He balled up the blanket and used it to elevate his arm. He tried to sleep but couldn’t rest, despite his exhaustion. It wasn’t the constant ache in his shoulder nor the throb in his ankle each time he moved his toes. It was regret. His mind roiled with mistakes and missed opportunities. Why did I leave Epping? How could I have gotten stuck in a Blenheim? Will I ever see Susan again? Why didn’t I say more?

He thought of Susan. The enchanting resonance of her voice. The way her sandy-blond hair gracefully rested on her shoulders. The subtle lavender scent of her perfume. How his skin tingled when she leaned over him to pour tea. The silhouette of her delicate hands, cast by candlelight as she knitted Bertie a sweater. Her passion for saving Britain, and her belief that pigeons could win the war. He adored her. Missed her. God, I wish things could have been different, he thought.

Time was running out. A day, perhaps a week. He couldn’t live under the floorboards forever. They’d have to come out, and when they did, the Nazis would eventually find them. There was no future. Only the past and present. So he spent the night reliving his brief time with Susan, over and over again, until he could no longer keep his eyes open.

CHAPTER 31 - AIRAINES, FRANCE

CHAPTER 31

AIRAINES, FRANCE

Atickling on Ollie’s neck caused him to stir. He took a deep breath, taking in the scent of damp soil and old wood. He opened his eyes, but everything remained black. Is it night? Morning?

Something brushed his clavicle. Groggy, he reached to scratch under his collar and touched something. Long. Thin. Hairy. Adrenaline rushed into his body. He tried to grab it, but whatever it was quickly scuttled under his shirt. He jerked, bumping his head on a floor joist.

“Christ, Yank!” Boar said, waking up. “What the bloody hell are you doing?”

“Bug,” Ollie said, reaching into his shirt.

Boar kicked Ollie’s leg. “Go back to sleep.”

The bug scurried toward Ollie’s armpit. Shivers shot up his spine. Hundreds, perhaps thousands, of hairlike legs crept over his skin. A centipede? Millipede? He slid his hand under his injured arm, bit his lip to shield back the pain that was now flaring into his shoulder socket, and pulled out the bristly intruder. It wriggled in his hand, like a worm about to be set on a fishing hook. Bugs, especially ones he couldn’t see, gave him the willies. He tossed it and immediately realized he had thrown it in the wrong direction when he heard what sounded like the lieutenant having a seizure.

“Wanker!” Boar brushed over his flight suit as if he were covered in bees.

Ollie heard him flick something from his clothes, the ping of the bug landing somewhere in the bowels of the crawl space.