Unwilling to push his luck again as a stowaway, Ollie spent three days in Halifax trying to talk his way onto a ship headed to England. He received nothing but rejections, most of which came from crews of British or Canadian military vessels, unimpressed that a young man with a stitched forehead and a tattered suitcase had any business as a pilot for the Royal Air Force. Flashing Bish’s business card and his own flight log had gotten him nowhere. And it became increasingly clear to Ollie that he was unlikely to board a military ship without paperwork.

Discouraged, Ollie walked to the end of a pier and sat down. His legs dangled over the side. He watched the tide go out, revealing pylons caked in barnacles. A briny scent filled his nostrils. With his eyes, he followed a thick rope tied to a freighter. Across the bow, painted in white lettering, was the name Maaskerk.

“May skurk,” Ollie said, scratching his head. “Mase kirk.”

A seaman who was walking along the pier stopped behind Ollie.

“Mask urk . . . Mays kerk . . .”

The seaman removed his officer’s cap and shook his head. “Maaskerk,” he said in a Dutch accent.

Ollie turned. “Maw skerk?”

“Maaskerk.”

“Maaskerk,” Ollie repeated.

The seaman nodded. “What are you doing here, besides butchering the name of my ship?”

“Trying to get to England,” Ollie said. “I’m joining the Royal Air Force.”

“You don’t sound British.”

“I’m American.”

“Where are you from?”

“Buxton, Maine.”

“Buckon?”

“Buxton.”

“Booksen?”

‘No, Bucks-ton.” Ollie noticed the man grinning and realized that he was being made fun of. “I guess that makes us even.”

The seaman replaced his cap. “Half our crew left to join the fight. Captain sent me onshore to recruit greasers. You work, and I’ll arrange for your passage.”

Ollie stood and extended his hand. “Thank you. Name’s Ollie.”

“Jansen,” the officer said, shaking Ollie’s hand.

Ollie picked up his suitcase, followed Jansen up the gangway, and was put to work lubricating moving engine parts and mechanical equipment. He soon smelled of oil, his hands and shirt stained the color of coffee. As Ollie lathered the teeth of a cog, he wondered what it would be like in Britain. Where will I be stationed? What plane will I fly? What does a Nazi look like? Would Mom and Dad be proud? Will I be killed? He smeared on more grease and buried his thoughts.