“You see,” Victor said. “Here we are. Jacquard’s place is just ahead.”
André’s sharper eyes studied the high stone walls and the slate roofs above. “It has been bombed or shelled already,” he said.
Victor hunched forward, shocked into silence.
The farm’s roadside gates sagged open on broken hinges, and fowl wandered in and out.
The sound of a car racing up the main road to Cherbourg caught André’s ear. As he turned, he saw the car hesitate at the fork of their road, and then swing into it at gathering speed.
He thrust his hand under Victor’s arm, grabbed the reins, and yanked the Percheron into the shallow ditch at the side.
The car swept past so fast, André caught only a glimpse of the Nazi Swastika on the side.
Nearing the broken gate, the Nazi driver slowed uncertainly. But instantly he swung into a teetering turn, and shot into the barnyard in the midst of an uproar of cackling hens and geese.
There was a muffled crash.
André and Victor slid quickly from La Fumée’s back with thumping hearts.