A stream of military vehicles, acting as couriers, came through the farm. The stationed soldiers gave the couriers the canisters, which they locked into metal boxes. The couriers ran the boxes to their vehicles and sped off. They could have waited to collect more arriving messages, but it was obvious to Susan that the couriers had orders to transport the intelligence immediately upon arrival. She suspected that the messages were not going to North Weald Airfield. They were likely going to London, to the heart of British military command.

By sunset, a total of forty-eight pigeons had returned. Four hundred and fifty-two were missing. Before going inside to prepare for the blackout, Susan watched an orange sun sink below the birch trees. She imagined the Luftwaffe was already in flight, the bellies of their bombers filled with tons of explosives, preparing to destroy what was left of London. Then they’d invade. She prayed that one of the returning pigeons could provide something, anything that could give Britain an edge to survive.

“We’ll know when you’re coming, you ruddy Nazis,” Bertie said, shaking his fist in the air. “And we’ll be ready for you.”

A soldier, handing over a canister to a courier, overheard Bertie’s comment and said, “Jolly good work, sir.”

Bertie pointed to Susan. “You can thank my granddaughter. She’s the brains behind the mission.”

The soldier tipped his cap. “Congratulations, miss.”

Susan forced a smile. Part of her was relieved that the pigeons were returning. But only a fraction of the flock had made it back. And Ollie and Duchess were missing. Soon the sirens would howl. Bombs would fall. She feared she would never see them again.

CHAPTER 29 - EPPING, ENGLAND

CHAPTER 29

EPPING, ENGLAND

The attack on London began shortly after dark. The couriers had left when the flow of returning pigeons trickled to a stop. But the two soldiers remained, hunkered into their tent and likely to find their way to Bertie’s homemade bomb shelter if another air raid struck Epping.

Susan made a dinner of stale rationed bread. She toasted it, sliced it in quarters, even slathered it with the last of the gooseberry jam, but it still tasted like the flour had been replaced with sawdust. As usual, Bertie didn’t mind, even complimenting her on the weak tea that had been brewed so many times it barely colored the water. She spent the evening talking to him about the returning pigeons, a brief period of light in what felt like endless days of despair. All the while, her heart and mind were on Ollie.

As the tremor of bomb blasts escalated, she washed the dishes and then helped Bertie onto his chair. He fell asleep with his swollen knees propped on a stool. She covered him with a quilt, blew out the candle, and went off to bed, shutting out the thought that she might never see him climb the stairs again.