"Attention. Qualified radio operators interested in volunteering for immediate overseas assignment, report to ... "
He's already out of his chair, beans and bacon left uneaten. Despite the requirements for a European language, a willingness to qualify as a parachutist and the likelihood of a dangerous assignment - he volunteers. Within weeks, Joe finds himself on the Queen Mary headed for the Firth, then a train to Henley and eventually thundering across the channel on a B-17CS Flying Fortress, fully loaded and ready to bomb the shit out of Brest.
Dom has no idea what the kid's saying but snatches the note.
"Don't kill me. I won't talk," the boy pleads.
"You did this Monsieurs? A small victory for us I think and you helped preserve our ammunition." He chuckles in the direction of the corpses and kicks one of the bodies with a muddied boot. "Merde . . .Cochon Nazi!" he curses, then spits.
Harrison hands over the flimsy parchment.