“It was the only way to avoid taking our exams,” Charles said, shaking Digby’s hand.

Bart said, “How are the Africans treating you?”

Charles smiled and explained to Digby, “There’s a squadron of Rhodesians at our airfield. First class flyers, but they find it difficult to deal with an officer of my color. We call them the Africans, which seems to irritate them slightly. I can’t think why.”

Digby said, “Obviously you’re not letting it get you down.”

“I believe that with patience and improved education we may eventually be able to civilize such people, primitive though they seem now.” Charles looked away, and Digby caught a glimpse of the anger beneath his good humor.

“I was just asking Bart why he thinks we’re losing so many bombers,” Digby said. “What’s your opinion?”

“I wasn’t on this raid,” Charles said. “By all accounts, I was lucky to miss it. But other recent operations have been pretty bad. I get the feeling the Luftwaffe can follow us through cloud. Might they have some kind of equipment on board that enables them to locate us even when we’re not visible?”

Digby shook his head. “Every crashed enemy aircraft is minutely examined, and we’ve never seen anything like what you’re talking about. We’re working hard to invent that kind of device, and I’m sure the enemy are, too, but we’re a long way from success, and we’re pretty sure they’re well behind us. I don’t think that’s it.”

“Well, that’s what it feels like.”

“I still think there are spies,” Bart said.

“Interesting.” Digby stood up. “I have to get back to Whitehall. Thanks for your opinions. It helps to talk to the men at the sharp end.” He shook hands with Charles and squeezed Bart’s uninjured shoulder. “Sit still and get well.”

“They say I’ll be flying again in a few weeks.”

“I can’t say I’m glad.”

As Digby turned to go, Charles said, “May I ask you a question?”