The injured women were rushed inside. The vehicles raced off, the ambulance leading the way with its blaring siren. Susan desperately wanted to go home. But she forced herself to take one step, then another, and another, until they reached the door.

Inside, the doctors and nurses were in a frenzy treating survivors from Sprigg’s Oak Maternity Home. They overheard that a parachute mine had struck a wing where staff and expectant mothers who had no air-raid shelter were taking refuge.

“How many?” Bertie asked a gray-haired orderly retrieving a gurney.

The orderly stopped, his eyes dark and sunken from lack of sleep. “At least a dozen. More, counting the babies.” He sniffed and cleared his throat. “They’re still digging them out.”

Susan cupped her mouth.

“Good Lord,” Bertie said.

“Is there anything we can do?” Susan asked.

The orderly wiped his face. “Pray for them.”

Bertie placed his hand on the orderly’s shoulder. “Was anyone brought in from North Weald Airfield?”

He shook his head. “They were sent to RAF Hospital Ely.”

Susan watched the orderly grab the gurney and push it down the hallway. The squeaking wheels sent shivers up her spine.

She left St. Margaret’s Hospital, realizing the war had come to Epping. As they drove in silence to RAF Hospital Ely, she couldn’t stop thinking about the expectant mothers who had come to Sprigg’s Oak from London, seeking a safe place to deliver their babies. They were bringing life into a world of war. And the Luftwaffe had found them. Not only had someone lost a mother, a daughter, or a wife, they had also lost an unborn baby. She turned to ask Bertie for his handkerchief and saw that he was using it to dry his eyes.

They arrived at RAF Hospital Ely before noon. Even in the waiting area, the smell of ether and antiseptic made Susan want to hold her breath. They stood in a long line waiting for a receptionist, fielding questions from relatives desperately trying to learn about a son or husband. As they inched forward in line, the thought of Ollie possibly being injured turned her body weak. Goose bumps rose on her skin. Her legs felt like twigs about to snap. She clasped Bertie’s arm to keep her hands from trembling. When they reached the front of the line, the receptionist scanned her papers and said, “We have no civilians here, in particular an American brought in from North Weald.”

“Are you certain?” Susan asked. “His name is Ollie Evans.”

“Oliver,” Bertie added.

The receptionist looked again through her papers and shook her head. “I’m afraid we have no one by those names.”

A nurse overhearing the conversation approached the receptionist and said, “What about the burn patient?”

Susan’s heart palpitated.

“I thought he was an airman,” the receptionist said.