The London streets were filled with volunteers clearing away rubble. Surprisingly to Ollie, many shops were open. He soon learned that the Luftwaffe had bombed the city every evening for fourteen consecutive nights, and many Londoners were now spending their nights in shelters beneath the city. Ollie admired the perseverance of Londoners, going about their daily lives in spite of Hitler’s bombing offensive.

Ollie was able to find the office of Charles Sweeny by asking for directions from people in the street. Apparently, Mr. Sweeny was quite a socialite and an admired businessman. A few minutes before five o’clock, Ollie entered a large office building in the heart of London, fortunate to have been spared from the bombings. He went to the top floor, where he was greeted by a gray-haired receptionist who was hastily preparing to leave.

“I’m Ollie Evans.” He showed the woman the card Bishop had given him. “Bish . . . I mean Mr. Bishop . . . had told me to meet with Mr. Sweeny about joining the Royal Air Force.”

The woman shook her head. “Mr. Sweeny is out of town.” She threw a stack of papers into a bin. “I’m leaving.”

Ollie watched the woman lock her desk and toss keys into her purse. “Please, I’ve come all the way from the United States.”

“Come back tomorrow,” she said.

A siren sounded.

The woman stepped backward. “They’re coming.”

The hair stood up on the back of Ollie’s neck. “How much time?”

“Fifteen, perhaps twenty minutes. That siren means they’ve been spotted crossing the Channel.” The woman threw on her coat, slung her purse over her shoulder, and turned.

“Please!” Ollie called after her. “I’ve got no place to go.”

“Tomorrow!”

“But there may not be a tomorrow!”

The woman stopped. Then fumbled for her keys. “Name.”

“Ollie.”

The siren howled.

“Your last name.” She jammed a key into the file cabinet and opened the lock.

“Evans.”

The woman dug through a drawer. “I don’t see it.”

“Are you sure?”

The woman flipped through more files. She stopped. “Oliver?”

“Yes.”

The woman pulled out an envelope and slammed the drawer shut. She quickly handed the envelope to Ollie. “Take a train to Church Fenton in the morning.” The woman threw her keys into her purse. “I suggest you find a shelter, Mr. Evans.” She turned and left, the click of her heels echoing in the hallway.

Ollie followed the woman down the stairs. “Where should I go?”

“Follow the crowds!” the woman shouted.