“Peter blinked his eyes open, squinting against the glare of the light bulb dangling directly over his bed. He shivered, throwing a reproachful look at the small wood stove in the corner, which had been entirely unequal to the task of keeping the room warm. Bob stood over him, a smile creasing the chiseled features of his face. “Hope you got a few winks, sir. You’re going to need them.” “Best sleep of my life,” Peter groaned as he grudgingly cast aside the comforter and blanket. He was still dr...essed in an American Army combat uniform, right down to the olive drab wool socks. The flight across the Atlantic in a rattletrap DC-3 transport had left him exhausted and chilled to the bone. After Bob had driven him to the OSS safe house in the pre-dawn hours after the plane had landed, Peter had crawled into bed and instantly fallen asleep. He knew he was in England, but that was all. The darkness, accentuated by the blacked out windows in the homes and buildings they’d passed, had denied him even a glimpse of the countryside he had come to love during his brief tenure at Bletchley Park. As he sat up, every muscle in his body cried out in protest, and the shattered knee of his right leg began to throb with a vengeance.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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