Boar gripped his pen. He recalled how the fallen plane had taken a direct hit to the left engine and had failed to climb to the safety of the clouds. Two enemy fighters, like pit bulls smelling blood, came in for the kill. The right engine exploded, taking off the wing. Boar and the rest of the squadron had heard their screams over the radio as the severed Blenheim fell from the sky.

It wasn’t his duty, but Boar wrote letters, just like he had always done, taking time to tell their families what had happened and, more importantly, that they were beloved friends and brave, valiant men who had served their country well. Each letter was unique. John, William, and Gig would have wanted it that way. He sealed the letters and placed them in his locker to mail a few days from now, after the families had been formally notified by RAF authorities. Rather than sleep, he took a walk around the airfield, counting planes and wondering how many of his bomber squadron would be left by Christmas.

CHAPTER 13 - EPPING, ENGLAND

CHAPTER 13

EPPING, ENGLAND

Susan tapped on the bedroom door. “Are you awake?” Ollie opened his eyes. Sunlight shone through the window. His arm hung off the bed, numbness spreading through his fingers.

“Yes,” he said.

“Breakfast.”

Ollie cleared his throat. “I’ll be right down.” He heard Susan’s footsteps as she left.

Ollie looked down and noticed his boots, unlaced, but still on his feet. He rubbed away the tingling in his hand, then tied his boots and went downstairs. His legs felt rubbery, his body emptied of fluids.

“Good morning, Oliver from Maine,” Bertie said, putting down his newspaper. “Under the weather?”

“Better,” Ollie said.

Susan handed him a cup of tea. “Drink.”

Ollie sipped. “Thanks.”

Susan brushed strands of blond hair behind her ear and went to the stove.

“Smells good,” Ollie said, taking a seat.

“Elderberry scones,” Susan said, opening the oven door.

“Splendid to hear your appetite is recovering, Oliver.” Bertie patted him on the shoulder. “I was worried you were trying to get out of working.”

“Only if we’re shucking shellfish.”

Bertie laughed. “No shucking, just flying.”

Ollie scratched his head. “Are we working on planes?”

Bertie grinned. “Something better, my boy.”

It was obvious to Ollie that Bertie was enjoying his little secret, at least until he was put to work. And considering that Bertie had bailed him out of jail, and the fact that he was unable to join the RAF for the next few months, he saw no point in ruining Bertie’s jest. So, he played along.

“Balloons?” Ollie asked.

Bertie shook his head.

“Airships?”

“Even better.”

“What could be better than planes, balloons, and airships?”

“It’s confidential.” Bertie slapped his leg and cackled.

“Grandfather,” Susan said, dropping hot scones onto a platter.

“How am I going to work if you don’t tell me?” Ollie asked.

“Blindfolded.”

“For three months?”