CHAPTER FIVE
André’s Warning
CLINGING to his uncertain perch, for the first few seconds André felt stunned. Could this be his own Normandy sky? He watched the flicker of moonlight here and there on the parachutes drifting down through the scudding clouds.
“The Invasion!” he thought.
He had turned to stare across at his father’s barn in the distance, wondering about the Nazi machine gunners, when the tree beside him was torn by a crashing of branches. His heart leaped into his throat. The topmost branches were entwined by a great, pale, crumpled parachute. And, dangling from the shroud lines, hung a figure that swung like a pendulum.
In the meadow beyond, other dark shapes were pelting into the hayfield, their chutes collapsing around them like punctured balloons.
The noise was spreading. Isolated shots and short bursts of machine-gun fire drummed, stopped, and drummed again. From the far-off German camp near Ste. Mère came the wail of a Klaxon horn. And there was the distant growl and whine of speeding motors. The echo of distant explosions increased.
High overhead, planes whose cargo had been dropped, droned away toward England. And everywhere antiaircraft fire was spitting even more frantically.
Who were these men dangling from parachutes? If they had started the Invasion, all Maquis ought to help them. “Then that means me, too,” André thought.
He braced his foot in the crotch of the tree, lowered the other to feel his way down.
He dropped to another branch—and it snapped!
Just then the moon sailed from under a cloud and touched him as brightly as a searchlight.
A hoarse cry came from a few feet away. “Look out! Sniper in that tree!”
André saw the glint of the gun barrel swinging up toward him.
But a louder voice from the man dangling in the tree shouted, “Hold it. Hold it, Slim. It’s just a kid. I can see him. Don’t shoot. Say, somebody come over here and cut me down.”
André’s stiffened body relaxed, and he began to feel his way among the dim branches. Several men had gathered at the foot of the tree, whispering, and one of them lifted his voice angrily. “What’s a kid doin’ in a tree this time of night? Something funny here.”
“Okay. Okay. We’ll find out. But get me down before this harness cuts me in two.”
André called, “Don’t shoot me. I’m coming down. I want to help.”
He slithered more quickly now from limb to limb, and jumped. Instantly a flashlight blinded him, and a drawling voice said, “Well, what d’ya know! A little shrimp!”
The flashlight had been turned to the ground. As soon as his eyes had grown accustomed to it, André gaped at the men. Never had he seen such frightening figures: torn uniforms, faces blackened with soot, each one bristling with every kind of small arm and grenade, topped off by helmets festooned with leafy twigs.
He gasped in amazement. “Are you Americans?”
The most tattered of the men grinned. “Sure. Who you expecting? Say, how come you’re talking English?”
“My sister and I learned a lot of English from Father Duprey,” André replied, “just in case.”
“Case of what?” demanded the suspicious one.
“To help you when you came,” said André. “But sir, shouldn’t we get that man up there out of the tree?”
“It’s about time!” came from the branches near by.
André shinnied quickly up above the dangling trooper and disentangled the chute. A moment later the chutist was on the ground, unstrapping his Tommy gun.
A stocky, bristling soldier had been looking out over the highway uneasily. Now he said, “Say, Slim, we gotta get movin’. We’re supposed to get to the causeways across the flooded part. Give ’em the signal, Risso.”
Softly then, André heard a little rasping cricket-sound that was repeated almost at once from the meadow.
More helmeted men crept up to the group. They said, “Hi, Sarge, what now?”
The stocky sergeant had been studying the darkened scene around him. Now he said, “We’re too far inland.” He looked down at André. “Listen, kid. You really mean you want to help us Americans—you aren’t up to no tricks?”
André frowned. “I’ve been waiting to help for a long time. It is my country here.”
The sergeant’s face softened a little. “Okay, I believe you. But listen. Where’s your folks?”
“My family has gone away,” André explained. “But they’ll be home soon. What do you want me to do?”
“You just tell us how far it is to the nearest road across that lagoon—”
André interrupted excitedly, “First, I must tell you, there are at least six Nazis in our barn. They have machine guns trained on the road. I’ll show you the way around the back wall. You could catch them from behind.”
The sergeant stiffened. “You, Slim, stay here with the kid, out of range—and both of you keep down,” he ordered.
Several shapes moved quietly off into the black field.
André looked up at the gray shape of the lean, rangy fellow slouched against a tree. The soldier held his Tommy gun easily. A thumb was hooked in the belt festooned with grenades, and a wicked-looking sheath knife was strapped to his leg.
André cleared his throat and asked, “Slim—is this the—Invasion?”
The paratrooper smiled. “Well, son,” he drawled, “it’s a start, anyhow. Quite a parcel of us has been dropped from Heaven, and I reckon there’ll be an awful lot more tomorrow when the gliders get in. All I know is, son, I’m a long, long way from Pecos, Texas.”
