He explained to the pilot, more mildly, “This André and an old Frenchman helped catch a car full of Nazi officers once. But once is enough.”
The lieutenant stared at André. “Say,” he exclaimed, “are you the French kid I heard about? Trapped those German staff officers? I bet my general’d like to shake hands with you. He’s the one who questioned them.”
Slim put on his best corporal’s manner. “Best we get back to your business here, Lieutenant. How are you going to wangle your jalopy out of this corner, now you got her wedged in so good?”
The pilot shrugged. “Get me some gas, and I’ll fly out okay. Might have to wait till the fog lifts a little.”
Slim pondered a moment. “Listen, André. You think we could squeeze a little more gas out of that pump of your dad’s? Take us an hour or more to waylay a U. S. truck carryin’ gas.”
André smiled. “We’ve been telling everyone the pump was empty, but we have a little left in case of—you know—”
Carson gave a yelp. “I know—emergency, you mean. Well, boys, I’m the worst emergency you’ll ever meet.”
Slim ordered one of his men to guard the plane. At a frown from the guard, Raoul, who had been standing close by, stalked off.
At the house Slim went in to report to the captain and came back with word that Dobie had telephoned the general waiting at Utah Beach.
The general had sent a message to Carson: “What did that idiot mean by getting stuck in a blasted cow pasture? And tell him to get out of there in a blasted hurry, or I’ll have his blasted ...” and so forth.