André laughed uncertainly. “Germans don’t say ‘How come,’ for one thing,” he stated. “But what are you doing here? It looks as though you were lost.”
“Lost is right—and out of fuel, too,” the pilot replied with angry disgust. “Now I’ve got to find more gas and get over to Utah Beach in a hurry. Where am I, anyway?”
“You are about four miles from the nearest invasion beach,” André said. “But I’m not sure of the different names you Americans have given them. Someone will be here soon. Captain Dobie can’t come himself, he has a broken leg.”
“Is this Dobie’s command?” the flyer exclaimed. “Well, I’m in a hurry. Cripes! I can’t keep the general waiting. He’ll give me hoop-la for navigating myself into this mess—fog or no fog. Here’s somebody now.”
It was Slim, at a gallop, followed by two armed guards. They fell in on each side of the pilot.
Slim took a quick look at the flyer and the plane, and asked, “What outfit you with?”
“Army Liaison Squadron, Lieutenant Bill Carson,” replied the pilot. “You with the 82nd Airborne?”
Slim nodded and asked sharply, “Now, what’s up here? Don’t you guys use landin’ strips any more?”
“Don’t pile it on, buddy,” Carson said. “I’m in bad enough already. I got myself lost good, in this weather. And this kid here thought I was a German—”
Slim turned sternly to André. “You can overdo this takin’ prisoners without consultin’ us, you know, son,” he muttered coldly.