“No, you’ll be fine,” I lied, inwardly panicking. What should I do? Should I tell him he’s going to die in case he has something he needs to say? I felt so utterly unprepared: What was I doing here? What was I playing at?

“If,” he stammered quietly. “If I die, w-will you give my ring to someone?” He tried to raise his hand, and I saw the gold band loose on his finger.

“Of course,” I said, slipping it off and holding it out in my hand. It was a man’s signet ring, heavy, old, valuable.

“Give it to Carrington,” he murmured, his voice breaking as he spoke the name. “In Parnham, near Litchfield.”

“That’s close, I can get it there,” I said gently. “Is there a message?”

“Say I love you,” he choked horribly.

“Of course I’ll give it to her,” I said.

“He’s a man,” he whispered, his eyes looking into mine, large with dread, scared that he’d asked too much, said too much. He could be hanged for this. If he wasn’t dead already.

A surge of blood rushed to my face. I’ve never met a homosexual before. I’d heard of them, of course, but always thought they were different, living in an underworld, as if they didn’t really exist at all. But here was a gentle, handsome, dying youth telling me to send his last message to his friend, who he loved. I was speechless for a moment, unraveling the dense mesh between morality and reality.

“I’ll tell him,” I whispered.

Then, as if something had suddenly occurred to him, he opened his eyes wide and gasped, “You won’t, you won’t hand him in, will you?”

“No,” I said, meeting his gaze. “You can trust me.”

“I, I wasn’t thinking. I forgot that I could land him in trouble. I couldn’t bear for anything to happen to him.” His lean body began to shudder with tears.

I wanted to wrap my arms around him, but I couldn’t take my hands away from the thickening maroon of blood flooding the dressing. All I could do was find his hand and squeeze it tight.

“You’re the brave one,” I said. “You’re the hero. Carrington will be fine. Don’t worry about him. Just rest and breathe easily.”

And his breath became easier, and easier, until it stopped. I looked around for help, someone to tell, someone to acknowledge this death.

But no one was there. They were too busy.

Another life just begun and already over. A faraway star glows brighter and then disappears into the void.

What an insignificant, unprepared army of souls we are.

AIR BASE 9463, DAWS HILL, BUCKINGHAMSHIRE.

Tuesday, 4th June, 1940

Dear Venetia, My darling, I can’t tell you how incredibly hard we’ve fought these last weeks, keeping the Luftwaffe from bombing the men being rescued at Dunkirk. The last boats left today, and we flew wearily back to base to celebrate our successes, and my name has been bandied around as something of a hero, no less.

Our dogfighting happened mostly inland, heading off the Luftwaffe before they got to Dunkirk, and it wasn’t until the fourth day that I went after three Messerschmitts into the fray, shooting them all down. They’re making a tremendous fuss about it back here at the base, even though I keep insisting it was nothing.

I will be home on leave in a month or so, and have asked Mother to arrange an engagement celebration of sorts. I can’t wait for our honeymoon, my dearest, when you will finally be mine.

All my love, Henry

Wednesday, 12th June, 1940

Nothing for ages, and now we’re right in the midst of war!

Dunkirk was astounding! We rescued almost all the British troops and most of the French troops, too. Far more than anyone had hoped. Everyone says it’s all thanks to the “little ships,” all those ordinary people dropping everything to hurry off in boats and pick up our soldiers off the beach. Daddy took his yacht over and says he saved over three hundred soldiers. “Bombed all the way!” he says. He has been incredibly pleased with himself, with people lining up to shake hands in the village square.

“We small boats were central to operations,” he told a gathering. “We could go right up to the beach, carry the men to the big ships in deeper waters ready to head for England. It was a fearful scene. Crowds of men crawling the beach like ants, wading into the water, sometimes up to their shoulders, while overhead Nazi planes strafed us with bullets. I’ll never forget hauling those men out of the murky water, some badly wounded, all exhausted, the bullets pummeling the choppy sea around us.”

Luckily David Tilling came home all right, although exhausted and starved. Mrs. Tilling was incredibly relieved and kept him in bed for two days to recover. Fortunately, the Colonel gave up his room and has taken a hotel room in Litchfield, or I think we’d have had a war right here in Chilbury.

Ralph Gibbs from the shop came back in a bit of a state, with his shoulder dislocated and some broken ribs. He is prone to fighting, and we can’t help wondering if his injuries were from the enemy or from trouble in the ranks. He gets to stay at home for now, while David Tilling has to go back again in a few weeks, probably heading to North Africa. And very unhappy he is, too, mooching around trying to woo Venetia, who is far too busy with Mr. Slater to even notice him.