As Susan rubbed another round of ointment into Bertie’s knees, the scent of eucalyptus filling the air, they listened to Winston Churchill’s confident and unwavering voice. Churchill spoke of Hitler’s goal to obtain air superiority over Britain, before the Germans commenced a land invasion. And while Churchill addressed the barbaric attacks on civilians, his broadcast was much more than about the bombings on London. His speech, Susan believed, was intended to ignite a fire in the hearts of the British people and galvanize their will to fight.

Susan’s breath quickened. She noticed Bertie, his jaw dropped, staring at the radio. She imagined German troops landing on British shores and marching through Epping Forest, burning everything and slaughtering everyone in their path.

After Churchill’s brief broadcast, calling every man and woman to their post, Susan stood and turned off the radio. She thought of Londoners struggling to return to a sense of normalcy. Despite the hope in Churchill’s words, teachers would return to their classrooms to find that most of their students had been sent to the countryside, iron workers would return to flattened foundries, bakers would find no flour to make their rationed bread, and police officers would patrol deserted streets. But they would all go about their duty, whatever that might be. And so would she and Bertie.

“We have work to do,” Susan said.

Bertie nodded, tightened the wrappings on his knees, and stood.

Susan carried Duchess outside, kissed the top of the bird’s head, and tossed her into the air. Duchess circled the yard and landed on the roof of the loft. The bird tucked her head under her wing, as if to shield her eyes from London’s glowing embers.

Susan looked to the apocalypse smoldering on the horizon. “It’ll be over soon,” she whispered to herself, unaware that the Luftwaffe would bomb London for fifty-seven consecutive nights.

CHAPTER 4 - BUXTON, MAINE

CHAPTER 4

BUXTON, MAINE

The burial service for Ollie’s parents was on a Tuesday. Attendance was light; he was an only child, and his closest relatives were people whom he had never met, still living in small towns dotting the English coast and Scottish Highlands. Those attending were mostly neighboring farmers, hardworking men and women who had put on their starched Sunday clothes to pay their respects. A few of his father’s pilot friends stood in the back, one of them a wiry man with dark sunken eyes, proudly displaying his Great War flying wings pinned to the lapel of his sagging suit.