The McCreary truck, used to haul hay and livestock, was larger and much older than Bertie’s vehicle. It took several tries to start the engine, the acceleration was poor, the cabin smelled of exhaust fumes, and she could see the ground through a hole in the rusted floorboard. But it ran. Otherwise, she would have resorted to using her old bicycle.

As she approached the cottage, she saw Bertie hobbling, carrying his walking stick, its tip never touching the ground. Susan slammed on the brakes. The truck skidded to a stop.

Bertie tossed the stick into the back of the truck, opened the door, and grimaced as he climbed into his seat.

You’re supposed to use your walking stick, Susan thought. She pressed the accelerator and popped the clutch.

Bertie’s head jerked. “Would you like me to drive?”

Susan shook her head. She struggled to turn the truck around, its large steering wheel feeling like a ship’s helm. The truck bounced as the tires rolled onto the main road. She slammed the accelerator to the floor.

The village of Epping was deserted. Cars were haphazardly parked on the street, abandoned during the surprise daylight attack. Drapes covered most of the windows, the residents preparing early for the blackout or shutting out the view of destruction left by the Luftwaffe. All of the businesses in the market were closed. The only sign of life was a speeding ambulance headed toward the hospital. Susan felt sick. She suppressed her fear and aimed the truck toward the smoke over North Weald Airfield.

Less than a mile from the airfield, a military vehicle blocked the road, with two soldiers standing guard. Susan glanced at Bertie and slid her foot from the accelerator. The truck coasted to a stop.

Susan rolled down her window. The air smelled of expelled gunpowder. She gripped the wheel to keep from shaking.

“You need to turn around, miss,” the soldier said.

Bertie leaned in. “Our employee was making a delivery to the airfield.”

“I’m sorry,” the soldier said. He glanced toward the rumble of explosions in London, then gripped his rifle. “Road is closed.”

“Please,” Susan begged.

“Orders. Go home, miss.” The soldier waved for her to leave.

Susan turned the truck around, struggling to remove the stick from reverse. After finding the correct gear, she popped the clutch and pulled away. Through the rearview mirror, she stared at the smoky haze covering the airfield, then sniffed and wiped her face. “We tried.”

“There may be another way,” Bertie said.

Susan looked at him.

“Yes,” he said, scratching his head. “It may just work.”

“What?”

“Turn on Woodside.” He pointed. “There!”

Susan turned the wheel sharply, pressing Bertie into her shoulder.

He straightened himself in his seat.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“We can’t get in, but we can get a better look.”