Bertie gingerly stepped down from the porch and hobbled, his legs bowed like the forearms of an old bulldog. “You must have been told something,” he said, approaching the men.

“Only that the lorry was left at the airfield and that its driver was presumed to have fled during the attack.” He handed the key to Bertie.

“Presumed?” Susan asked. “Something’s wrong. He didn’t come home.”

“That’s all we know, I’m afraid.” The soldier returned the cap to his head. “If you’ll excuse us, we need to set up and check the alarms.” The soldiers retrieved olive-green canvas bags from their vehicle and disappeared into the tent.

Bertie put his arm around Susan and walked her inside.

She watched him check the telephone line, which was still not working, but it likely didn’t matter. She knew there would be no use in contacting North Weald Airfield. The RAF had more important things to do than search for a missing American or a pet pigeon.

“Come on,” he said, reaching for his coat.

“Where are we going?”

“To check the hospital.”

The words stung her. She quickly retrieved his walking stick and followed him out the door.

After returning the McCrearys’ lorry, which they simply left in the drive with the key under the seat, they drove to St. Margaret’s Hospital in Epping. The parking lot of the small brick community hospital was filled, so she resorted to parking along the street. She got out, removed Grandfather’s walking stick from the back of the truck, and found him already standing on the curb.

“I’d rather use your arm, my dear,” Bertie said.

Susan returned the stick and looped her arm around his elbow. She knew he should be off his feet or at the very least using a cane. But selfishly, she felt comforted to help him. And it briefly occurred to her that Bertie knew this as well.

As they approached the entrance, an ambulance, followed by a civilian truck with three men sitting in the bed, pulled to the front of the building. Medics ran to the rear of the ambulance, flung open the door, and slid out a stretcher. Although the body was completely covered, it was the rounded belly protruding from under the gray wool blanket that made Susan freeze. She gripped Bertie’s arm.

“Bloody hell,” he whispered.

Susan wanted to turn her head but felt compelled to watch the men leap from the back of the truck and remove another woman wearing a soiled nightgown. Thin legs covered in deep cuts and scratches dangled from the stretcher. The woman, clearly pregnant and in labor, hugged her swollen stomach and cried, “No! It’s too early!”