Ollie’s heart pounded against his rib cage. His first instincts were to run into the trees, the logical place to hide. But something deep down inside him caused him stop, if only for a second. Where will they search first? Second? He scanned a ravaged wheat field, which made him think the farmer was in hiding or had fled from the German invasion. Many of the stalks appeared to be randomly ripped out, likely from hungry French citizens scavenging for food, leaving behind piles of rotting stalks. Before he could change his mind, he pulled Boar with him.

Ollie led Boar into the field. He gathered clumps of straw. It was getting dark, but not soon enough. They’d likely see them if they were close, but he had few choices. He grabbed more stalks.

“Why are we stopping?” Boar gripped his pistol.

Ollie quickly scraped at a groove in the earth with his hand. “Lie down in this plow run.”

“You’re mad, Yank.” He pointed his pistol toward the hill. “You’ll get us killed.”

Ollie gathered more straw. “They won’t look for us here.”

“We haven’t bloody left.” He wiped his eyes.

“You can’t see, and I can’t outrun them.” Ollie threw a pile of straw at Boar’s feet. “You’ll have to trust me.”

Boar hesitated, then slipped his pistol into its holster and blindly scraped together straw.

They fell into a plow run no deeper than several inches and covered themselves as best they could. As Ollie shoveled a pile of straw onto his chest, he noticed the broken plane and stopped. Duchess. In his panic to leave the Blenheim, he had completely forgotten about Susan’s pigeon.

The silence was broken by the sound of an approaching engine.

He peeked through the straw to the hill. No movement. His mouth went dry. He thought of Susan, her pigeon somewhere in the Blenheim. Damn it.

Vehicle brakes screeched. Guttural voices. The metallic clack of cartridges stuffed into weapons. Through cracks in the straw, he noticed movement, what first appeared to be gray turtles cresting the hill. First, one turtle. Then another turtle. And another. Within seconds, a platoon of German soldiers, wearing shell-like helmets, stood on the hill.

“Dort Druben!” A soldier pointed to the plane. The platoon raised their weapons.

Ollie squeezed his shoulder and counted. One, two, three, four, five.

Another German soldier crested the hill carrying a machine gun.

Six. Damn it. Ollie watched the soldiers spread out into two flanks. He heard the click of Boar removing the safety on his pistol. “Wait,” Ollie whispered.

The soldiers, their weapons raised, cautiously crept toward the plane. Eyes peered through rifle sights.

The crunch of German boots grew closer. The path of the platoon would place them in the middle of both flanks. Ollie suddenly regretted his decision to hide. Every fiber in his body ached to run.