Ollie stepped to the copilot. Wind flapped his pant legs. “If this bird goes,” he said, pointing to France thousands of feet below, “so do you.”

The copilot swallowed. “Are you serious?”

“Yes,” Ollie lied.

“Finished?” Boar shouted from the cockpit.

The copilot rubbed the medallion inside his jacket, then glanced over his shoulder, as if somehow the lieutenant would could come to his aid.

“Your choice,” Ollie said.

“You’ll rot in the bloody Glasshouse.” He unhooked the safety wire from his belt and shouted, “Done!”

Ollie felt as though his life had been thrown away, like the pigeons. He’d be watching the sun rise behind iron bars for many years. But at least he’d live knowing he had done his best to return Duchess to Susan.

The copilot brushed his hands, as if the pigeons carried disease. He peeked down to the French countryside as the doors inched closed.

A pepper of explosions rocked the plane, knocking the copilot to the floor. The nose of the Blenheim shot up. The copilot slid toward the bomb doors, his hands slapping the floor in desperation for something to hold on to.

Ollie reached him just as the man’s legs slid out of the plane. He grabbed the copilot’s jacket.

The copilot clawed at Ollie’s arm. “Don’t let go! Don’t let go!”

Ollie wedged a boot into the frame of the fuselage and pulled. Black puffs of exploding shells filled the sky as the bomb doors closed on the copilot’s legs like a vice.

The copilot kicked against the air. He dug his fingers into Ollie’s arm.

Ollie strained. His muscles burned. He gave a hard tug and pulled the man into the plane just as the doors slammed shut.

The explosions suddenly died. The wind gusts were replaced by the panting copilot.

“Everything all right?” Boar called.

The copilot dropped the back of his head against the floor. He stuck his hand into his jacket and squeezed the medallion. “Yes.”

“We’re heading home,” Boar said.

The copilot turned to Ollie. “I owe you one, Yank.”

“I believe you do.” He pointed to the tail of the plane. “You can repay me by getting that pigeon safely back to Susan Shepherd.”

The copilot nodded. He stood, the color drained from his face, and returned to the cockpit.

Ollie leaned back and closed his eyes. Light streamed through the turret but did little to warm his body. He struggled to come to terms with the fact that this would be his last flight. He’d never join the fight. And he’d never see Susan again. Instead of being allowed to return to Epping, he’d be imprisoned or deported from Britain. The possibility of being with her after the war was gone. He yearned for a second chance. A pang of sadness wrenched at his core.