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.