“I’m afraid they will,” agreed the captain. “When we take the port, our U.S. Army engineers will have to repair the docks quickly. We intend to bring in our main supplies for the liberation of the rest of France through Cherbourg when it is free.” “Capitaine Dobay,” M. Blanc said, “I suppose no one knows how long the Germans will hold out.” “I’m afraid not,” replied Captain Dobie. There was a second shaking of hands, and Victor and M. Blanc left. André’s mind turned anxiously to the tale of heavy fighting which was moving toward St. Sauveur le Vicomte and his family there. He felt more cut off from them than ever, now that he knew they were surrounded by such desperate enemies. “Has anybody found that German pilot yet?” he asked Captain Dobie. “No sign of him,” the captain replied. “Now, after breakfast, I have a job for Slim. And I think you and your dog could go along.” Half an hour later, André was telling a delighted Patchou, “They think it’s safe now, for you to come out with me. But there’s still a war on, so behave yourself.” The cows, he found, had again been milked by the American farmer-soldiers, and again most of the milk had vanished. The other barn chores had also been neatly done. He heard soft sounds in the loft over the cow barn, and crept up the stairs to investigate. A dozen or more soldiers from the night patrol were sleeping heavily in the sweet hay. Full of good Gagnon milk, André thought with pleasure. He tiptoed down the stairs and, freeing Patchou from his fastening, answered Slim’s impatient halloo. “Gotta find a commissary dump somewhere down the road,” Slim explained. “Weller says it cain’t be far. Them 90th Division cooks told him about it.” After his long imprisonment, Patchou was blissfully happy. He ran rings around Slim and André. He found excitement in every newly blasted hole in the mossy walls, and inviting scents everywhere. Slim marched rapidly along for nearly half a mile, with André keeping up at a trot. Then Slim said, “Best we begin to ask questions now. Who, ’round here, knows everything?” André pointed to a house ahead. “That’s M. Valjean’s home there. He’s the cobbler. He will know.” M. Valjean listened eagerly to André’s query. Did he know where there was an American food dump headquarters nearby? “Ah-h, _oui, oui, certainement_,” the cobbler responded enthusiastically, and gave detailed directions in a flood of rapid French. André said, “I know where it is.” He added, “_Merci_,” to M. Valjean. “You sure?” Slim frowned. “Sounded as if it must be on the Russian border, what-all I could make of it.” “I am sure, Slim,” André replied. “It is my own schoolhouse.” Slim’s rapidly swinging long legs kept André at an almost breathless canter. Because their minds were silently busy, they did not hear the word, “_Kamerad_,” when it was first spoken. But Slim’s reaction to something out of key stopped him short, .45 in hand.