Susan helped him to his feet and they went to the porch. Sirens wailed. Antiaircraft fire blared. Looking to the west, they expected to see an armada heading to London for a surprise daylight attack. But the first explosions were not in the city. A few miles away, the thunder of bombs erupted in North Weald. Susan felt the ground quake. Her legs turned weak. She squeezed Grandfather’s arm. As black smoke boiled up to the sky, all Susan could think about was Ollie.

CHAPTER 21 - NORTH WEALD, ENGLAND

CHAPTER 21

NORTH WEALD, ENGLAND

The low growl sent a shot of adrenaline through Ollie’s body. The soldiers stopped. The siren rose to a roar.

“To your posts!” shouted the sergeant. He pointed at Ollie. “Go!”

Ollie looked at the plane. Then to the sergeant.

“Now!”

Ollie ran to Bertie’s truck. He fumbled with the key and started the engine. As he pulled away, he saw the soldiers jump into their trucks and speed toward a hangar. Men scrambled across the base, several tossing on helmets and climbing into sandbag pits. Shells were stuffed into antiaircraft guns, their barrels cranked toward the sky.

At the far end of the base, men wearing flight jackets ran from their barracks. It would take the crews a minute, perhaps two at most, to reach the planes. He glanced in the rearview mirror. The Blenheim’s bomb-bay doors were open. It’ll only take a second, he thought. He slammed the brakes and veered off the runway. He threw open the door, ran to the Blenheim, and crawled inside. The tail was packed with cages and secured with a cargo net. Bronze pigeon eyes stared from behind wire. The siren wailed.

Only a narrow archway along the roof led to the tail of the plane. No aisle. No crevice to squeeze himself through. Had he paid attention to how the men had loaded, rather than taking glimpses of the cockpit, he would have known how difficult it would be to reach the tail, and maybe he’d be speeding back to the farm in Bertie’s truck. He could either crawl over the top . . . or leave. Without thinking, he lifted himself onto the cages.

Pigeons flapped their wings. He crawled, spreading out his limbs to distribute his weight, like a man on a bed of nails. The cages creaked. A metal beam running along the ceiling scraped at his spine. A beak poked his finger. Sirens howled.

Reaching the back, he slid himself down to the floor, into a small gap between the cages and the plane’s tail. His knees pressed into his chest. As he unhooked the cargo net, antiaircraft fire boomed. Ollie jerked and bumped his head. Pain flared. He threw open the net.

“Duchess!”