She gathered her courage and crept to the pillbox. As she approached, the gull flew off, causing the man’s helmet to tilt awkwardly on his head. The soldier, unruffled, continued his watch over the Channel. A few steps farther and she realized that the soldier—if one could call him that—was nothing more than a mannequin dressed in a military uniform. The helmet was specked with gull droppings. A shock shuddered her body. On closer inspection, she found not just a mannequin, but a dummy pillbox constructed of loose brick, painted in dove-colored paint. The guns, erected to protect the coast, were drainpipes, their barrels doing nothing more than collecting rainwater. The entire beach fortification was a deception. All of the pillboxes, guns, and soldiers were fake. The only thing that was real, it appeared, was the razor wire. God help us, she thought.

Where was the British military? The Germans needed nothing more than a cheap pair of wire cutters and they’d run through Essex. The Home Guard, armed with hunting rifles, knives strapped to poles as bayonets, and Molotov cocktails, would barely slow them down. They’d march through Epping, then take London. Susan wanted to cry. Give up. Instead, she forced herself to return to the truck.

Daunted by the fictitious fortification, it took her more than an hour to unload the pigeons. As she placed the last basket in the dormant grass, the pigeons, sensing the start of their journey, began to rustle. One by one, Susan flipped open the doors. Pigeons flapped into the sky. As they circled the perimeter, a wave of sadness caused her shoulders to droop, realizing that it was their last training flight. And considering the survival rate of the mission, the last time she would see them fly as a flock again.

Susan packed up the empty baskets and drove away. A few miles down the road, she missed the turn, due to either the absent road sign or the fact that she was distracted by the British Army resorting to recruiting mannequins. Regardless, she found herself at the far end of the peninsula before realizing what she had done.

The sun was sinking over the trees. It had taken far too long, and she’d be lucky to make it back before dark. So she whipped the truck around. The sandwich Bertie had packed for her spilled to the floor. She slammed the accelerator. The engine roared. Wind whistled through the empty cages. Trying to save time, she decided to take what she believed to be a shortcut and got lost again. She’d been to Clacton-on-Sea dozens of times, but without the road signs, everything looked different, yet the same; it was like being dropped into a garden maze. She struggled to find her way out. Unfortunately, it was dark by the time she reached the main road out of Clacton-on-Sea.