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‘We’ve done it,’ yelled Pedersen. ‘We’ve done it!’

‘Hang on,’ said Tommy. ‘That’s not land. It’s fog.’

Sure enough, the elements had thrown up an optical illusion, as if trying to shatter the spirits of the tiring pilots. The bank of fog had looked exactly like cliffs in the distance. Nevertheless, Tommy and Kjeld knew if they kept flying west, real land would come soon enough.

By 5.15 a.m. (British time) on Sunday 22 June, they had been in the air for almost six hours. Then they spotted a small island ahead of them. ‘We were sure we could see breakers crashing against rocks and we looked at each other with joy,’ said Tommy. They dropped down to a height of just fifty meters to take a closer look. Although they suspected it was another mirage, soon there seemed no doubt: green vegetation and black rocks beckoned them closer. Then a big white lighthouse came into view. It certainly was an island, and the mainland was now visible beyond it too. A small town. It couldn’t be Newcastle, which they knew to be much bigger. So where were they? On one side, there was a sweeping curve in the coastline.

Pedersen suddenly looked worried. ‘No sign of an island on the map, Sneum. Do you know what that looks like?’

‘What?’

‘The mouth of the Zuiderzee.’

‘I suppose it could be,’ said Tommy, playing along.

‘For Christ’s sake, we’re in Holland!’ There was fresh panic in Pedersen’s face.

‘Fuck off or I’ll throw you overboard,’ Sneum scoffed dismissively, when he thought Kjeld had suffered enough.

‘No, wait, I agree with you,’ said Pedersen in a climbdown so sudden that it confused his fellow pilot. ‘I think this is England.’

‘Why the change of heart?’ Tommy asked.

‘Because of those,’ came the reply. Kjeld pointed, his hand shaking. The sky was alive with Spitfires and Hurricanes. Unbeknown to the Danes, their little sports plane had been spotted as it approached tiny Coquet Island just off the Northumberland coast. David Baston of the Royal Observer Corps was stationed at Gloucester Hill Farm near Amble, the little town seen by Sneum and Pedersen. As soon as the bemused Baston had sighted the Hornet Moth, he had called his headquarters in Durham. The message, quickly relayed to nearby RAF Acklington, had led to four planes being scrambled. Now Sneum and Pedersen were at the mercy of those fighters, which circled and swooped like vultures.

This was just the type of crisis for which the broomstick and giant white towel had been designed. It wasn’t for nothing that they had suffered the effects of the pierced cockpit roof all the way across the North Sea. Sneum looked up to check that their symbol of goodwill was still fluttering above them. To his consternation, though, the huge towel had been reduced to the size of a handkerchief—and a ragged, dirty one at that. To British eyes, there would be nothing to distinguish them from the enemy. ‘That wasn’t a good moment,’ Tommy remembered later with considerable understatement.

As they wondered what they could do to avoid being blasted out of the sky, they flew over a small harbor and found themselves just above the rooftops of the town. But something wasn’t right about the scene below them. ‘Strange, I can’t see a soul down there,’ observed Kjeld.

Then Sneum realized what was happening. ‘They take cover in an air-raid.’ Pedersen still looked confused. ‘It’s because of us.’

The Spitfires came down for a closer look, presumably trying to decide whether to blow the Hornet Moth to pieces. If they hadn’t been crossing the town, that might have happened already. Tommy recalled: ‘We waved to them and they signalled to us, but we knew we were still in trouble.’ One Spitfire pilot responded by pointing downwards. ‘Land or we’ll open fire’ appeared to be the message. As Sneum headed for gently rising fields behind the town, the Spitfires and Hurricanes climbed high above the mystery intruder, though they remained in a perfect position to strike. Then a commotion on the ground caused