Shot rattled on metal, and the tail of the Nazi car smashed through the gates. But, halfway through, the car teetered sharply into the stone post. Rocking, it toppled over and skidded to a stop.
A voice shouted toward the car, “Hold it. Get out and keep your hands up!” A Tommy gun chattered across the car’s spinning wheels.
Scrambling boots pounded into action. The German officers were jerked up and out through the door. André was startled to see a colonel’s insignia on one officer’s shoulders.
When the Nazis were all on their feet, the sergeant’s men surrounded them. Two soldiers relieved the officers of their side arms.
As the shock of their capture wore off, the Nazis began to protest curtly, and the sergeant retorted in their own language.
“Okay. You’re staff officers! We’ll get you to the proper authorities just as soon as we can.”
André had seen plenty of Germans, but few of such high rank.
Suddenly it dawned on him that it was Victor’s shots which had made the capture possible by wrecking the car. But where was Victor?
André ran around the farm buildings, but neither Victor nor La Fumée was in sight—anywhere.
Shells had blasted the carpentry shop, and rubbish lay over the scattered, twisted, and blackened tools.