Weller patted the mud-splattered windshield. “I ‘liberated’ her from a smashed glider, son.” He turned a thumb to the heaps of K-rations packed in the rear of the jeep. “Near time we ate,” he said. “But, right now, I’m in need of gas, kid. I bet you got some in that pump.” “A little,” André said. Slim and Weller clanked off to the house while André connected the hose to the jeep tank and began to pump. His eyelids were drooping. It takes a long time for this Invasion to get going, he thought. He had already grown used to the _thrump_ of big artillery, the bark of machine and rifle fire scattered across all of Normandy. He had heard Cimino say that the 82nd Airborne were getting on well around Ste. Mère, though the Germans were fighting bitterly. The Liberation was too big. André could think of it no more. And through his weariness he heard the cows again. Milking time was long past. In the barn the cows turned their sad eyes on him accusingly. He rested his forehead on their soft, warm bodies while he milked, and both he and the frightened beasts were soothed. He saw to it that they had fresh hay and water. The open pasture was no place for them today. Finally the job was done; the last of his strength was gone. He put the pails of milk to one side and sank into a pile of fresh straw. “I’ll take them to the springhouse in a minute,” he promised himself. And he wriggled flat in the fragrant hay and spread out his arms peacefully. All battle sounds were muffled by the thick old stone walls. The familiar rustle and stamping of cattle were like a familiar song.... He woke with a hand shaking his shoulder. Someone was saying, in French, “Wake up, André. Wake up! The _Invasion_ has started.” André opened his eyes and saw Victor Lescot bent over him. “Shame on you, André,” he scolded. “Milk getting sour. War going on all around, and you sleeping.” André sat up. “You’re supposed to be shut up in your house, Victor. What are you doing here?” he said crossly. “I can’t stay home now,” Victor bristled. “I’ve got to go get my new cart--before it is destroyed.” Now wide awake, André said with disgust, “You can’t go out into the fighting.” “But I _must_,” Victor interrupted shrilly. “My new cart will be blown to bits if I leave it at Jacquard’s. Then what?” André could not believe his ears. “Would you rather be blown to bits yourself?” he demanded. “But we do not need to thrust ourselves into danger,” Victor protested. “We’ll make our way to Jacquard’s village by the cowpaths, you and I. We know them well, eh?” “_WE?_” André echoed. “_Who’s_ going with you?” “But you, naturally, my little friend, I may need you to speak English.” “Where is the cart?” André asked. “At Jacquard’s workshop, on his farm. I have told you about it on numerous occasions.” André smiled. “Victor Lescot, Jacquard’s shop is right near the coast, where the fighting is. Who knows, there may be a battle going on in Jacquard’s own courtyard right now.”