Ollie walked to the tent and peeked inside. The structure, a wooden frame covered in canvas, resembled a yurt. It held a cot, two chairs, a table, and a large switchboard with a series of numbered bells, one for each loft. Bells buzzed and abruptly stopped. When a pigeon entered a loft, it caused the rods to touch, tripping a connection and ringing the bells. He felt like a doorman for an apartment building in which guests were buzzing each of the tenants, all at the same time. The pigeons didn’t seem to mind the curtains. But that was not the case for Bertie or Susan.

Ollie left the tent to find Susan and Bertie inspecting the military-issued cages, much smaller than the ones they’d used to transport the pigeons to Clacton-on-Sea.

“How do they look?” Ollie asked.

Susan held a miniature silk parachute that was attached to a cage. “Is this large enough to work?”

“I’ve only flown planes. Never jumped out of them.” Ollie noticed lines of tension spread across Susan’s face. He felt the urge to kick himself. “But I once saw a man drop from a plane at an air show.” Ollie examined the parachute. “I think it’s plenty big enough.”

Susan took in a deep breath and exhaled. She carefully folded the parachute.

Bertie picked up a crimson canister the size of a small prescription bottle. “They’re bloody red! Are they trying to make it easy for the snipers?” He shook his head and handed the canister to Susan.

“There’s nothing we can do about it now.” She felt the canister’s weight. “At least the Bakelite isn’t heavy.” She touched the metal band fastened to the tube. “I believe they should fit securely to their legs.”

“Anything I can do to help?” Ollie asked.

Susan tossed the canister back into the cage. “Can you give us more time?”

“I wish I could,” Ollie said.

Susan slid her arm around Bertie’s elbow and helped him to the next loft.

Ollie felt horrible for them. Their pigeon farm was being turned upside down by war. He wondered how he would feel if the military had set up camp on his parents’ potato farm. It was an unimaginable thought for him, an American, to comprehend. Wars were not fought on United States soil. Blood was spilled in Europe, and people back home only read about it in the newspapers. He rubbed his sore ribs, feeling a twinge of guilt for being born on the opposite side of the Atlantic.