André hesitated and shook his head. “No—my bicycle—I could not get the chain fixed.”
His sister snorted at him. “You are getting soft. It won’t hurt you to walk. The eggs are on the kitchen table.”
André thought, “Sisters!” But a look at his father’s face sent him back for the eggs.
As he turned down the road toward Ste. Mère Église his father went back to the gas pump. André had not gone far when Patchou, his dog, caught up with him. The puppy gave him a playful nudge as if to say, “I’m sorry to be late, but I had to give that car a good, long sniff.”
After walking less than a mile, André turned off and came to a group of camouflaged barracks. Inside the high wire fence, narrow buildings stood in long rows. A German sentry, his rifle held loosely, guarded the gate. He grinned at the boy and waved him inside.
As André entered, a Frenchman pedaling by on an ancient bicycle shouted to him, but a burst of Patchou’s barking drowned out the greeting.
André went around a large group of military vehicles and mobile guns parked under a protecting netted screen. Then he followed a winding path up to one of the barracks.
Patchou, prancing ahead of him, leaped playfully at a middle-aged German soldier seated on a bench outside, puffing on his pipe.
Gently pushing off the excited dog, the German saw André and called, “Aha! It’s young Herr Gagnon.” He tapped the ashes from his pipe and then added, “You have brought Papa Schmidt some more eggs, no?”
André held out the package. The German placed it on the bench and carefully unknotted the big handkerchief the boy had brought.