CHAPTER TWO
English Channel, 6 July 1942
"Rum?" the man yelled over the noise of the plane.
I forced a smile and shook my head, absorbing another jolt. We sat on freezing bare metal in the tail of the plane. Cords and wires, taped together in snaking bundles, ran colorful patterns along the steel walls. I had orders to not speak to the three agents huddled beside me more than necessary, but from the hue of this one's pale face, I guessed he needed the alcohol.
Remembering Vera's final instructions, I studied my knees, avoided looking at my fellow passengers, and strove to be as faceless and forgettable as possible. Stay quiet. Stay calm. Be innocuous. It ought to be easy after the last fourteen years, but those had never felt easy either.
Sunlight barely penetrated the partition separating us from the cockpit, leaving only narrow beams that leaked through the joints of the fuselage. I sniffed my collar to see if the strong smell of oil had infiltrated my blouse.
Was a plane supposed to shake this much? The two men across from me, unperturbed by the rattling, leaned back against the riveted wall. If there'd been light enough, they'd probably have pulled out books. Were they pretending, or had they flown before?
One of the men in training told me he fell asleep every night picturing bullets tearing through his torso. If you die every day, it takes out the fear of it. Gets almost boring after a while, he'd confessed. Perhaps he'd taught his technique to these fellows.
"Oh God," the man beside me murmured, wiping his forehead.
In actual fact, flying was far less glorious than what I'd imagined—limbs turning weightless and hollow as we soared into the air. Instead, from our first lurch off the ground, I felt yanked toward the earth as never before, and now I was a pebble, tossed in a tin can. One of the crew picked his way toward us, bent almost double, steadying himself against the fuselage. He waved and shouted something inaudible.
"Come again?" I called back.
He came closer, crouching near enough to kiss me, but there was nothing intimate about the way he bellowed into my ear. "Skip says we can do better for our lady passenger. You'll be more comfortable up front. Take my seat."
My eyes went wide. I'd finally tamped down my nerves by locking myself in place right here.
He misread my hesitation as shyness. "It's all right, go on."
Abandoning the urge to explain, I forced a smile and accepted his misguided chivalry. Maybe this was the crew's attempt at an apology. They'd been surprised when I walked up to the plane this morning with the other three agents, assuming I was someone's wife come to say goodbye. When Vera explained I was the fourth agent, two of the flight crew argued she'd made a mistake.
"I don't look like a spy," I'd admitted to the loudest naysayer. "That's why I'll be great at it."
"Please," the crewman shouted in my ear. "We can make you more comfortable." He took my hand and helped me up, steadying me as we both wobbled forward. "It's a great day for flying," he told me. "Unlimited vis!"
Whatever that means. Careful of my stockings (sturdy wool, but war had taught me to guard my clothing), I shuffled past the partition, squinting as I moved from the dark belly of the plane into the blinding glare that reflected off instrument panels and the Perspex dome.
Another jolt. I clutched the empty seat beside the pilot.
Sit, he mouthed, gesturing to the chair.
I balled my hands to keep from touching the wrong thing. Hundreds of wrong things—dials, knobs, levers. Moving like a toddler clinging to furniture—in this case, the copilot's chair—I eased myself down and studied the pilot's harness until I figured out how to strap in.
Once safely seated, I pulled my legs back so I wouldn't jar anything important and shaded my eyes against the intense light.
"You'll want these," the pilot offered, passing me a limp leather helmet with hard circles over the ears and a pair of goggles.
I tugged them over my head and the glare dissipated, allowing me my first real look. I gasped. The pilot, understanding, finally offered some words. "Nothing like it, is there, love?"
His voice burst in my ears through the radio, crackling over the engine and propeller noise. A smile canned and packaged, sounding of tin. There was a snap of static, then another voice, not the pilot—perhaps the other one, who'd given his seat? "You like the view, Jacqueline?"
I nodded, unable to speak. Eye-shattering blue above and below. A sea of rippling silk, bordered by crescents of white beach and miniature cliffs that rose to a patchwork of fields and lanes, dotted by clusters of rooftops: barns, houses, and the pinprick spires of churches. It looked so peaceful and perfect—no signs of bombs or antiaircraft guns or blackout shelters.
"Absolutely gobsmacking. I've never seen anything so wonderful."
"You picked the right day for it," another voice said through the radio. "This one is right out of Hollywood."
