I couldn’t let A-Flight take the op to Stavanger. That part of Norway is all peninsulas and islands and inlets, and Stavanger to Utsira is less than forty miles in a straight line, about ten minutes in a Blenheim flying at cruise speed.

“Permission to speak, sir?”

Cromwell sighed again.

“What is it this time, Beaufort-Stuart?”

“They’ll expect a raid, after so many attacks here, won’t they? Stavanger’s a huge operation,” I pointed out. “They’ll be ready. But Lista will be a piece of cake—it’s still under construction. And who has more combat experience, A-Flight or B-Flight?”

I knew that just by our U-boat score, B-Flight would win that contest hands down. For all our scrapping on the ground, we flew together confidently now.

“Let me guess what you’re trying to say, Beaufort-Stuart,” Cromwell rumbled. “You’re suggesting that B-Flight make the Stavanger run, while A-Flight takes on Lista?”

Then my lads astounded me.

They backed me up.

“I’m in,” said Adam Stedman. “Madeira Section is ready for a fight. Stavanger will be a tougher op than Lista, but Beaufort-Stuart’s always one step ahead of the Jerries.”

“Yes, he has a nose for them,” Derfel Cledwyn said.

“Scotty is careful, too,” put in Ignacy Mazur. “Though we do not always agree!”

“He’s usually right, though,” said Chip.

Bill Yorke snorted. But he said, “I’m in.”

“I didn’t think I’d last a week when I joined 648 Squadron,” said Harry Morrow. “At least now I know what we’re up against. Scotty’s a jolly good flight leader. I’m in.”

Up and down the operations room, Pimms and Madeira claimed the Stavanger assignment for B-Flight.

I was a bit stunned.

Silver nudged me in the ribs. “You’re a jolly good flight leader.”

“Stow it, mate,” I muttered. “Behind every good flight leader…”

He held up his hands: still in one piece.

We knew that every single op might end in nothing but death. But this time I felt sure no one was going into it blindly. We were doing it together.

“No heroics with Messerschmitts,” I reminded them.

“Keep us well south of Utsira,” I told Silver.

We flew north along the Scottish coast, past Aberdeen and RAF Deeside, on past Peterhead and Fraserburgh. Out to port, looking over my gauntleted left hand on the control yoke, I could see moorland blanketed with snow, gleaming like icing sugar beneath the rising moon. Scotland lay quiet and still and dangerously cold. I wished Louisa could see it, and then I was glad she couldn’t, was glad she wasn’t there.

Off Fraserburgh we headed northeast out to sea. We flew at fifteen thousand feet to make the most of our speed, then came down to low level to avoid being tracked. Somewhere in the sky, A-Flight’s leader, Rob Lucknow, called over the radio on his way to Lista. “Hullo, Flight Lieutenant Beaufort-Stuart!”