the “dud” was, Victor finished his sentence. “In my parlor, near the bay window.”
At the last word, the demolition crew started running.
André asked, “But isn’t Mme. Lescot frightened?”
“She does not even know it is there,” Victor replied. “She has been off helping with some of the children since yesterday. I was obliged to prepare my own supper,” he finished crossly.
Captain Dobie came to the door and gravely shook hands with the two Frenchmen. He eyed Victor curiously. After a moment’s study of the old man, however, he decided that to order Victor to stay out of danger would be a waste of time.
It was M. Blanc who spoke.
“We came, sir,” he said, “as spokesmen for the whole neighborhood. We wish to offer our services in any way you Americans consider helpful. We should also be grateful if you can tell us what to expect in the way of future danger to our community.”
“I think,” replied Captain Dobie, “you people have accepted all this destruction with fine, very brave spirit. The Maquis, as well as all you other French people, have helped the landing forces more than you will ever know. We Americans want you to realize that we are grateful. It could have been much worse for us.”
M. Blanc put up a hand. “Please, m’sieur, it is our battle also. And the Maquis have told us that the Americans up beyond Ste. Mère are heroic.”
The captain said his men had been wonderful. “But until we dispose of these Germans, we can’t move forward into France beyond this peninsula.”
“And the Canadians and British?” asked M. Blanc.
“They’ve successfully landed a lot of troops and tanks. They’ve penetrated to a considerable depth toward Caen, I hear.”
“Bon!” Victor’s head bobbed. “When you have disposed of these bothersome Nazis you speak of—you do what?”
Captain Dobie frowned. “We must throw a line of troops from these beaches straight across the neck of the peninsula to cut off German reinforcements from coming to the rescue of the enemy in Cherbourg.”
“No doubt,” frowned Victor, “the Nazis will respond by doing all the damage possible to our fine Cherbourg port.”
“I’m afraid they will,” agreed the captain. “When we take the port, our 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.