Early the next morning, Harry Winslow and his mother sat at their kitchen table. While Mrs. Winslow poured over the newspaper, Harry reached for the sections she had finished. Practically every page contained an article about the war raging throughout the world. But, Harry was most interested in the stories about pilots and planes, especially ones with pictures for his scrapbook.
Suddenly, Harry blurted out, "Mom, I want to join the Royal Air Force. Everyone says they need more pilots."
Preoccupied with her reading, Mrs. Winslow mumbled, "Yes dear, I'm sure you will someday."
"Mom, I mean now," Harry persisted. "Stuart and I made a pact. We want to join the RAF today. He's going to get his mom's permission and then come over to our house."
Mrs. Winslow slowly folded the paper. Bewildered by Harry's abrupt desire to join the Royal Air Force, she stared at her son.
"When he gets here, will you take us to the recruiting office?" Harry boldly asked.
"Harry," his mother started to explain, "the RAF doesn't allow twelve year old boys to join. You and Stuart can't enlist until you're old enough. I'm hopeful there won't be a war when that time comes."
Harry sat up in his chair. "But that's the whole point, Mom. We want to help while we can."
Mrs. Winslow was proud of Harry's sincerity, but grew frustrated with his refusal to accept the limits of his age. Searching for a way to avoid an argument, she tried making her son feel needed by reminding him, "Harry, while your father is away, you're the man of the Winslow house. Without you, who will tend the farm for me?"
Harry shifted in his seat. He was stumped by his mother's question and lost for a reply. Quietly, Harry returned to the newspaper. The discussion was over and an awkward silence took its place.
A moment later, the thunder of fighter plane engines echoed from the airfield. Harry looked at his mother. His eyes telegraphed his thoughts. He felt embarrassed about not being able to enlist and wanted to get away. Mrs. Winslow simply nodded her permission for Harry to go and see his pilots.
Harry bolted out the door and raced to the airfield. He noticed Stuart and Erin up ahead, walking along the path leading to their favorite place overlooking the hardstand. Seeing Stuart reminded him about their agreement and his mother's refusal to let him join the RAF. Harry slowed down and quietly trailed behind them. He needed some time to figure out the best way to explain his problem.
When Harry finally reached his friends, it didn't take long for him to notice Stuart was in a foul mood. The three children silently trudged the rest of the way to the airfield. Eventually, Harry drew enough courage to tell Stuart the bad news.
"Stuart, I...," Harry stumbled, trying to find the right words.
"Harry," Erin interrupted, "before you say anything, Stuart has to tell you something."
Stuart nervously kicked the ground with the toe of his shoe, unable to speak. At last, he blurted out, "I'm sorry, Harry, my mom won't let me join the RAF with you."
"Stuart," Harry wailed, "my mom won't let me join either!"
The children eyed each other, flabbergasted. But the clumsy moment quickly passed.
"Did she say you're too young?" Erin asked, divulging most of the conversation between Stuart and their mother.
"That's exactly what she said," Harry shouted.
Stuart and Harry playfully shoved each other, drawn together by a common bond.
"I told you both," Erin chimed in, "there's no way our moms would let you join. After all, you're just kids."
The boys stopped their wrestling. Although Erin was right, they desperately wanted to help the pilots of Hampton by joining the RAF and were frustrated by being told they were too young.
Harry, Stuart and Erin continued down the path and finally arrived at the hill overlooking Hampton Airfield. As usual, they settled in behind the hedgerow and watched the crews going about their tasks. Everything seemed routine until an unknown pilot stepped onto the hardstand. The observant children quickly noticed the stranger. Spying over the bushes, they sized up the red-haired recruit. There was something oddly familiar about the young man on the field, and it wasn't his uniform.
