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.”