Susan drove north. To the left was Wintry Wood. Thick groves of virgin trees covered the ground, their fallen leaves pasted to the damp road like a carpet. To the right lay pastures overgrown with dormant weeds. No sheep. No crops. Only thorny bramble. Beyond the fields, a long wire fence ran parallel to the neglected farms. North Weald Airfield? She struggled to get a better look, felt the tires rumble on the berm, and quickly adjusted the wheel.

“Focus, my dear,” Bertie said. “It’s not far.”

A few hundred yards ahead, she followed Bertie’s instructions and turned into a farm. She slowed as she approached a brick farmhouse. Brown vines slithered over the front door, their progress stopped shy of the second-story windows by approaching winter. She briefly wondered if the entire English countryside would soon be deserted, fearing the inevitable German invasion.

“The Jamisons moved to Shrewsbury when the war started,” Bertie said. “Several years ago, Mr. Jamison had fallen ill during lambing season. I tended to his sheep while he recovered. The barn overlooks North Weald.” He pointed. “Drive around back.”

Susan drove to the back of the house and parked in front of the barn. She helped Bertie out of the truck. As she expected, he refused to use his walking stick but accepted the crook of her arm. Together, they pried open the barn door, its hinges squeaking from rust. The inside, despite being empty, still smelled of old manure and straw.

“Up there.” He pointed to a ladder leading to a hayloft. “I’ll follow.”

“Your knees.”

“I’ll be fine.”

Susan climbed the ladder, the rungs worn smooth from decades of soiled boots and sweaty hands. Faint afternoon sun sprayed through cracks in the boards. Reaching the top, she heard Bertie grunting as he labored to climb the ladder. She lowered herself to her knees, took his hands, and helped him to the landing. As she brushed straw from her clothes, Bertie stood and swung open the doors. Light illuminated the hayloft.

He looked outside and squinted. “Too far for me.”

Susan joined him. The elevation from the hayloft gave a distant, but clear view of North Weald Airfield. Her heart raced.

“What do you see?” he asked.

She scanned the airfield looking for Grandfather’s truck or any sign of Ollie and the pigeons. But smoke, drifting in thick black billows, clouded much of the view. “There’s a burning hangar. A fire brigade is fighting the flames. Men are filling holes in a runway.” Her legs felt brittle. She leaned on the door to steady herself. “I don’t see him.”

“How many planes?”

She noticed what appeared to be the charred skeletal remains of two planes. She bit her lip, fighting back tears. “I see a couple of burned planes.”

“Bombers or fighters?”

She squinted. “I can’t tell.”

He raised his chin. “They’re on their way.”

“How do you know?”