She insisted that Bertie stay behind to keep an eye out for returning pigeons. He argued, but finally relented when she pointed out that the soldiers, hunkered back inside their tent, were now in a foul mood and that someone should stay behind to ensure things went smoothly. Before leaving, he packed her a lunch, a piece of bread toasted to hide its staleness and a bit of cheese. As she drove away, she noticed Bertie sitting on the porch waiting for another pigeon to emerge on the horizon.

The drive through Essex was uneventful; there were few cars on the road and fewer people outside. It seemed as if all of England was hunkered inside, preparing for a long winter or another round of bombing, until she neared Clacton-on-Sea. On the side of the road, she noticed three members of the Home Guard, volunteers too old or physically unable to join the fight, digging out a signpost. Their coats covered most of their uniforms but were easily recognizable by their olive-green military caps. Their weapons—an assortment of old hunting rifles—were propped like kindling wood against a beech tree. She slowed to a stop and rolled down her window.

“What are you doing?” Susan asked.

A gray-mustached man with swollen jowls, like a chipmunk hiding acorns, dropped his shovel and stepped to the truck. “Preparing for the invasion.”

Susan’s knuckles turned white as she gripped the steering wheel.

The man adjusted his cap and placed his hands, covered with soil, on the door. “What’s your business?”

“National Pigeon Service.” She hesitated, then retrieved an NPS badge, a metallic pin that she preferred to keep inside her purse rather than wear on a lapel, and handed it to him.

He looked at the badge, then to the pigeons in the back of the truck.

Susan noticed the man’s eyes soften.

“My son, Andrew, when he was a wee lad, loved to feed pigeons in the park.” He cleared his throat and returned the badge. “He was fond of giving them the crust from his sandwiches.”

Susan smiled and placed the badge back into her purse.

The man exhaled, his breath forming a mist in the cold air. “Andrew hasn’t returned from Calais.”

His words surprised her. But Susan knew, from what she and Bertie had read in the papers, that a few thousand British soldiers in Calais had held their ground against the German invasion. They fought to the end, creating time to evacuate troops from France. In all, over 300,000 soldiers had fled Dunkirk Harbor on an argosy of military vessels and rickety fishing boats. It was the miracle at Dunkirk. And the men in Calais were gone. They were what Bertie had believed to be sacrificial lambs.

“He’d be proud of his father, working hard to protect his home.” She made eye contact with the man. “I’ll add Andrew to our prayer board.”