Susan scanned the loft. Empty cubbies. Of the 500 pigeons dropped into France, only 104 had returned, barely one in five. And only two had returned this morning. Neither was Duchess. Why had she flown away? Shell shock? Deep down, Susan wished she could fly away herself. Go someplace safe. A land where food was plentiful and not acquired through ration books. A place without sirens and bombs. But she couldn’t leave Bertie, her pigeons, and the belief that Ollie would someday come home.

She reached into her coat pocket and pulled out the note. She’d read it countless times, each glimpse with a pang of guilt in her chest. And now Ollie was a casualty of Source Columba, dropped like one of her pigeons into war.

She slipped the note back into her pocket, tended to the remaining lofts, and went inside. She saw Bertie, a paleness in his face, hanging up the phone. “What’s wrong?”

“I made you tea,” Bertie said, dodging her question. He took a seat at the kitchen table and tapped the chair beside him.

She sat. A wave of anxiety turned her skin warm. “Who was it?”

He slid a cup of tea to her. “National Pigeon Service. Order for five hundred more pigeons.”

“When?”

“A week.”

Susan shook her head. “We only have three hundred ready.”

“We’ll have to prepare more.” Bertie sighed. “And if necessary, use the pigeons that have just returned.”

“It’s not enough time.”

“We don’t have a choice, my dear.”

“Tell them to call another farm.”

“Susan,” Bertie said, “the military has specifically asked for our pigeons.”

She clasped her cup. Lukewarm tea spilled over her fingers. “Why?”

“They must have returned something important; otherwise, they would have simply requisitioned pigeons from the next farm on the list.” Bertie grinned. “They’re doing it, my dear. Our pigeons are carrying French intelligence. And they’re bloody well informing our military where Hitler is moving his forces.”

Susan tried to smile, but she had already lost far too much. It’s what she had wanted, for Source Columba to be a success. But not at Ollie’s expense. She stood from her chair.

“Where are you going?” Bertie asked.

She retrieved her coat. “I have five hundred pigeons to prepare.”

“I’ll help.” Bertie stood, hobbled toward the door, and grabbed his jacket from the coatrack.

The cracking of Bertie’s knees caused Susan to stop. “You should rest.”

“I’ll holiday when we defeat that barbaric German führer,” Bertie said. “Until then, I’ll be even more relentless than his Luftwaffe.”

Susan took her grandfather’s arm and helped him to the lofts. They began packing pigeons into baskets to prepare for a training flight. As she loaded baskets into the bed of the truck, she noticed her grandfather hobble over to one of the soldiers, standing outside of his tent smoking a cigarette.

“Could you help us?” Bertie asked.