He ran across the road and struggling through a hedge, scrambled quickly up the tallest of a clump of trees.
And now he saw that the planes were coming in from the west, lower than he had ever seen them fly. They were twin-motored, scooping below the clouds to right and left, filling the sky.
They were bombing Normandy! Ste. Mère! Perhaps a bomb would drop on him—NOW!
The din of the German guns was incessant, and the roar of the plane engines was deafening. He must descend and find a ditch. His arms ached, but he could not let go. He had climbed as high as there were limbs to support him, and now he clung to the solid trunk.
He noticed one particular plane coming directly toward him. It was etched sharply against a luminous patch of cloud, and he could clearly see the three white stripes that banded each wing.
As he watched, he saw the open door at the rear of the fuselage, and instantly something dark dropped from it. Then another dark blob and another.
Expecting the whistle of bombs, he shut his eyes, pressed his face into the rough bark, and prayed....
After a few seconds he opened his eyes.
Other than the guns and the throttled beat of the engines, there had been no sound. No bombs were exploding.
André threw his head back and glanced quickly skyward. In the moonlight, speckled in every direction across the sky, hung hundreds of mushroom shapes that were floating gently earthward as silently as apple petals.