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It was a cloudless late summer day, and the blue sky and green land with its patchwork of fields and farms made for a stunning vista.
    They climbed steadily, heading north-west towards the Isle of Arran, off the west coast of Scotland. That was to be their turning point and would provide them with a flight time similar to the bombing runs they would be expected to make over enemy territory.
    After half an hour Holberg’s voice came over the interphone. ‘Ten thousand feet. Oxygen masks on. Keep watching the skies.’
    Holberg never wasted a word when they were flying, although he was friendly enough on the ground. He instilled in them all the importance of saying only what needed to be said when they were airborne.
    The four aero-engines screamed with the effort of lifting the heavy bomber up towards the edge of the stratosphere and as they climbed and the plane banked slightly in a turn Harry noticed how the sky above grew darker blue as they edged towards their maximum height of thirty-five thousand feet.
    It was strange up there. Too high for birds and certainly no place for a human being. The cool, clean oxygen Harry was breathing kept his head clear and he maintained a steady watch, slowly rotating his turret through its 360 degrees. Sometimes it was difficult to keep up the watching, staring into infinite nothing. But Harry was keenly aware that this was the first flight they were making where they might meet with an enemy fighter. For the first time they were in danger of being killed in action.
    He noticed a few wispy cirrus clouds drift by below and watched the engine exhausts leave four fluffy white trails against the blue sky as they ploughed through the stratosphere. Despite the cold and discomfort, he couldn’t help feeling this was a magical place.

    When they got back to Kirkstead, Holberg gathered his crew round and congratulated them on a successful flight. Then he announced he had got them all a day pass toKirkstead for tomorrow. There was a ‘jumble sale’ he told them, and a fête with a cake baking contest. It would be their first immersion into British life.
    ‘Sir, what the hell’s a jumble sale?’ asked Jim Corrales.
    ‘You better make sure you read your Servicemen’s Guide to Great Britain ,’ said Holberg. ‘I’m sure it’ll all be “jolly nice”.’
    They all smirked, but Harry went back to his bunk and read that very manual. A jumble sale, it said in the glossary, was a rummage sale.
    For the crew of the Macey May , Saturday morning had the makings of a perfect day. A crisp dawn, ham and eggs for breakfast, and a leisurely shower before they all assembled in their best dress uniform – the one they wore for parades and other formal ceremonies.
    But that morning was also the bomb group’s first mission since Schweinfurt. As Holberg and his crew strolled towards the village, they stopped to watch the active service crews take to the sky. The squadron was still under-strength from its usual twelve after the disaster of Schweinfurt, and they counted ten planes taking off. The Macey May crew weren’t supposed to know, but it was no secret that this was a short mission over to the Charleroi steel plant in Belgium.
    Ralph Dalinsky spoke to Holberg. ‘It don’t feel right, us going out to enjoy ourselves while the bomb group is off over enemy territory, sir.’
    The captain just shook his head. ‘We’ll be up there with them soon enough, Sergeant, so just enjoy yourself while the sun is shining.’
    Kirkstead was only a few minutes’ walk from the base and they arrived to find a crowded church hall, full of bustling bargain hunters and the tables already half empty. Seeing Harry’s disappointed face a stout elderly lady in a floral dress hooked her arm around his. ‘Rule number one of jumble sales, young man: get there early. This one’s been open for nearly an hour.’
    She was the first English person who had spoken to him directly, and all of a sudden Harry felt tongue tied. He