The cows had not lowed, and now he saw why. Balanced on stools beside the animals sat two lusty Americans. They were happily squirting streams into milk pails held correctly between their knees.
One of the soldiers looked up curiously.
At the sight of the horn under André’s arm he cried, “Well, if it isn’t Little Boy Blue, horn and all.”
The second milker called, “These cows yours? We thought nobody was home. Sure seems good to milk an ole bossy again.” He grinned. “I come from Iowa an’ I sure miss milkin’ time. Hope you don’t mind. We’re almost through here.”
The men paused to admire André’s trumpet, and tootle a few wild notes, before they helped him carry the pails to the springhouse. He filled a pitcher for Captain Dobie, and took it to the “staff room,” as the old store was now called. The room was again filled with strange soldiers, some of them in bloody bandages.
The colonel was anxious to get away to his division command post.
“You stay right here, Dobie,” he said, “and the sergeant and Slim as well. And hustle medics and replacement infantry forward, fast.”
Slim appeared and announced that he had Weller’s jeep ready to drive the colonel to his headquarters.
When Captain Dobie and André were alone, the captain smiled and sighed. “A fine mother I turned out to be,” he said. “When did you eat something last?”
André grinned shyly. “When did you eat last, sir?”