"Tag, you're it, Stuart!" young Harry Winslow shouted in a winded voice.
"I didn't feel a thing, Harry," Stuart scoffed. "You must have missed me."
"That's because he tagged you on your thick head," Stuart's little sister, Erin, hollered.
Stuart stooped over, as if to catch his breath. Then, a devilish grin flashed across his face and he tore after Erin and Harry. While the children chased each other, their playful shrieks of laughter carried over the fields.
Twelve year old Harry Winslow and his best friends, Stuart and Erin Bentley, enjoyed a warm summer day playing on a small hill in the pastures of Harry's family farm. The rolling countryside was always inviting, and this was their favorite place. What made the grassy knoll special was the view. On the other side of a bushy hedgerow fence bordering the Winslow property lay Hampton Airfield, home to a Royal Air Force fighter squadron.
Suddenly, the thunder of powerful engines echoed. Out on the neighboring airfield, twelve RAF Spitfires scrambled down the runway and lifted into the air. Climbing to altitude, the mighty fighter planes gathered in close formation and raced off into the distance. Harry and his friends stopped everything to watch, awed by the sight.
When the war in Europe first threatened England, two things changed in young Harry Winslow's life. His father was called away to serve in the British Intelligence, and the empty field next to his home was made into a landing strip for the RAF's 14th Fighter Squadron. Amazed by the pilots and planes, Harry quickly befriended the men, growing especially close to the Squadron Leader, Captain Ted Dawson. In his father's absence, Dawson and the others filled a particular emptiness in the boy's heart.
Harry tried to do as much as he could for his adopted RAF family, often assisting in ways well beyond his years. Stuart and Erin were eager to help as well. They savored the excitement of being around the squadron. When the children weren't actually with the pilots, they could be found waiting on the hilltop ready and willing to serve their heroic special friends.
Even with the 14th Squadron away, Harry, Stuart and Erin liked to keep an eye on the airfield. There was always something to see. Down on the hardstand, aircrews were busy repairing damaged planes and servicing new arrivals.
When a lone Spitfire landed on the field, the children dropped in the grass to watch. Visitors to Hampton were much more apparent in the absence of the squadron, especially to the spying eyes of Harry and his friends. They had become experts at identifying newcomers. By keeping a record of the serial numbers painted on the planes, sometimes famous pilots could be found. Working together, the vigilant young team had already spotted two well-known RAF combat aces in just the past month.
Harry clutched a pair of binoculars and focused on the arriving Spitfire, trying to read the numbers painted by the tail. Erin held a weathered scrapbook in her hands, and Stuart waited with pencil and paper to take notes.
"There it is," Harry mumbled. "It starts with a... W."
Erin leafed through her notebook filled with pictures of RAF airplanes, newspaper clippings, and pages of scribbled entries.
"Maybe it's Ginger Lacey!" she shouted, excited at the prospect of discovering a national hero like RAF fighter ace James "Ginger" Lacey.
"W..., 2..., 5...,"
Harry continued, struggling to follow the moving airplane and read the serial numbers at the same time.
"Harry," Erin demanded impatiently. "Tell us, W25 and then what?"
"Yeah, Harry," Stuart added. "Erin's right, if you can't read the whole thing, give us a look."
Amidst some playful shoving and grabbing for the binoculars, Harry pleaded, "Cut it out, guys. I can't see the rest until the plane turns. Besides, it's not Lacey, his serial number doesn't start with a W."
Caught up in the excitement of identifying the mysterious visitor, the children hardly noticed when Harry's mother stepped up from behind. In a gentle voice she asked, "Is anyone hungry?"
Stuart and Erin spun around. Mrs. Winslow pulled some fresh biscuits from a basket and waved them in front of the startled children. Tempted by the delicious offer, Stuart and Erin abandoned the game and clamored to her side. But Harry clung to his binoculars, determined to catch a glimpse of the last elusive serial numbers.
"Before I give you one, tell me what you've been doing all morning," Mrs. Winslow teased, and handed a biscuit to each of the two hungry children.
"We're birdwatching," Erin quickly announced.
Harry's mother looked up, surveyed the empty sky, and reported, "I don't see any birds."
"Not those birds, mum..., those," Stuart corrected by pointing at the planes down on the airfield. "We watch the planes and try to figure out who the pilots are. It's good fun."
"Oh, of course," Mrs. Winslow chuckled. "I'm sure it is."
While Erin and Stuart chatted with Mrs. Winslow, Harry continued studying the airplane on the field. Steadfast, he narrowed in on the remaining numbers.
"Children," Mrs. Winslow announced, "I have wonderful news. There's a carnival coming to town this weekend. I've made plans for us all to go."
"We can go to the carnival with you and Harry?" Stuart asked excitedly.
"That's right, dear," Mrs. Winslow replied. "I've cleared it with your mother so you and Erin can come along."
"Harry," Erin shouted, "we're all going to the carnival. Won't that be glorious?"
Still fixed on the Spitfire, Harry suddenly shouted, "I've got it! The serial number is W2535. See if you can find anything on W2535."
Erin quickly stuffed the biscuit in her mouth and scrambled back to her scrapbook. She raced through the pages searching for some record of the serial number. Coming up empty, Erin sat back on her feet and huffed, "Nothing."
The disappointed children eyed each other. This time, the visiting plane wasn't the mount of some famous fighter pilot. It was most likely just a messenger or replacement of some sort.
Mrs. Winslow sensed a lull in the action and seized the opportunity to try and pry Harry away from the airfield to have lunch.
"Come along, Harry, I've made a bite for you and your friends."
"But, Mom, the squadron isn't back yet," Harry impatiently complained.
Trying to strike a balance between her son's passion for the pilots and his need to eat, Mrs. Winslow offered, "I'm sure you can visit your pilots later. In the meantime, we'll make our carnival plans."
"Harry!" Erin begged. "We've been out here for hours and haven't eaten all day. Let's go with your mom and plan for the carnival."
"You go ahead," Harry replied, "I'll be there straight away, once the squadron lands."
Frustrated by her son's preoccupation with the airfield, Mrs. Winslow sighed, "Come along children. We'll have lunch and try to save him something, assuming he ever comes home."
With that, Harry's mother led Stuart and Erin back to the house. Mrs. Winslow worried about the amount of time Harry spent at the airfield. She couldn't help but wonder how much her young son was missing while watching and waiting for the pilots every day.
"Don't be too long, love," she called back.
"I won't, Mom," Harry shouted and then mumbled to himself, "I just want to be sure everything is all right."