They sat in silence for a while, then Bart said, “Was the raid a success? No one will tell me how many came home.”

“Disastrous,” Digby said.

“What about my squadron?”

“Sergeant Jenkins and his crew got back safely.” Digby drew a slip of paper from his pocket. “So did Pilot Officer Arasaratnam. Where’s he from?”

“Ceylon.”

“And Sergeant Riley’s aircraft took a hit but made it back.”

“Luck of the Irish,” said Bart. “What about the rest?”

Digby just shook his head.

“But there were six aircraft from my squadron on that raid!” Bart protested.

“I know. As well as you, two more were shot down. No apparent survivors.”

“So Creighton-Smith is dead. And Billy Shaw. And. . Oh, God.” He turned away.

“I’m sorry.”

Bart’s mood changed from despair to anger. “It’s not enough to be sorry,” he said. “We’re being sent out there to die!”

“I know.”

“For Christ’s sake, Digby, you’re part of the bloody government.”

“I work for the Prime Minister, yes.” Churchill liked to bring people from private industry into the government and Digby, a successful aircraft designer before the war, was one of his troubleshooters.

“Then this is your fault as much as anyone’s. You shouldn’t be wasting your time visiting the sick. Get the hell out of here and do something about it.”

“I am doing something,” Digby said calmly. “I’ve been given the task of finding out why this is happening. We lost fifty percent of the aircraft on that raid.”

“Bloody treachery at the top, I suspect. Or some fool air marshal boasting in his club about tomorrow’s raid, and a Nazi barman taking notes behind the beer pumps.”

“That’s one possibility.”