ANDRÉ was so surprised that he stammered, in English, “D—don’t fire!”
The flyer’s hand dropped. “Parlez-vous English?” he faltered, frowning.
André’s suspicions leaped up. Dirty brown coveralls, the strange cap, the German-looking, tow-colored hair. And the plane. André had never seen one like it, and the star insigne could be a Nazi fake.
André stood his ground, some distance away. When the pilot flung open the side door and jumped out, André stepped back.
In a swift glance over his shoulder, André saw Raoul reach the bottom of the ladder. He shouted, “Run get Slim, Raoul. And tell the captain.”
“For the love of Mike, kid, what gives with you? You think I’m a German?” the pilot demanded.
“You could be,” André retorted.
“Holy mackerel!” the pilot laughed. “That’s what I thought you were, at first. I didn’t even see you were a kid when I pulled the gun. Forget it.”
“Well,” André admitted after a moment, “you do talk like an American.”
“How come?”