Ollie looked up. The corner of the rusted tin ceiling was peeled away, giving view to a darkening sky. He heard, in between the ground fire, the sound of mechanical drones. The buzzing grew louder. He scanned for toilet paper. Instead, he found a catalog with torn pages. He reached for a sheet, but another severe cramp had his hands clasping his belly. The roar of propellers grew. Antiaircraft fire boomed. Thousands of feet above his peephole in the loo, a bomber passed over. Then another. And another.

Ollie leaned forward, his rear angled over the hole in the floor. He cracked open the door. A squadron of Spitfires shot over the cottage, their wind shaking the loo. He looked up to see hundreds of German bombers blackening the twilight sky, accompanied by their fighters, fending off the Hurricanes and Spitfires that had scrambled from North Weald. Shells exploded. Ollie’s heart pounded.

Machine-gun fire pierced the air. A Spitfire fell over Epping Forest, fire flaring from the fuselage. It rolled, then exploded, sending shrapnel through the trees.

His stomach churned. Pain shot through his abdomen and down his legs, drawing him back to his wooden seat. The spring on the door slammed shut. The war raged outside. And he was stuck in there, feeling defenseless with his pants tied to his ankles. He had traveled the ocean to fight, avoiding enemy submarines and rats the size of dogs, only to be beaten, poisoned, and have his arse glued to a loo.

The armada, followed by a few remaining RAF fighters, headed southwest toward London. The antiaircraft fire from North Weald suddenly stopped and was soon replaced by the echo of antiaircraft guns in London.

After his body had been drained and the cramps had weakened to where he could stand, he cleaned himself with a full-page advertisement for fishing equipment and left. With shaky legs, he crossed the yard. Flames flickered in the forest. The rumble of bombs filled the air. As he reached the shelter, the door swung open.

Bertie pointed to the woods, then handed Ollie a lantern.

Ollie and Susan, led by the smell of burning fuel, made their way through Epping Forest in search of the crashed Spitfire. Behind a toppled hornbeam tree, they found the mangled cockpit and what was left of the pilot.

Susan prayed. Tears fell from her cheeks.

Ollie’s sour stomach turned to boiling anger. The newspaper stories back home couldn’t fully describe what was happening. It was war. People died. And the United States was doing nothing, except declaring neutrality as bombs fell on London. As the countryside reverberated with explosions, Ollie realized that more men, women, and children would not see tomorrow’s sunrise. He silently pledged to fly again. No matter what the cost, he would find a way to rid the heavens of Nazis.

“I wonder who he was,” Susan said, her voice trembling.