The fury of Omaha and the British beaches was very like that which he had seen at Utah.
Unconsciously, André shuddered. Far to the right, under a pall of smoke and the flickering of explosions, lay a city being pounded to rubble.
“That must be Caen,” André murmured. “My mother was born in Caen.” Then, after a moment, “The houses, the farms, the cows and the horses ... the people ...” he counted sadly.
Carson sat thoughtfully quiet. He swung the ship in a wide circle for the return.
“Don’t think about it, kid,” he said presently. “Just remember the big German guns that aren’t there any more.”
André replied slowly, “I don’t think we really knew the Liberation would be as bad as this. We will be glad when it is over.”
Suddenly the pilot jammed his control stick forward. The plane nosed into a violent dive. “Hang on! Fighters overhead. Up there!” he shouted.
André’s head had jerked back. In his range of vision, a formation of six Thunderbolts with white stars roared past.
“Wow!” Carson gasped, and pulled the ship level.
“They’re after a bridge,” he yelled.