I nod, a stiff motion.

Through each bump and drop, every fiber in my body tenses. It’s nearly showtime on the largest stage imaginable, with limited planning, countless variables, and a mass of uncontrollable parts. I recall the trainer’s instructions, directed at the women as we learned to jump: Keep your knees and feet together, just like your mothers taught you!

The remark had received a mix of giggles and rolled eyes, my reaction being the latter. Now I’m grateful for the memorable phrase, as well as for the promise of soon being on the ground, released from this enclosure.

The notion brings me a trace of comfort until the plane banks left. I feel it descend to avoid anti-aircraft detection and flak—to as low as four hundred feet if matching our preflight rundown. The trade-off is our closer proximity to German eyes and ack-acks. Perhaps electric pylons and unseen mountainsides.

Stay calm, stay calm.

“Running in!” the dispatcher warns.

I swallow hard. We’re closing in on the drop zone.

The engines throttle back and the aircraft shudders. We’re slowing down, in contrast to my insides, which are roiling.

I visualize my drills in the hangar, my jumps straight down with chin tucked. My perfect landing from the hot-air balloon. You are quite a natural, I was told. And now I’m squeezing from the remark every ounce of confidence I can muster. At a low altitude, there will be no room for error.

The light goes green.

On cue, the dispatcher shoves the capsule through the opening. “Go! Go!” he shouts. The agents rush to follow one after the other, including Bram, who leaves me with a semi-salute that says: See you on the ground.

To ensure we’ll land reasonably close, on my rear, I scurry into place as quick as I’m able in my bundled suit, only to gaze down into an abyss.

Don’t think, don’t think, just drop.

But then the plane jerks hard, throwing me sideways across the floor. On reflex, I grab a metal bar attached to the wall. Possibilities ricochet in my head—we’ve clipped a tree, lost an engine, been sprayed by bullets.

I look to the dispatcher. Knocked to his knees against the wall, he clambers to right himself as the Halifax levels off, engines still roaring. No explosions. No shooting.

“Turbulence,” he yells, an explanation. Frantically he waves me toward the hole, urging me to hurry and catch up. “Go now, go!”

Though disoriented, driven by a spike of adrenaline, I do as he says.

And I jump.

Chapter 50