The sky was dark blue and gray with clouds, but it was light enough that the sun must have been up somewhere, somewhere not so gloomy as northern Scotland in November. The German plane lifted off the runway into the east wind.

Felix Baer was black wings against the gray sky, and then he was a black dot over the North Sea, and then he was gone.

Jamie:

Overnight, Shetland came under a bombardment of howling wind and pouring rain, battering down from the northeast, and nobody could take off. A-Flight was in bed, exhausted after slogging through the storm, but B-Flight sat in the officers’ lounge consuming shortbread and watery tea when Cromwell came in and barked, “Pack up, you lot: 648 Squadron’s posted to the mainland. A-Flight’s joining the Spitfires at RAF Deeside, and B-Flight’s going to fly from RAF Windyedge for the rest of the winter. The Spits have their own commanding officer, so I’ll be at Windyedge with B-Flight, but as there’s only ten miles between bases I’ll keep tabs on all of 648 Squadron.”

This was the best news I’d had in a long time. Cromwell was going to have to commute, and I’d be back at RAF Windyedge, where my friend Ellen McEwen was the ATS driver. And it was less than an hour on the train to get home if I ever had a day’s leave.

“What’ll we be doing there?” asked Pilot Officer Adam Stedman hopefully. He was the new leader of Madeira Section, the other half of B-Flight—the fellow Cromwell had threatened to replace me with. “Hunting U-boats?”

Up in Shetland, our assignment was to bomb German shipping. The antiaircraft guns on their destroyers were our worst enemy. We longed to have a go at their submarines, which would be less able to fire back at us, but we never knew where to find them.

“You’ll be on warship escort and reconnaissance. And protecting coastal fishing and supply fleets. RAF Windyedge needs a squadron stationed there until a spot of bother with Intelligence blows over. Get ready to leave.”

Cromwell stormed out again, slamming the door behind him, to go wake up A-Flight and rattle them with his urgent news to start packing. But none of B-Flight jumped up to get moving.

“Bloody North Sea mist,” somebody muttered. “We’re not flying anywhere in weather like this, are we?”

Silver nudged me with his elbow. He lit a cigarette and murmured, “Sounds like they’re sending us somewhere a bit less hot. I think the lads need rallying.”

I wondered if the move was punishment for Dougie and his crew not keeping their mouths shut, or for Ignacy’s overconfidence, or for my struggle to get B-Flight’s new aircrews to work together.

Then I remembered the radio operator with his urgent message from Windyedge.