It had been a miracle, but Susan knew that this hatchling still had a slim chance of survival without the aid of her parents’ pigeon milk. Undeterred, she took to grinding seed into paste and feeding the hatchling by hand. Within a few days, the hatchling was able to stand, unfurl its wings, and peck. One week later, it was eating feed with the others in the loft. And Susan named her Duchess, despite her grandfather’s fondness for naming his racing pigeons after remote Scottish land masses, none of which they had ever visited.

Duchess had grown into something extraordinary. And it wasn’t just her looks, even though her neck plume shimmered like mother of pearl. It was the bird’s intelligence—or odd behavior, as her grandfather believed—that made her stand out among the flock. While homing pigeons were trained by the reward of food, Duchess seemed to be driven by the need to understand the world around her, a strange sense of curiosity hidden behind her golden eyes. Instead of joining the group, Duchess was content to watch her companions eat as she stood on Susan’s shoulder, cooing in response to Susan’s words, as if the bird enjoyed the art of conversation. And even more impressive was Duchess’s athletic ability; she was typically the first to arrive home after the pigeons were released at a distant training location. Bertie had commented that Duchess was the fastest to return only because of her desire to get a few minutes of Susan’s undivided attention. Susan laughed but knew there was some truth to what he said.

As Susan stroked Duchess’s back with a finger, a siren sounded. She stopped. The horn began as a low growl, then grew to an ear-piercing roar, tapering off, then repeating. Goose bumps cropped up on her arms. Pigeons fluttered. Walls vibrated. Seed in the feeding tray quivered.

The door flew open. Her grandfather, a bowlegged man wearing a tarnished tin helmet, shouted, “Luftwaffe!” He grabbed Susan’s hand and pulled.

Susan saw the spring door closing behind her, Duchess standing calmly on the ground as the other pigeons scattered. “Duchess!” She broke her grandfather’s grip, threw open the door, and scooped up the bird.

Susan, with Duchess tucked into the crook of her arm, ran with Bertie toward the bomb shelter, just like they had rehearsed, praying each time that this day would never come. But they knew it was merely a matter of time. As they ran across the field and past several other pigeon lofts, the siren wailed from nearby North Weald Airfield.

Bertie paused as he struggled to catch his breath. He pushed up his old military helmet that kept falling over his eyes. “Hurry!” he shouted.