Boar recalled his meeting with Commander Davies, who had interrogated him about his conduct with Susan and how an American, a civilian no less, had ended up in his military jail. He calmly told the commander that he had conducted himself as a gentleman, escorting Susan to and from London, even accompanying her into a shelter when they missed the train. He had pointed out that the American would not have been arrested if he had not struck him, under the false impression that Susan was harassed. Davies had abruptly ended the meeting by ordering him to apologize to Susan Shepherd and her grandfather, Bertie. And to stay clear of the American. The commander also told him that his chances of ever flying a Spitfire rested on the success of Source Columba. Boar had saluted and left, his blood boiling at the thought of the American.

“At least you’ll get to see that woman again,” Ralph said.

Boar nodded.

“Too bad she doesn’t fancy you.”

“She will.” Boar pulled another cigarette from his pocket and stuck it to his lips.

Ralph pulled his lighter from his pocket and lit Boar’s cigarette. “I understand the American is working with her.”

Boar took a deep drag from his cigarette.

“Seems rather unfair, don’t you think?”

Boar exhaled, smoke flowing through his nostrils, and turned to leave. “I’ll get even with that bloody American.”

“Where are you going?” Ralph asked.

“Letters.” He flicked his cigarette.

Ralph’s shoulders slumped. “Bloody hell,” he whispered.

Flight Lieutenant Boar went to the barracks. Many of the men had collapsed into their bunks still wearing combat clothing. Some of the bunks were empty, soon to be filled with fresh naïve pilots. He took a seat at a desk in the corner, far from the snores and smell of sweat. The wooden desktop, if one scanned it closely, contained the faint etchings of letters he had written to people he had never met, the tip of his pen pushing through paper to carve permanent grooves into the wood.

Boar recalled the fallen Blenheim in his unit, piloted by John Simons, a soft-spoken man who dreamed of going back to Manchester and pouring pints at the family pub. The copilot, a bright young lad named William Akerman, an exceptional card player and newly married to a local woman named Elizabeth, now four months pregnant, had dreamed of someday being a flight commander and settling down to raise a family after the war. And the turret gunner, a man named Gilbert Nolan—his crew called him Gig—had long, skinny arms that shook like wire wrapped in bacon when he fired the machine guns. Gig left a wife named Samantha and three young girls, Carol, Edna, and Alice.