They drove past several hangars and turned onto a runway. Ollie’s eyes widened as he saw rows of Spitfires perched along the runway like sleeping eagles. The marine-green machines looked incredibly fast. Three blade propellers. Aerodynamic frame. Sleek glass canopy. Roundels painted on the tails. Guns protruding from the wings. The planes looked as if they were forged from a single piece of metal, much different than his wood-framed biplane covered in weathered canvas. Ollie counted sixty planes before he realized he was falling behind the other trucks. He pressed the gas pedal and followed the convoy to another runway.

They stopped in front of a squadron of Bristol Blenheim bombers. Unlike the Spitfire, the Blenheim didn’t look as if it had been built for military purposes. It appeared to be a converted commercial aircraft. Boxy nose. Two large engines, one on each wing. A gun turret was screwed into the top of the fuselage, like an afterthought. Although the Blenheim paled in comparison to the Spitfire, Ollie thought it still looked to be a formidable fighter, and it was unique in that it could also be used as a small bomber. And at the moment, he’d be willing to fly anything to become a pilot for the RAF, even a hot-air balloon.

Ollie parked the truck behind the other vehicles. He got out and immediately unloaded pigeons with the soldiers, hoping to catch a glimpse of the cockpit of a Blenheim. He carried cages under a fuselage, the bomb bay doors spread open. He poked his head into the plane and handed the pigeons to a soldier who was stacking cages into the tail. Ollie glanced around. Sunlight shot through the glass gun turret, illuminating the interior. The plane was small for a bomber, which appeared to be equipped for a crew of three: pilot, copilot, and gunner. Glass panels surrounded the cockpit like a miniature greenhouse, providing more than ample vision for the pilots. Dozens of flight instruments and switches covered the cockpit. Ollie suddenly felt like a novice flyer, having relied upon only one instrument in his old biplane, the fuel gauge.

“Move your arse,” said the soldier in the plane. “We don’t have all day.”

Ollie ducked and went to retrieve more cages.

Along with three of the soldiers, Ollie carried pigeons while the remaining soldiers, like bricklayers, stacked them inside the planes. Each time Ollie lifted the birds into the plane, he twisted his head to peek into the cockpit. For the next hour, they dispersed the pigeons among the bombers.

As they were finishing unloading the last truck, a soldier—a rather large man who walked more pigeon-toed than most of the birds—tripped and almost fell. He caught the cages he was carrying, inches from the ground. The pigeons fluttered.

“You’re such a lug, Angus,” said one of the soldiers.

Angus adjusted the cages in his hands. “Am not.”