André had just decided to run to the Lescot farm, to inquire whether Victor had come home, when Weller called to him to come to breakfast. Afterwards, he went about his usual farm chores. Troops from the beach landings filtered through the village that day. Their officers paused briefly at the Gagnon house to exchange reports with Captain Dobie. “Well, at any rate, our tanks are beginning to come across the causeways now,” a newly arrived major told the captain. “That’ll help the airborne boys.” “It will be a great relief,” Captain Dobie said. “Our parachute fellows have been fighting hard without any rest.” The major nodded. “The only trouble is,” he said, “somebody overlooked the way these thick French hedgerows stop our tanks cold. We’ve got to find a way to cut through them.” André listened with amazement. He had never thought of those ancient borders to the tiny Normandy meadows as tank traps. He knew, of course, that cattle turned out to pasture seldom broke through the high, earth banks topped by the century-old tangles. It did seem disappointing to think that those great, wonderful American war machines could be stopped by shrubbery. “But why don’t the tanks keep to the roads, sir?” he asked. The major grinned. “If Normandy had ten times as many roads, son,” he replied, “we wouldn’t have enough for all the stuff the Allies have to move into France. Besides, our tanks have to go where we know the Germans are massing.” The major was right about over-busy highways. Trucks, loaded with armed men and supplies, had begun to grind by in a long, noisy procession. Some village people had come back from hiding. Children big and little ran along the roadside, catching windfalls of candy, gum, and cellophane-wrapped cookies tossed out by the soldiers. To André this was a very, very strange war--he could remember nothing like it in any history book. But when he went into the kitchen, he no longer felt that his father’s house was threatened from all sides. The crowd of German prisoners had been moved to a new compound, and the geese had once more taken possession of the pond. André counted the chickens. The flock looked a little sparse. A shout from Sergeant Weller sent André back to the road. Inside the front window Captain Dobie and Slim stood, waving cheerily. Weller, both arms upraised, was saluting the approach of a great elephant of a machine. It came lumbering up the sea road, its wide, corrugated treads clanking on the gravel. After the first, in stately dignity, thundered more of the metallic herd. “The TANKS! The tanks!” André’s heart thumped with excitement. “Some sight, eh, boy?” Weller shouted. With Weller, André ran out to reach up and shake hands with the tank men. The tank commanders and the gunners, André thought, were even wilder-looking creatures than the ’chutists.