“My duty, sir.”

Jowl muscles contracted. Ash fell from his cigar. Churchill looked at the commodore and said, “I recommend we take time to listen to Mr. Wallace and members of the National Pigeon Service. Their insight may be extraordinarily valuable in the success of our mission. It’s our intellect, spirit, and tough British fiber that will lead us to victory.” He tipped his hat and left.

Everyone took their seats. The commodore gripped his chalk, flushness spreading over his face.

“Bloody hell, Susan,” the lieutenant whispered. “I can’t believe you did that.”

“Nor I,” Susan said, feeling as if she had come within inches of being struck by a speeding train.

The meeting lasted deep into the afternoon. Not only did Susan learn about how the pigeons were to be used, she learned everything about Source Columba and wished she had kept her mouth shut.

CHAPTER 9 - LONDON, ENGLAND

CHAPTER 9

LONDON, ENGLAND

Susan and Flight Lieutenant Boar missed the last train out of London by a mere ten minutes. While the lieutenant was attempting to secure a military vehicle to drive them back to North Weald, Susan searched for a telephone to call Bertie. Outside the train station, twilight cast inky shadows. We’re running out of time, she thought. Quickly, she located a telephone box, but the lines were dead. As she placed the receiver back in its cradle, air-raid sirens sounded. Susan covered her ears. Sparse groups of Londoners looked to the sky. Paces quickened. And streets turned bare.

Susan and Flight Lieutenant Boar gave up their attempts to return home and followed a woman with her three young boys, each carrying blankets and pillows, into an underground railway station. Susan felt sick, realizing that Bertie would worry. But less than an hour later, she forgot about her grandfather, at least for the moment, when the first round of bombs exploded, shaking the shelter and dropping bits of mortar into her hair.

As she shook grit from her scalp, she noticed the woman they had followed into the shelter open a book and begin reading to her three boys. Despite the woman’s best efforts to distract her children, the boys’ eyes wandered to the ceiling. Susan saw another family playing a board game, taking turns rolling dice and blowing dust from the pieces. An old woman was teaching her granddaughter how to knit, a scarf slowly growing from the click of the needles. Despite the destruction of the city above them, the Londoners were doing their best to go about their lives, if not for themselves, for the children.

Eventually, the children were tucked in their blankets. Lanterns were dimmed. But the thunder of bombs continued.

Susan stared at the masonry ceiling. Can the shelter withstand a direct hit? Her heart thumped against her rib cage. She clenched her hands, digging her nails into her palms. The trepidation of hiding underground, while the Luftwaffe bombed London, was worse than she could ever have imagined. With each rumbling blast, Susan felt one step closer to death.