When Hugo and Tony returned to their Lincolnshire air base, Hugo was just as untalkative and unforthcoming as he had been on their journey to Yorkshire. The difference was that this time the silences between them weren’t strained or awkward. There was friendship between them now, albeit one that was more tentative on Hugo’s side than Tony’s. He knew, though, that the next time he went home he wouldn’t be doing so alone and that Tony would be with him. It was a good feeling, one he hadn’t had for a long, long time.

Later that afternoon, when the curtain drew back in the briefing room, his mood turned around in an instant.

‘Tonight’s target is Berlin,’ his wing commander said. ‘And it is to be a major raid. The biggest over Berlin so far.’ He gave the details: 18 Mosquitos to act as Pathfinders for a total of 793 aircraft—577 Lancasters and 216 Halifaxes. ‘You’re going to need your wits about you, gentlemen, so pay close attention to everything I am about to say.’

Hugo did so out of sheer habit, his face impassive. He wasn’t feeling impassive inside, though. Inside he was feeling sick to his guts.

When the briefing was over he didn’t join Tony and the other crews in the Mess. Instead, he walked out to the hangars, watching as an army of mechanics swarmed over the Mosquitos.

Berlin. Would his father, Ilse and Lotti still be in the city or would they have left it months ago, when the murderous raids over Berlin first started? And Claus? Would Claus be in the city or would he be in the Ruhr? He had no way of telling, but if they were still in the city and if they died in the raid, he knew their deaths would be on his conscience for the rest of his life.

He ground out his cigarette under his heel. He’d been flying sorties for longer than any pilot on the station. He’d seen crews blown apart and others die in flames. Throughout everything his nerves had remained rock hard. They didn’t feel rock hard now. The fear that was natural before a raid—the fear that his innate courage always overcame—was fear that now had a different dimension.

It was a fear he successfully hid from Tony.

‘Berlin,’ Tony said two hours later as they pulled on their helmets and settled themselves at the Mossie’s controls. ‘You OK with that, H?’

Hugo nodded. ‘Yep,’ he lied. ‘No problem.’

Tony, who was well aware that for Hugo their target was a problem of mega proportions, began checking Oboe, his radio navigation aid. If Hugo didn’t want to open up to him about his personal situation where Berlin was concerned, that was fine by him. It was probably best that he didn’t do so. Emotion of any kind wasn’t what was needed now. What was needed now was one hundred per cent concentration on the task in hand combined with ice-cool nerves—and ice-cool nerves were something he knew Hugo had in abundance.