“Dive bombers,” André cried. “They must be finishing off those big German guns on the sea bluff.”
Then, added to the shock and noise of the bombing, rose all around them a fury of gobbling protest. Turkeys which had been roosting in the trees screamed and fluttered insanely. In the grass, a family of small white pigs ran helter-skelter toward the hedges.
La Fumée stood stiff, with rolling eyes.
At length the last wave of bombers passed. The air over the orchard reeked, and smoke seeped inland from the marshes.
The turkeys continued to scold, their voices dropping to an angry gurgle.
“There, that is over,” Victor said firmly. “Jacquard’s is so close, we may as well go on.”
La Fumée moved woodenly, and André smoothed her thick, firm flank with a gentle hand.
If they were to go on, they must cross the wide, pitted Paris-Cherbourg road. And into this angled a smaller one. This led to Jacquard’s, and continued seaward to the hamlet of l’Audouville.
The road stretching north and south was completely deserted just then except for a litter of wrecked Nazi trucks pushed to the sides.
La Fumée put on a jiggling burst of speed to cross the main road. The smaller road also seemed empty.