After that, for a moment, André thought the man was going to sleep. Presently he noticed that the trooper’s face was half turned away and that he was listening intently.
A dog barked, and André cried softly, “That’s my Patchou. The men must be coming into our farmyard.”
Suddenly, an explosion of shots, grenades, and hoarse shouts came from the direction of the house.
“Got ’em,” sighed Slim. “They’re good, our boys are. Especially at that sneaky stuff. Better keep down there. Might be bullets flyin’ ’round. I do not like flyin’ bullets.”
As the racket continued, the two stretched out among the ferns. “May’s well rest,” Slim murmured drowsily. “Doubt if there’s gonna be much time from now on.”
A few moments later there was a crackling in the hedge, from a direction away from the farm.
Slim shot into action like a snake, Tommy gun aimed, body tense. The faint sounds continued. After a moment Slim called, “Halt! You out there. Stay where you are.”
A gusty sigh came through the undergrowth, and then a voice. “You from the 505th?”
Slim kept his gun steady and answered, “Check. Who’re you?”
There was a soft groan. “Captain Dobie.”
Slim stared at the man pushing toward them, then sprang forward.
“You hurt, sir?” He helped the officer to get to his feet and took his arm. With André on the other side, they helped him stagger into the shadow of a tree.
“We thought we’d lost you sure, Cap’n,” Slim said sympathetically.
“Broke my leg when I landed on a stone wall, I guess,” the officer said fretfully. He stared around him and asked, “What’s happening? We should start toward the coast—we’re much too far in.”
Slim nodded. “I know. But Sergeant Weller’s cleanin’ out a machine-gun nest in the barn yonder. He’ll be back with six or seven men shortly. They must have finished over there by now. Some Nazis was in this kid’s barn.” Slim directed a long thumb at André, and added, “He’s puny, but he’s real sharp.”
In spite of the fact that he was evidently in great pain, the captain managed to smile at the boy.
Slim had helped him to sit down, braced against the tree. André saw that he was watching—Slim, André himself, the road, the meadow. And he was listening to the distant noises—for the return of his men.
“Should be nearly a hundred men in these meadows right here,” the captain said. “We’ve got to get our parachuted equipment together. As soon as you can, send someone for gear I saw drop near where I came down. One lot’s caught in a tree—right across that open space. We need those bazookas quick. German tanks are likely to be coming along any minute.”
“This kid might be able to tell us somethin’ about the Nazis around these parts,” Slim said.
“There’s a Nazi camp half a mile down the road,” André replied eagerly. “And another big one near Ste. Mère Église, if you know where that is.”
Captain Dobie nodded and turned his head to catch the sound of a motor. “That car’s coming this way fast!”
André was startled by the smooth swiftness with which Slim and his captain acted then. Thrusting his Tommy gun into the captain’s outstretched hand without a word, Slim detached a grenade from the cluster at his belt. He slipped into a tense, waiting position closer to the road.
The captain ordered, “Down flat!” and André obeyed.
The roar of the approaching car grew loud. Slim called softly, over his shoulder, “Nazi staff car,” and raised his arm.
The explosion and the repeated crack of the Tommy gun beside him shook the ground under André. As another grenade followed the first and took effect, Captain Dobie said, “That’s one car won’t stop the freeing of France.”
Slim crossed the road and returned to report solemnly, “Okay, sir.”
The captain nodded, then glanced quickly to one side as a voice said, “Good work, Slim.”
“Oh, it’s you, Sergeant!” the captain exclaimed in relief.
“Captain,” Weller said. “We were worried about you. What you got there?”
“A broken leg, I think, worse luck,” Captain Dobie explained angrily. “If you see a medic, send him back here. But you men get going now. If we don’t pick up that dropped ammunition and equipment soon, we may be in for trouble. Meanwhile, have you seen any place I can use for a command post around here?”
“You can use my father’s house,” André offered eagerly. “My father, he’s a part of the Resistance, so it’s all right.”
The captain turned to Weller.
“Yes, sir. Solid stone, handy to the road, plenty of room, barns. No bomb damage,” the sergeant reported, and added, “Nobody but this kid home, since we cleaned out the loft.”
“Yes?” The captain looked sharply around at the boy. “How’s that?”
André explained quickly. “And my father and Marie should have come back by now,” he finished.
The captain shook his head. “Not from St. Sauveur, they won’t. Not tonight. Our men must have all the roads beyond Ste. Mère blocked off.”
While a couple of men watched the road, others were sent to retrieve the dropped weapons. Sergeant Weller examined the captain’s injury. He found that a bone was cracked above the ankle. A shot of morphine from a first-aid kit was given Captain Dobie to ease the pain. Then splints were found, and the leg bound with strips of torn parachute silk.
