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living in a postcard from some exotic place. We were living in an exotic place—on a tropical island. Who would have thought that our adventures would lead us to Bermuda?
    Hamilton wasn’t very big, but our teacher had told us it was a lot bigger than before the war. Then, it had been a sleepy little town visited only by tourists who came in by ship. Now the tourists were all gone, replaced by the soldiers and sailors who had flooded onto the island. Hotels that used to be filled with tourists had either closed down or been taken over by the military, like The Princess, where my mother worked.
    We followed Wesley Street toward the water. Off to our left stood the big cathedral. Its steeple, soaring over everything, was the tallest structure on the island. Or maybe the lighthouse up on Gibbs Hill was taller. We lived close enough to both to hear the cathedral bells chiming on Sunday morning and to see the sweep of the light from the top of the lighthouse when it was turned on. The lighthouse was used only when they knew a plane or ship was due to arrive. Otherwise it was dark, like the rest of the island. All the houses and businesses turned off their lights at night, or used blackout shades so light wouldn’t leak out. No sense in giving enemy ships or planes handy points of navigation. Better that they find themselves wrecked on the reefs and rocks in the waters that surrounded the island.
    The lighthouse was off limits to non-military personnel, but Jack and I had talked about going to the top of the cathedral so we could see the view from up there. I was always a little nervous of heights but it would be worth it—to see a postcard view from a postcard viewpoint. Bermuda really was beautiful.
    We turned onto Front Street. It was alive with activity. There were dozens and dozens of horses and carriages, slowly moving down the wide dirt roadway or tied up in front of the stores and hotels. Right down the middle of the road ran the railroad tracks that linked one end of theisland to the other. We’d only been on the train once, for a short run. I hoped someday we could go the whole way to the end, out at the dockyards, to see our father.
    “There’s the train,” my father said. “We better do double time.” We started to move more quickly.
    The train was slowly coming through town. As it rolled forward, it clanged its bell to move people and horses off the tracks. It was a very small train. In fact, even calling it a train was kind of generous. It was three cars long and looked more like the streetcars we’d seen in Toronto. We got to the station, and my father joined the end of the line waiting to board.
    “I wonder who had the bright idea to put a train right in the middle of the road,” Jack said.
    “Probably wasn’t much of a problem before they had cars,” I commented.
    “Not that they have many now, but I still can’t believe that they just allowed cars in Bermuda.”
    Almost on cue a big army truck came rolling slowly down the street, as people and horses scurried out of the way.
    “People here say that’s the biggest change the war has brought,” our father said. “Even now, vehicles are only supposed to be used for military purposes.”
    The big army truck lumbered past us, and we could see that the back was filled with American soldiers. TheAmericans dominated the whole east side of the island, where they were building an airport. I hadn’t actually seen it but I’d heard all about it. They were using gigantic machines to dredge mud from the bay, which they dumped to make the island bigger so that it could accommodate two long runways. They were also building a bridge— well, more like a causeway—to link the airfield to the main island. Maybe one day Jack and I would go out there to see what they were doing.
    “Okay, boys, I’ll see you in a week,” our father said. “Take care of things,” he added.
    “Yes, sir,” Jack replied.
    He shook our hands. We were too old to be hugged—