André filled a pitcher with milk and started for the kitchen door.
Ranged along the barnyard wall lounged half a hundred German prisoners surrounded by a semicircle of muddy guards bristling with carbines and Tommy guns.
André found a mug in the kitchen, and carried the milk in to Captain Dobie.
He noticed that the officer’s leg was badly swollen, but the captain seemed unaware of it.
The room was crammed with soldiers. Several neighbors, men and women, pressed through the crowd, begging to give help. Many wounded villagers lay sheltered under the trees, they said. But they and the small neighborhood children were being cared for and fed. The captain welcomed them and advised the elders to get deep cellars ready. They must keep the children close to them in case the fighting broke out in the village.
“The Germans are fighting hard everywhere, and we must silence each Nazi gun no matter where we find it,” he explained. “Until we get a solid foothold here, we cannot help liberate your country.”
André listened, and when he caught the captain’s eye, offered his jug of milk. With a grateful smile, Dobie drained the jug thirstily.
“Are things going all right, sir?” André asked.
The captain seemed reluctant to reply. But after a moment he said, “The landings are the hardest, son. The Nazis made the coast tough with their underwater obstructions, and the sea has been a lot rougher than we’d planned on. But it’s going along well. You ought to be seeing heavy equipment coming along the roads soon.”
Sergeant Weller clumped in with two soldiers and a battle-weary young Frenchman. “Look, kid,” Weller shouted to André. “D’you know who this character is? I can’t make head or tail what he’s sayin’. He says he’s speakin’ English, but, boy, it’s nothin’ I ever heard in Brooklyn.”