The next sound Ollie expected to hear was Boar firing his pistol into his chest. Instead, it was the hum of approaching vehicles. Without speaking, they crept away, Ollie limping and carrying Duchess, Flight Lieutenant Boar blindly pointing his pistol.

Ollie led them out of the field and over the hill. Avoiding the road, they followed a stream that flowed away from the fields. The ripple of water over stones masked the sound of their sloshing boots. As they waded calf-deep through cold water, Ollie’s ankle went numb, making it easier to walk. He lowered the zipper on his jacket to use as a sling, tucked in his useless arm, and quickened the pace.

They continued their aqueous march well into the night, using the glow of a rising moon to guide their way. No speaking. No stopping. Following the stream, they wandered deep into the French countryside.

It was the drone of Luftwaffe flying overhead that eventually caused them to pause. The Nazis were no doubt on their way to bomb London. Again. The engines sounded louder. More aggressive, like the roar of iron lions. Perhaps it was the lack of antiaircraft fire that made the Luftwaffe seem mighty, or perhaps it was the solitude of the French countryside under German occupation. Either way, Ollie sensed that there might be no stopping Hitler.

He looked down at the cage in his hand. Duchess’s fluorescent green feathers shimmered in the moonlight. The pigeon cocked her head skyward and blinked. Ollie pressed the cage to his side and sloshed forward.

For two more hours, they followed the stream, over eroded rocks and muddy holes, until they reached a shallow pond. Ollie’s feet were cold and numb; his shoulder ached. They waded to the bank and worked their way up a hill, their boots filled with silt and muck, then made their way through a patch of thorns. Emerging from the thistle, their hands scraped and bleeding, they arrived at a farmhouse. In the distance, a silhouette of a village, a church steeple pointed to the stars.

The lieutenant pressed the bandage on his lacerated eye, then strained to look through his swollen one. “What do you see?”

“A farm. A town a few miles away.” Ollie glanced around. “There’s a barn where we can hide.”

Boar nodded.

They crawled under a gap between the barn siding and the ground, rather than risk opening a squeaky door and alerting the owner. Inside, Boar rummaged through his jacket pocket, then struck a match. The phosphorous flash caused a sleeping hog to shoot up its head. It stood on stocky hooves and snorted. Boar reached for his pistol.

Ollie gripped his arm. “It’s only a pig.”

Boar lowered his hand.