“Well, son,” she said, “did you eat a good supper?”
André nodded.
A little wind from the sea had sprung up, and somewhere a loose board rattled. Also, there was a noise in the attic. “Must be a rat,” André said to himself, and decided to take Patchou up there tomorrow. “He’ll have some fun catching that little thief,” he thought.
His mother was roused again by the drone of plane engines coming in high overhead. Their lofty beating made the air tremble. Antiaircraft guns in near-by Ste. Mère Église began to boom. Their hollow wumpf, wumpf, added to the din of the sirens.
In a slight lull, Mme. Gagnon asked, “Is your father home? I do not like him to be away when there is an air raid.”
André shook his head and raised his voice above the racket. “He’s out with Victor. Marie says Raoul Cotein is trying to stir up trouble again.”
He wanted his mother to think of something other than the air raid, so he laughed and added, “Marie says Raoul is a weasel.”
Raoul Cotein’s mischief-making was a village joke.
Mme. Gagnon sighed. “I wish your father would come home,” she said. “The bombing might be bad.”
“Don’t worry,” André said wisely. “These are English planes. The Americans only come in the daytime. You know, Maman, there aren’t any big guns and bridges and war factories close to us here.”