I don’t know how long we’d been flying, but after a bit I wasn’t getting moments of moonlight anymore, and I could only see a star if I looked straight up. Then there were no stars, either. Clouds rose all around, blue and black and mysterious, more shadow than light.

Then there wasn’t any light. It was all the close darkness of fog.

“All B-Flight aircraft, this is Pimms Leader,” Jamie called. “Better turn back, lads. I don’t like this cloud.”

I heard protests from the other airmen. Ignacy’s Polish accent stood out. “A good cloud is the Blenheim bomber’s best friend!”

“You’re not hedgehopping over the Netherlands anymore, and it isn’t summer. Remember A-Flight in the fog in Shetland? We’ve got too many sprogs flying tonight—no offense, Stedman, but most of your lads are just as fresh as mine. North Sea ice and fog are no conditions for new pilots.”

“Righto, Pimms Leader,” called Adam Stedman, Madeira’s leader, in agreement. “But I’m not a sprog. I’m on instruments.”

“So am I. You and I can complete the op ourselves,” said Jamie. “The rest of you head back now. Get beneath the cloud if you can; watch out for engine and airframe ice. And spread out. Don’t try to stay together. I don’t want any collisions.”

I couldn’t see any horizon—it was all murk.

Jamie had said to let him know if anything bothered me, and something did.

“If you can fly on instruments, can’t the Luftwaffe also?” I asked.

“Someone in a crate like ours could, yes,” he answered lightly. “A bomber could. But they’re unlikely to send any Messers out into this soup. Fighters have to see you to shoot at you. Don’t worry.”

I tried not to worry. It was smooth flying. But if a mountain or another plane suddenly loomed in front of us, we’d never see it.

Jamie:

“Just checking we’re on parallel headings,” Adam Stedman came in over the static. “And that you’re above me. I can’t see you.”

“Affirm to both. And I can’t see you either.”

“Give that de-icer another pump, would you?” Silver said. “Those engines sound rough.”

“Aye. Wish we could get out of this muck.”

“Shall we try a different heading?”

“I don’t want to run into Stedman,” I said. “I’ll go higher and see if we can clear the cloud. We’ll give it fifteen minutes and reassess. I can’t believe any Jerry pilot’s out here in this frozen cotton wool trying to bomb a fishing boat. They can’t see what’s down there any more than we can.”

Ugh, Louisa could hear everything we said. She wasn’t a worrier, but I was pretty sure she was worried.

“You all right back there, rear gunner?” I said over the intercom.

“A bit cold,” she admitted.