“But where did you get the jeep?” André asked.
Weller patted the mud-splattered windshield. “I ‘liberated’ her from a smashed glider, son.” He turned a thumb to the heaps of K-rations packed in the rear of the jeep. “Near time we ate,” he said. “But, right now, I’m in need of gas, kid. I bet you got some in that pump.”
“A little,” André said.
Slim and Weller clanked off to the house while André connected the hose to the jeep tank and began to pump. His eyelids were drooping.
It takes a long time for this Invasion to get going, he thought. He had already grown used to the thrump of big artillery, the bark of machine and rifle fire scattered across all of Normandy. He had heard Cimino say that the 82nd Airborne were getting on well around Ste. Mère, though the Germans were fighting bitterly. The Liberation was too big. André could think of it no more.
And through his weariness he heard the cows again. Milking time was long past. In the barn the cows turned their sad eyes on him accusingly. He rested his forehead on their soft, warm bodies while he milked, and both he and the frightened beasts were soothed. He saw to it that they had fresh hay and water. The open pasture was no place for them today.
Finally the job was done; the last of his strength was gone. He put the pails of milk to one side and sank into a pile of fresh straw.
“I’ll take them to the springhouse in a minute,” he promised himself. And he wriggled flat in the fragrant hay and spread out his arms peacefully.
All battle sounds were muffled by the thick old stone walls. The familiar rustle and stamping of cattle were like a familiar song....
He woke with a hand shaking his shoulder.