As the copilot buckled into his seat, a shell exploded. Ollie heard what sounded like rocks striking an oil drum. The plane rattled. He stood in the turret. Black smoke poured from the left engine, the propeller seized, blades bent like tines of an old fork. The right engine coughed and sputtered. His gut floated into his chest as the plane lost altitude. He waited for the weight of gravity as the plane attempted to pull up, but it never came.

CHAPTER 24 - EPPING, ENGLAND

CHAPTER 24

EPPING, ENGLAND

Susan watched a wall of black smoke rise in the east, as if the runways at North Weald Airfield had been doused with petrol and set ablaze. A squadron of Messerschmitt fighters swooped over the forest, then climbed toward the clouds. High above, an armada flew toward London. The German fighters swarmed their bombers, like hornets protecting their nest. There were no Hurricanes. No Spitfires. Only Luftwaffe. She feared everyone and everything in North Weald had been destroyed. Her legs shook. Her breath turned to short gasps. She grabbed the porch rail to keep from falling.

“Bastards!” Bertie glared at the invaders.

The sirens died, and the antiaircraft guns suddenly stopped, as if the RAF had run out of ammunition, revealing the grinding of German engines. Susan looked up and shuddered. The Luftwaffe looked unstoppable, their pilots immortal, their planes indestructible.

She turned to Bertie and said, “Ollie.”

The color drained from his face.

Susan’s jaw quivered.

He hobbled inside the cottage and went to the telephone.

Susan heard him feverishly crank the phone, briefly pause, then slam the earpiece to its cradle.

“Lines are dead,” he said, returning to the porch.

Susan stepped into the yard, shielding her eyes from the setting sun, and watched the Luftwaffe fly west. Soon she heard echoes of antiaircraft fire. Black bursts peppered the horizon. Then came the thunder of bombs on London.

She turned to Bertie. Over the cottage, a veil of soot scarred the clouds. “We must do something.”

Bertie shook his head and limped off the porch. “There’ll be another attack.”

“Is he all right?” Her hands trembled. “Our pigeons? Duchess?”

His mouth opened but didn’t speak.

“I need to know.”

Bertie looked at his pocket watch, then glanced at the sun, using his thumb to estimate its distance from the horizon. “There’s not much daylight left. One hour, maybe two. And we have no bloody car.”

“We can borrow the McCrearys’ lorry,” she said.

“We won’t be permitted near the airfield.”

“We must try.”

Bertie hesitated. “I’ll go.”

“I’ll go with you.”

“Absolutely not.” He stuffed his watch into his pocket.

“Your knees. It’ll be dark by the time you reach the McCrearys’ farm. It’ll only take me a few minutes.”

“It’s too dangerous,” he said.