“Maybe it’s hotter than Cromwell’s letting on,” I said. “Maybe the spot of bother with Intelligence and that Jerry we ran into were part of the same op. Maybe they’re sending us as a guard force.”

“You sound very clued up.”

I stubbed out my own cigarette. “Something’s going on,” I said. “We’re supposed to play along without knowing what.” I nodded toward Dougie Kerr, leaning his wiry ginger head forward to catch what I was muttering. “Careless talk costs lives,” I said. “Or perhaps Dougie’s going a bit deaf from all that rear gunnery and we should invest in an ear trumpet for him.”

Silver laughed. “I think a megaphone for you would be a better investment.” He drew on his cigarette. “Now’s your chance. Take the podium.”

He was right, as usual. I stood up, grabbed a spoon, and clinked my teacup for attention.

“All right, lads!”

They looked at me like expectant puppies. They were like puppies—untrained, disobedient, but anxious for praise and action, and maybe, if I worked at it, I’d win their loyalty. I’d had it before, to the death. Starting over was hard on us all.

“I’ll bet every one of you began the war thinking you’d be a fighter pilot in a Spitfire or a Hurricane,” I said.

Every one of them nodded, grumbling in agreement. “Too bloody right!” said the new Australian pilot, Harry Morrow.

“Well, we’re not flying the most glamorous kites, but we’re just as important and just as dead when our luck runs out. I’m not going to quote poetry, but if you like, Flying Officer Silvermont, my navigator here, can recite John Donne’s ‘No man is an island’—”

Laughter and hoots of “No thank you very much!”

“What about action?” asked Dougie Kerr, the big-mouthed gingery Australian air gunner. “I want another go, and I won’t blow our own tail off this time.”

His pilot, tall Harry Morrow, and their navigator, baby-faced Gavin Hamilton, shared a laugh.

I glanced over at Ignacy, Pimms Section’s bloodthirsty Polish pilot.

“We all want another go,” I said. “Only next time we’ll coordinate the action, all right? No heroics with Messerschmitts. There’s only one Blenheim pilot who’s an official ace, Reginald Peacock over in 235 Squadron, and he’s dead now. You can’t dogfight in a Blenheim; it’s not built for single combat. If we want to count as aces, we have to do it as a team. German battleships and U-boats count for us as much as fighter planes. Let’s aim to get five while we’re at Windyedge, and we’ll all be aces.”

“All right, I will drink to that,” said Ignacy.

“I’m in,” said Adam Stedman from Madeira Section.