“Oh-oh! What am I doing in here?” Carson yelled. “That’s the way I get holes in my ship.” He pointed out new tears in the fabric. As they zoomed away, he explained, “That was a Nazi machine-gun. There are still German troops and guns between Utah and Omaha Beaches and the British beachheads.” The plane climbed steadily away, and André relaxed. The fury of Omaha and the British beaches was very like that which he had seen at Utah. Unconsciously, André shuddered. Far to the right, under a pall of smoke and the flickering of explosions, lay a city being pounded to rubble. “That must be Caen,” André murmured. “My mother was born in Caen.” Then, after a moment, “The houses, the farms, the cows and the horses ... the people ...” he counted sadly. Carson sat thoughtfully quiet. He swung the ship in a wide circle for the return. “Don’t think about it, kid,” he said presently. “Just remember the big German guns that aren’t there any more.” André replied slowly, “I don’t think we really knew the Liberation would be as bad as this. We will be glad when it is over.” Suddenly the pilot jammed his control stick forward. The plane nosed into a violent dive. “Hang on! Fighters overhead. Up there!” he shouted. André’s head had jerked back. In his range of vision, a formation of six Thunderbolts with white stars roared past. “Wow!” Carson gasped, and pulled the ship level. “They’re after a bridge,” he yelled. André watched plane after plane go into a dive and the bombs leave the racks to arc downward. In the successive rain of bombs a black, flame-flecked cloud shot skyward. “They have hit it!” André cried jubilantly. The Thunderbolts zoomed upward out of the haze, reformed, and disappeared toward England. Some time later, Carson talked once more into the radio. “It’s okay. They say to come in now. The runway’s ready,” he announced. He throttled back. “Well, now you know what the beaches are like,” he sighed. There was a smooth descent, Carson slid in over the steel mesh and brought the machine to a stop beside a group of officers. He snapped open his own seat belt and André’s. “Oh-oh!” Carson gasped. “I’d better try to explain _you_.” André looked across at a glistening, brilliant red face that belonged to a bulky man in a sweat-stained uniform. “It’s the general,” Carson whispered. He pushed the door open and saluted. 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.