Susan’s grandfather was right; Flight Lieutenant Clyde Boar was the same little dickens from her primary school. This was confirmed when the lieutenant arrived at daybreak, after another night of bombing, with orders to accompany a Bertie Shepherd of the National Pigeon Service to London. As the lieutenant prepared to knock, Bertie swung open the door and asked, “Are you the same boy who ate ribbon from the parish Christmas tree?”

Susan’s face flushed hot with embarrassment.

Flight Lieutenant Boar, a six-foot, broad-shouldered RAF flight leader, slid his hands into his pockets and said, “Yes, sir. And from what I can remember, it tasted quite good.”

Bertie invited him inside, seeming satisfied with the lieutenant’s candidness or intrigued with the notion that eating tinsel could turn devilish boys into rugged airmen.

Bertie pointed to his bowed knees. “I’m afraid the old legs aren’t up for the trip.”

Susan placed a hand on her grandfather’s shoulder.

“I understand,” Flight Lieutenant Boar said. “After the meeting, I’ll make arrangements to deliver you the orders.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Bertie said. “Susan will be taking my place.”

The lieutenant raised his brows.

Susan extended her hand. “Hello, Flight Lieutenant.”

Boar looked at Bertie. “I believe the orders are for you to attend the—”

“Jonathan Wallace of the National Pigeon Service requested a representative of the Bertie Shepherd farm to attend,” Bertie interrupted.

The lieutenant rubbed his jaw.

“Susan is also a member of the National Pigeon Service, and she will be my representative.”

Susan cleared her throat, her arm still extended.

Boar shook her hand.

Bertie stepped close to the lieutenant. “I’m putting my trust in you for Susan’s safety.”

“The meeting is at eleven AM,” Boar said. “The afternoon train will have us out of London before the bombings.”

Bertie gave Susan a hug. “You’re as good as they are,” he whispered. “Be an egg.”

Susan squeezed her grandfather.

Be an egg, Susan thought. One could be soft with fear inside, but hard as slate outside. It was her grandfather’s phrase of affirmation, spoken seldom, but at the times she needed them most. Bertie had always been supportive of all her endeavors, instilling a sense of confidence that she could accomplish anything through diligence and faith. And it was this conditioning, she believed, that enabled her to attend the University of London. Susan also knew it was dreadfully painful for Bertie to let her go into the city. She wished that it had been her persistent requests that had worn her grandfather down. But in the end, it was Bertie’s failing knees that were the tipping point. She prayed that she would make him proud.

“Are you sure you can take care of the pigeons?” Susan asked.

Bertie nodded, his eyes watery. “I may not be able to travel, but I can bloody well walk across this farm.”

Susan kissed Bertie on the cheek and left.