For many months, the French people had been expecting British and American armies to come in a great invasion that would drive the Nazis out. But their hopes had always failed. No troops had come to liberate them, and the Normans felt glum and often angry. More than anything else they wanted to be free. The only thing they could do was to cause all possible trouble for the Nazis secretly. Those who banded together in “Underground” or Resistance groups were called Maquis. If a Maquis was caught by the Germans he was very likely to be shot. Nevertheless, many French ran the risk of being detected helping the British and Americans. Even very young men and girls operated in the secret Underground. The Nazis tried to watch everyone, but sometimes the most innocent-looking car on the road was being used to trick them, even in the quietest village. It was happening now. Marie Gagnon nodded to her father. “Bring him in,” she whispered. “I’ll get the room in the attic ready.” “One moment,” her father said. “I’ll send André out of the way first. What he doesn’t know he won’t chatter about.” He shouted through the door, “André. Come here.” There was a clatter of heavy shoes and the boy reappeared. “Son,” his father said sternly, “have you taken the eggs to old Schmidt yet?” André hesitated and shook his head. “No--my bicycle--I could not get the chain fixed.” His sister snorted at him. “You are getting soft. It won’t hurt you to walk. The eggs are on the kitchen table.” André thought, “Sisters!” But a look at his father’s face sent him back for the eggs. As he turned down the road toward Ste. Mère Église his father went back to the gas pump. André had not gone far when Patchou, his dog, caught up with him. The puppy gave him a playful nudge as if to say, “I’m sorry to be late, but I had to give that car a good, long sniff.” After walking less than a mile, André turned off and came to a group of camouflaged barracks. Inside the high wire fence, narrow buildings stood in long rows. A German sentry, his rifle held loosely, guarded the gate. He grinned at the boy and waved him inside. As André entered, a Frenchman pedaling by on an ancient bicycle shouted to him, but a burst of Patchou’s barking drowned out the greeting. André went around a large group of military vehicles and mobile guns parked under a protecting netted screen. Then he followed a winding path up to one of the barracks. Patchou, prancing ahead of him, leaped playfully at a middle-aged German soldier seated on a bench outside, puffing on his pipe. Gently pushing off the excited dog, the German saw André and called, “Aha! It’s young Herr Gagnon.” He tapped the ashes from his pipe and then added, “You have brought Papa Schmidt some more eggs, no?” André held out the package. The German placed it on the bench and carefully unknotted the big handkerchief the boy had brought.