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?”