Halfway through this, Weller paused suddenly and said to André, “By the way, son, you better tie up that hound of yours. He doesn’t seem to know Americans are his friends, by the way he lit into my only pair of britches.”
The little party moved slowly toward the Gagnon house, helping the half-crippled captain.
Pale moonlight glowed on the windows and against dark walls. When André saw the front door ajar, he cried happily, “They must have come home while I was asleep.”
“’Fraid not,” the sergeant corrected. “We went through the whole house—André. Want to know how I got your name?” Weller grinned. “Read Marie’s note about your supper on the kitchen table.”
Immediately inside the house, the sergeant said crisply, “This room okay, Captain? I guess it’s a sort of store during peacetime. I’ll get you a table and somethin’ to sit on, pronto.”
André had run to light candles and draw the blackout curtains. Then he dragged his mother’s best velvet chair from the parlor for Captain Dobie, and brought cushions to prop up his leg.
Captain Dobie spread maps on the table before him, but paused to study the boy.
André looked into his kind, thoughtful face and asked, “Do you think my father and sister will be all right, sir? It would be awful....”
The captain nodded. “Nobody’d let them start out from St. Sauveur tonight, son. They’ll be all right.”
But André’s worry was not so easily talked away. The thud of bombs and firing inland was too continuous.
He heard a whine and rushed into the kitchen to a wet, pawing welcome from Patchou. He tugged at the familiar warm fur and when Patchou had calmed down, brought him a bowl of milk. Then, with a warning to be quiet, he chained the dog to the fireplace grate.
At the front of the house he found that a strange, businesslike disorder was mounting.
Just inside the door, bazookas, mortars, and ammunition of all sorts were being pulled from “drop” bundles. Bulky, helmeted soldiers were coming in from everywhere, receiving quick orders from the captain, and clanking off in groups. Captain Dobie sent out a messenger for a walkie-talkie, to make contact with his commanding colonel.
At one moment, everyone around the captain paused warily as the roar of a low-flying plane shook the walls. Sergeant Weller and André darted out to the doorway and stared up at the U. S. markings. As the plane sped by, a shower of paper cascaded over the town.
“That’s one of our Flying Fortresses dropping leaflets, telling the Frenchies to scatter ’n stay off the roads.” Weller shrugged. “That means you, too, boy, y’know.”
For the next thirty minutes André sat and watched while dirty, hot men clumped in and out on errands that made no sense to him. Some had been wounded. Many, hurt in the jump, were being treated both by medics and some of the village people. Slim pushed his way into the room, looking leaner and sootier than ever—all his drowsiness gone.
André listened to his report. More troops were needed at once toward the causeways. Glider troops had landed, but the Germans were putting up a fierce fight. The Americans wanted all the reinforcements they could get rushed up fast.
Captain Dobie turned to Weller. “Okay, Sergeant, take all these men. It’s our job to wipe out those bridgeheads!” When Weller hesitated, he snapped, “What’re you waiting for?”
The sergeant blinked. “And leave you here alone, sir?”
“We’ve got to get those bridgeheads. Move!” Captain Dobie pounded the table. “Orders!”
Sergeant Weller turned on his heel, shouted commands to round up all the men, and left.
But just outside the door he jerked Slim aside. “You stay,” he ordered. “I’m not gonna leave the cap’n here alone with a broken leg. What would he do if some Nazis came along?”
“You’ll get me courtmartialed yet, Sarge,” Slim objected.
“If you don’t beat me to it. Stay out of sight.”
The sergeant barked a command, and guns and men moved away through the mud.
It was nearly full daylight now. When André turned back into the house he saw by the clock that it was quarter to six.
What would his family say if they knew he had not been to bed at all? He wondered sleepily whether to lie down quietly in a corner.
The captain was looking at his watch.
André had taken a step toward him when the house was shaken under a dreadful blast of sound.
The sound rose, and he realized it came from the sea. Under the thud of heavy shelling and bombing, objects on the walls and tables danced.
The captain looked up from his watch and smiled.
“They’re right on time,” he said.
Puzzled, André asked, “Who is, monsieur?”
“This is the real Invasion, son, coming in now. This is what General Eisenhower has been planning for two years. Hundreds of thousands of men, tens of thousands of tanks, bulldozers, and trucks are moving in—now, in over four thousand ships. The Navy’s shelling the coast. We just came in ahead by parachute to get ready for them.”
André found himself too excited to say anything.
The captain spoke again, above the din.
“You see why we have to clear the enemy out of those bridgeheads? To let the men landing on the beaches come through. As soon as the Navy finishes this shelling, British, Canadian, and American troops will be landing on sixty miles of beach from here to the River Orne!”