André watched plane after plane go into a dive and the bombs leave the racks to arc downward.
In the successive rain of bombs a black, flame-flecked cloud shot skyward.
“They have hit it!” André cried jubilantly.
The Thunderbolts zoomed upward out of the haze, reformed, and disappeared toward England.
Some time later, Carson talked once more into the radio. “It’s okay. They say to come in now. The runway’s ready,” he announced.
He throttled back. “Well, now you know what the beaches are like,” he sighed. There was a smooth descent, Carson slid in over the steel mesh and brought the machine to a stop beside a group of officers.
He snapped open his own seat belt and André’s.
“Oh-oh!” Carson gasped. “I’d better try to explain you.”
André looked across at a glistening, brilliant red face that belonged to a bulky man in a sweat-stained uniform.
“It’s the general,” Carson whispered. He pushed the door open and saluted.