We Were There at the Normandy Invasion

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.

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.