He sat in the gunner’s turret, in the mounted chair that Benny once used, and pressed his head against the gun. The steel felt cold. A man was dead. He was on his way to France. And this would be his last flight. He’d screwed up. Even if Bertie was best friends with Air Vice-Marshal Park, Winston Churchill, FDR, or God, for that matter, there was no talking his way out of this mess. But most of all, his body ached with the thought that he might never see Susan again. They’ll lock me up. I’ll never be with her again. He struggled to fully grasp the impact of his blunder. He’d never hear the sweet timbre of her voice, nor would he hold her in his arms again. His heart sank. We could have had a future together.

As the drone of propellers filled the cabin, he wondered what his parents would have thought of his choices. Would they approve of him trying to join the fight? Surely, yes. But not with how he had handled things—stowing away on a ship, punching a lieutenant, getting thrown in jail, and being sentenced to a pigeon farm. And now, being caught onboard an RAF mission, no doubt a serious offense that would likely have him spending the rest of the war behind bars.

He exhaled and saw his breath, the temperature plummeting from the altitude. As he went to blow on his hands, he noticed his blood-stained fingers and stopped. With nothing to clean himself, he untucked the tail of his shirt and rubbed until his skin turned raw.

For the next forty minutes, Ollie sat in silence until heavy turbulence made him peek his head into the turret. The camouflage of clouds was dissipating. He counted bombers. One missing—a miracle considering the surprise attack. Suddenly, the plane tilted its wings, causing him to brace himself against the machine gun. He watched the Blenheim bombers fall out of formation. Through breaks in the clouds, he saw the French coastline, Earth’s crust rising from the depths of the English Channel. The planes spanned out, each taking solo routes to drop their pigeons along the French countryside.

Ollie felt a hand touch his shoulder. He turned and saw the copilot.

“We’re approaching the coast,” the copilot said. “I’ll be unloading.”

“I can do it,” Ollie said.

The copilot shook his head. “Flight Lieutenant wants it done right.” He glanced to the tail and saw the body wrapped in a cargo net shroud.

Ollie saw the color drain from the man’s face. “How about I hand you the pigeons?”

The copilot rubbed the medallion inside his jacket and said, “Fine, but stay clear of the doors.”