The Old Roundhead split up B-Flight for our journey to RAF Windyedge. It was hard to believe he wasn’t purposefully trying to get me in trouble. Adam Stedman took Madeira Section straight there, with Phyllis as a passenger. Meanwhile I had to lead Pimms to escort a patrol of British destroyers down the coast of Scotland on our way to our new post.

“Without bombs!” I cursed as we took off. “Loaded with tinned beef and spare parts, but no bombs. Just ridiculous. Heavy for an air battle, not properly armed for a scrape with the German navy.”

“Beautiful night, though,” said Silver.

“Yes.”

“Look around!”

The moon was waning but silvery bright, in a bottle-blue sky, shining on a tossing black sea. It was bumpy flying, a fresh wind blowing behind the storm.

“It always kind of gets me,” Silver said.

“Me too.” I took a breath, calming down. “Maybe there won’t be a battle.”

The turbulence made it hard work for Ignacy and Harry to stay on my wingtips.

“Can you not take us higher and find some smooth air?” Ignacy called over the radio. “Yorkie’s just been sick. I never had a sparks get sick before.”

Yorkie had been in the Royal Air Force for ten years—I couldn’t believe it. I resisted poking fun.

“Give him a mint imperial,” I said. “Any higher and we’ll attract attention.”

I didn’t want to meet any Messerschmitts before we’d even found our convoy.

Next it was Harry Morrow reporting that Dougie was feeling sick too.

“It’s his own fault,” Harry added. “He’s back there with his head down, picking up German code again.”

“Yorkie hears it too,” Ignacy reported.

“Oi, Tex!” Silver turned around to get Chip’s attention. “Can you hear it?”

“Yep,” Chip said. “It’s not German, though. Just strings of letters.”

“It’s in code, you twit,” said Silver.

“I’m copying it anyway,” Chip said. “I can read and fly and copy code and not get airsick. I should get a medal!”

“All we’ll get is another telling off,” I warned. “Be ready to transmit when we reach the convoy.”

Silver got down in the nose of the plane, peering through the Perspex panels at the sea. He was the best observer in the RAF; he could see in the dark, I swear. He spotted the patrol, ships inky black against a sea I thought couldn’t be any blacker. We kept our distance while Chip radioed and signaled to them with a few flashes in Morse. Sometimes our own lads below mistook us for the Luftwaffe and tried to kill us.

But these were glad to see us. I flew low, and there were dark silhouettes waving from the decks, tiny figures, working as hard and in as much danger as we were.

As I climbed skyward again, Silver started spluttering obscenities.