“That’s our road to the sea.” André pointed.
The mists broke away sharply over the Channel.
André gasped.
A staggering panorama had been unveiled. Pigmy files of marching troops, pigmy tanks and trucks crawled up the sea road in an endless procession. Oceanward, beyond the shore bluff and wreck-strewn beach, lay a sight which André could scarcely take in. Hundreds of ships extended as far as he could see across the gray waves. Over the ships, huge balloons lolled and bobbed and tugged at their anchors. Destroyers and landing craft darted between the shore and a line of hundreds of transports.
André could make out a fleet of planes heading toward Cherbourg to the north. And from that direction, the dull thud of bombs rolled back on the wet air.
“It is grand,” he managed to say breathlessly. “But—” he hesitated, and added slowly, “it is terrible for the French people. So many guns and bombs pointed at us.”
Carson glanced down at him. “They are pointed at the Germans,” he corrected André. “Don’t forget that we’re trying not to hurt France more than necessary.”
“Oui, I know,” André said. “But sir, I did not know there were so many ships and guns in the whole world.”
“Well,” said Carson, “take a good look while you’ve got the chance. I’ve got my bearings now.”
André studied the beach below. In the shallow water, wrecked landing craft swung uselessly, half-awash. On the sea’s edge lay tanks which had reached shore only to be shelled into wreckage. Savage battles had turned the sands into a disorder of blasted, blackened gun pits and machine-gun nests.