“Good Lord.” Bertie stood and wrapped his arms around Susan. “Unfortunately, we know how he feels.”

Susan gave a squeeze. “You better never leave me.”

“Everything’s temporary, my dear.” With crow’s-feet protruding from the corners of his eyes, he looked at Susan. “Even this bloody war.”

Susan’s shoulder muscles tightened. Learning of Ollie’s loss reminded her of how unfair life could be, as if people were randomly plucked from the earth, like numbers drawn from a hat. Most of her family’s numbers had been drawn years ago. Londoners were being taken each night. And now their beloved pigeons were about to embark on Source Columba, a death mission.

Bertie limped across the kitchen, then placed his cup in the sink. “Let’s get to work, shall we?”

“Perhaps you could take your walking stick,” Susan said.

“No need, my dear. Feeling young and vigorous.” Bertie flexed his flabby arms. “Today, we’re going to save Britain.”

Susan wrapped her arm around Bertie’s elbow, buried her fear, and walked outside.

CHAPTER 18 - EPPING, ENGLAND

CHAPTER 18

EPPING, ENGLAND

“Hold still,” Ollie said, connecting a small Bakelite canister to a pigeon’s leg. The spring-clip ring snapped into place. “Now, that wasn’t so bad, was it?” Ollie placed the bird into a dropping cage much smaller than the communal baskets Bertie and Susan used to transport the flock to Clacton-on-Sea. It was barely enough room for a pigeon, let alone a small packet that included paper, pencil, and instructions written in French. But despite being quarantined and having a silk parachute attached to its cage, the pigeon cooed, as if it were merely headed on a routine racing trip to the English countryside.

As Ollie stacked the cage, the door to the loft squeaked. He turned and saw Susan and Bertie.

Susan scanned the loft.

“Good work, Oliver.” Bertie inspected the cages. “For a pilot, you make a good pigeon handler. Perhaps I should consider giving you a raise.”

“I didn’t realize I was being paid,” Ollie said.

“You’re not.” Bertie pulled out his empty pockets, like rabbit ears protruding from his trousers. “I have nothing to give, I’m afraid. Only an opportunity to make history.”

“Seems fair,” Ollie said. “Maybe I should pay you.”

Bertie laughed. “That’s the spirit.”

Susan looked at a wall of cubbies. Except for a dozen squabs and nesting mothers, the rows were empty.

“Susan, help Ollie with loading,” Bertie said, fixing his pockets. “I’ll inspect the other lofts.” He left, the spring door cracking behind him.

Susan poked her finger through the wire of a cage. The pigeon nudged her. “How did you know which ones to leave?”

“Bertie told me.”

“Why did you start so early?”

Ollie placed an empty cage near a row of nesting pigeons. “I thought it might be a rough day for you.”

She looked at him. “Thank you.”

He nodded, then checked a parachute.