He spoke more rapidly than usual. “This is the French boy, sir, who helped catch the Nazi brass from Paris.”
The general seemed to be caught between fury and curiosity.
“Is it!” he sputtered at last. “And what’s he doing in an army plane?”
“Well, sir—” Carson blinked. “I needed—”
“Oh, never mind,” boomed the general explosively. “He’s here now, and I want to shake hands with him. Come on, boy.”
André leaped down from the plane, and his hand disappeared in the general’s bear clutch.
“Glad to thank you personally—” roared the huge man gruffly.
He mopped his neck. “Want to tell you—what’s your name again? André Gunion? Can’t get these foreign names. Rotten at languages, but I can judge people. Where’s that old fellow—friend of yours—Vilmer, was it?—who shot the tires off the Nazis?”
André had tried to speak several times. Now, he said loudly, “Victor—Lescot.”
“Lescot? Lescot? That means green vegetable, doesn’t it?” barked the general. “No? Well, never mind. Congratulate him for me. Found out a lot from those Nazi colonels, we did. Tell you what. We expect the biggest generals we got, here on this bridgehead in a couple of days—Eisenhower, Marshall, Arnold. They’ll be glad to know how you French kids have helped.”