Susan couldn’t imagine her pigeons being stuffed like blueprints into tubes. They weren’t pieces of paper to protect from being wrinkled. They were pigeons. Her beautiful, intelligent, loyal pigeons. These devoted animals could possibly be Britain’s only insight into what the enemy was doing across the Channel, and they were being treated like second-class mail. She wanted to stomp on the tubes, rip them apart, and burn them in her grandfather’s fireplace.
