Page 168

Armand held the gunman’s eyes. Only once did he shift, briefly, so briefly, to Agent Comeau.

As their eyes met, Gaston Comeau looked away.

“My God, sir, it’s suicide.”

Their landing craft was approaching the beach. It was D-Day. The Allied invasion. They could see that troops in other Canadian crafts were being mown down as soon as the huge metal door lowered.

Most never got off. Even fewer made it to the beach, where they were being picked off.

Colonel Gamache’s face was set, grim. “We have no choice.” He turned to the troops. “Stay with me. Godspeed. It’s been an honor.”

“And for us, sir,” called one of the privates.

“Good boy. We’ve got this. Right?”

“Yessir, Colonel!” they shouted in unison. Though none believed it, they believed in their leader.

Machine gun bullets sprayed the front of the landing craft. The noise was deafening, confusing the senses. There were screams from the wounded already on the beach.

Lieutenant Beauvoir, eyes wide with terror, shrank back, to hide behind one of the enlisted men. Sergeant Comeau, seeing this, stepped up to stand beside the Colonel.

“I’m with you, sir. We’ve got this.”

“Good man.” The Colonel threw Beauvoir a withering look, then turned forward. To face almost inevitable death. The two stood shoulder to shoulder, Armand Gamache and Gaston Comeau. Steadfast. The colonel emboldened by the other man’s courage.

The thick metal door began to lower. Bullets pinged off the craft. The man next to Comeau fell.

Gamache waved an arm. “Follow—”

“Excuse me.”

“Huh?”

“I need to use the washroom. Can you…?”

The passenger in the window seat was indicating he needed to move his knees so she could get by.

With a withering look, she stepped over Comeau and around the dozing Gamache.

“Follow me!”

By some miracle, they made it onto the beach and threw themselves into the sand, firing up at the machine gun placements. The so-called pillboxes. But they were impenetrable.

Seeing his men being picked off, Gamache got to his feet and started forward, only to drop.

“Sir!”

Comeau shimmied forward and pulled the Colonel behind a broken-down jeep. He was badly wounded, shot in the abdomen.

“The machine guns…,” Gamache gasped, clutching his bloody stomach. “They’re killing us.”

“I’ll do it, sir!”

“No, son.” He lifted a hand to Comeau’s face. “You’re too valuable. It’s certain death.”

Gaston grabbed his rifle. “Some things are worth dying for. Some people are worth dying for, sir.”

Taking a deep breath and straightening his helmet, he sprinted across the beach, bullets kicking up sand all around him. Making it to the dune, he scrambled up it and, pulling out a grenade, he tossed it into the pillbox. Then ran along the dune to another, shooting enemies as he went.