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prayer and envied him. Harry didn’t know what to think, but he found it hard to believe in a God looking over his creation if even half of what he’d heard about the Nazis was true.
    It was almost dark when they returned to their hut. Jim Corrales turned on the light switch and they were shocked to see that half the room had been cleared out. All the cases and pin-ups and drying clothes that had been there this afternoon had gone. And the bunks had been stripped of their linen. The hut had been given a clean too and smelt of bleach.
    ‘Sweet Jesus,’ said Corrales. ‘Those guys were standing here this morning, just like we are now. Then they flew to Schweinfurt and they’re gone.’
    ‘Maybe they moved to another hut?’ said John. Everyone else just shook their heads.
    It reminded Harry of the time he had spent in the Beth-El Hospital in Brooklyn with his elder brother, David, during the 1941 polio outbreak. His brother had been far sicker than him and was sent to another ward. When Harry went to see him the next morning, he found an empty bed laid out fresh and ready for the next patient. A sharp smell of bleach had hung in the air. Knowing at once that David was dead, Harry had fled in helpless tears. Every time he smelt it now it sent a shiver through his body.
    They prepared for bed in silence, each man lost in his own thoughts. Harry stared at the bottom of the bunk above, wondering if he was ever going to get to sleep. He was too tired. And, he had worked it out, it was still only six o’clock in the evening over there in Brooklyn. He thought of his mom and dad. He had promised to write to them the minute he arrived in England, but he just wasn’t in the mood. The day’s events played out in his mind. It had been a real roller coaster. The joy of flying above the clouds. Relief when they had landed safely after such a long flight. The thrill of being in a strange new land. Horror at witnessing such a gruesome crash.
    When Harry finally fell into a restless sleep his dreams were troubling. As a child he had read about the gods of ancient Greece and how they could cut the silver thread of life according to their whim and fancy. In his mind’s eye he saw himself gliding like a bird through sunset clouds,suspended from that silver thread. At once he felt in terrible danger and woke with a start. His chest felt heavy; his mouth was dry. Outside, dim light peeped through the flimsy curtains. It felt cold and damp in the hut and he shut his eyes tight, dreading what the next few days would bring.

CHAPTER 3
August 20th, 1943
    Three days after they arrived, Harry’s crew had still not been allowed to leave the airbase. ‘They think we’ll run away!’ said Jim Corrales. ‘Go off to London and join a Limey circus! Beats this gig, that’s for sure!’
    On the second day at Kirkstead they had all attended escape classes as a crew. A crusty British officer, on loan from the RAF, introduced himself as Flight Lieutenant Bowman.
    ‘It is extremely important that you bury your parachute as soon as you land,’ he said, in clipped upper-class tones, just like a Hollywood Brit.
    Dalinsky put up his hand. ‘When do we get to try out the parachutes, sir?’
    The flight lieutenant gave him a hard stare. ‘When your aeroplane is on fire and you need to get out of it.’
    A murmur of discontent went round the room. Holberg stood up, announcing his name and rank to let this guy know he wasn’t going to be talked down to, and asked if he was serious. ‘Do you mean to say we aren’t trained on how to bail out from a plane?’ he asked.
    ‘You train on the ground,’ said the flight lieutenant. ‘You go through the bailing-out drill until you can do it blindfolded. All you have to remember is to pull that ripcord on your chute after you count to five. That way you’ll be clear of the aircraft. Take it from me, you don’t need training for that.
    ‘And you need to ditch your uniform as soon as you make contact with