Twice, while Carson circled, André saw him fiddling with the radio. Then he spoke into the hand microphone, and listened for a few moments.
“Got ’em at last,” he said. “They say we’ve got to hold off awhile longer. Some Luftwaffe guy got through last night and bombed the strip. They’re just finishing repairs. See them down there?”
André looked directly down. Tiny men laying strips of steel mesh moved in groups, like ants. Bulldozers swept along one side. And between the airstrip and the sea, supplies were piling up steadily into mountains.
Carson grinned. “I’ll bet that’s my general pacing up and down in front of that big tent.” A second later, he said, “As long as we can’t get down right away, how about we take a look at the English and Canadian beachheads?”
He swung alongshore and headed eastward.
Carson pointed out the little city of Carentan. There was a rattle of machine guns below, and the pilot threw the plane into a series of violent turns. Noises like angry wasps streaked past their ears.
André swayed dizzily.
“Oh-oh! What am I doing in here?” Carson yelled. “That’s the way I get holes in my ship.” He pointed out new tears in the fabric. As they zoomed away, he explained, “That was a Nazi machine-gun. There are still German troops and guns between Utah and Omaha Beaches and the British beachheads.”
The plane climbed steadily away, and André relaxed.