Silver laughed. “Well, a flute’s a wind instrument,” he said.

“There’s no need to whistle up a wind here.” I laughed, too. “It’s always windy. They don’t call it Windyedge for nothing.”

I bent over the basin to rinse my face. I’d only heard music, Louisa playing scales—but all Chip had heard was the letters she’d been rapping out. How differently you understand things when you start from a different place, I thought, the way my heart gave a jump of relief last night when I saw the Kingsleap Light flashing green as we walked back to the airfield. I was always so relieved to spot it in the air at the end of a hop, and it took me a second before I realized it didn’t matter because I was already on the ground, and it was lit for the fishing trawlers and not for me.

Something clicked in my head.

Whistling up a storm—a wind instrument.

REPEAT SPECIAL APPROACH STORM FRONT IV XII

FIRST GREEN LIGHT BEFORE HALF MOON

Green light.

They don’t call it Windyedge for nothing.

A different starting point.

The fragments came together, and their meaning clicked into place. There wasn’t any “storm front.” It was a translation error.

It wasn’t Jane Warner’s error—we checked, later. “Storm front” was how the German wireless operator understood “windy edge.”

They were going to attack Windyedge on 4 December—in the dark, while the green light was lit. They must already be most of the way here.

“Silver, back me up,” I hissed.

I tossed aside my razor, wiped my face on my vest, and yelled, “B-Flight! Pay attention!”

Everyone stared.

I didn’t have proof, and if I was wrong I’d probably be court-martialed. But I couldn’t risk losing a whole fleet of freshly mended Blenheims to a Luftwaffe bombing raid.

“Ablutions postponed,” I told them. “Drop everything and get out to the hangar. We need every single one of 648 Squadron’s planes in the air now.”

“What, in my pants?”

“I’m cleaning my teeth!”

“Before breakfast?”

Harry Morrow, who was younger than me, said, “Wake up, Scotty—you’re still dreaming!”

“Or thinks he’s still lord of the manor,” sneered Bill Yorke, who was ten years older, damn him.

“Or maybe I’m following orders,” I snarled, “as you’re meant to.”

Everyone else had protested or complained. But Bill Yorke was stirring up mutiny.

This time they didn’t just stare: they held their breath. I don’t think they were hoping for a fight, exactly; just wondering what would happen next.

Silver shrugged. “A drill’s a drill,” he told Harry, ignoring Bill Yorke. “Get used to it.”

“In my pants?” Dougie Kerr repeated incredulously, and everyone laughed.

The tension eased. Once again, Silver had given me the edge I needed.