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friendly French or Dutch civilians,’ continued Bowman. ‘I think we can safely say there will be no friendly German civilians.’
    He smiled at his little joke. Harry was still reeling from the news that there would be no proper parachute training. Surely it couldn’t be that simple. How did you steer the thing or land?
    ‘You must find civilian clothes as quickly as possible,’ said Bowman. ‘But it is essential you keep your identity discs.’ He stopped and for a brief moment a look of distaste flashed across his face. ‘I believe you call them “dog tags”. If you’re caught without “dog tags”, the Germans might think you are a spy and that will prove fatal.’
    To underline his point he said, ‘Spies are shot if they are lucky, and tortured then shot if they are not so lucky.’
    At first Harry had found it difficult to take this stuffed-shirt Brit seriously, but as the lecture progressed a cold chill settled in his guts. This was definitely not a game. It had never yet occurred to him that if they survived being shot down, they would face another terrifying ordeal on the ground.
    ‘I urge you all to take the latest issue of a British newspaper with you when you go into combat. If you have a copy of The Times or the Eastern Daily Press , then you can prove to Fritz that you have just arrived.’
    That, at least, seemed a pretty simple thing to do to stop you being shot.
    After the lecture, they went off to have their photos taken. This, explained Bowman, was so they could carry passport-sized prints for fake identity cards. The photographer had a small selection of weather-beaten jumpers and jackets. ‘You’re supposed to be a French civilian. You can wear a beret too, if you really want to get into the role.’
    The next day, the little passport-sized photographs arrived. ‘Hey, Friedman, look at you.’ Corrales ruffled his hair. ‘You look like a little cherub.’
    Harry batted away his hand. ‘And you look like an axe murderer.’
    He didn’t like the guys teasing him about his age. He hadn’t told any of them he was really seventeen, but he thought they probably knew. He told himself to forget about it. He was here now, and if anyone was going to stop him from flying, they would have done so by now.
    They had another lecture later that morning, this time from the colonel. Kittering told them it had cost many thousands of dollars to train them, so it was their duty as loyal Americans to try to escape if they were shot down. Harry wanted to ask about parachute training, and how they were supposed to land, but he lost his nerve.Sometimes you were made to feel like there were questions you just didn’t ask.

    After breakfast the following day, Holberg gathered them together in front of the Macey May and announced they would be making a high-altitude flight that morning. Most bombing raids were flown at twenty-five thousand feet, even thirty thousand. It was thought this great height would offer protection from German flak and fighters. That was higher than most of them had ever flown before, even in training. They were to report to the equipment store immediately to draw out oxygen masks and heated suits.
    ‘You need to shave every morning you have a high-altitude flight,’ said the instructor, after they’d collected their masks. ‘If these masks leak, you won’t get enough oxygen. You can easily pass out without even realising. And if no one else on the flight notices, they’ll find you stone cold dead by the time they find out something’s wrong.’
    Harry felt a twinge in his gut and recalled mess-time conversations with other B-17 crews, warning them of the perils of high-altitude flying.
    The masks were strange things – leather and canvas muzzles that attached to their leather flying caps, with a snaking tube that connected to their individual oxygen supplies. They took away your individuality, making you an anonymous sinister figure – like something out of a science-fiction