André sauntered over to where the colonel had joined Dobie and the others in the window.
“Captain,” André began. “Sir, about Victor—”
“I know,” smiled the captain. “You wonder why he doesn’t come back. I feel sure he’ll be all right. If that car full of Nazi officers got through the roads from Paris to here, then I’m sure your friend Victor can find his way around. The Nazi officers said they drove straight through Caen, Carentan, and right through our lines, if you please—British and American. They actually got as far as the Jacquard farm without being detected.”
The colonel spoke up. “As a matter of fact, I don’t think the German staff in Paris knew how much country our airborne troops were covering. How could they? We had jammed their coastal radio and radar stations all the way to Cherbourg. And the French Resistance and our men cut telephone land lines. So it was impossible for the commanding German general here on the peninsula to communicate with Paris.”
“Those Nazi prisoners,” said Dobie, “told us they came up from Paris to find out what was really happening here. Hitler believed that our invasion was coming at Calais.”
“He sure missed the boat,” Weller said cheerfully.
The last of the squadron of tanks had gone by, and the village people were returning to their homes. André went back to the farmyard. It was time for chores. He heard laughter coming from the barns, but by now he was used to soldier sounds.
First, he must see how badly the orchard and fields in the rear had been hit by the shelling. He went through the gate in the courtyard wall.
His jaw dropped. Many apple trees were down. Great smudged shell holes gaped between them. And the greatest hole yawned only a few feet away from the edge of the lane where his trumpet was buried.
He snatched up a shovel, and sighed in relief when the trumpet came up, green and smeared with damp earth, but unharmed. He nestled it comfortably under his arm and went to the barn door.