On the second day of the German invasion, exhausted by several sleepless nights, Lt Haakon Sverdrup saw the blazing pieces of the Me-110 being reconciled forever in the cold waters of the Skagerrak. One more down. Sverdrup banked left and hid into the clouds his worn-out Gladiator, the last one to fly on this morning of April 1940. Three other grey-marbled Messerschmitts slipped by unaware, heading for the Fornebu airstrip. Sverdrup didn't have enough fuel and ammo left to challenge them. He wasn't too sure about the last hours, though he knew that the battle was lost. His country now shared some acres of hell with Poland and Denmark. He felt helpless. In the icy cockpit, the lieutenant started to cry. He prayed for himself, for the whole world, for the two dead Germans he just buried in the Skagerrak. He rode the Gladiator on a downglide, and levelled out at seal level. Half-blinded by a cottony sun, he searched the skies, waiting for some marauding Me-110 to sneak up on his tail. He raised his eyes and suddenly caught a glimpse of a dark trail of smoke floating above him. He first thought it to be another Gladiator, yet it was more like a wounded butterfly, dancing wildly before resuming its fall. Lt Haakon Sverdrup came as close as possible, circling it, or him, or her, until their eyes met, for one tiny fleeting crumb of eternity. Then, it, or he, or she