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It's August 29, 1940, an Edward Taffy Bowen struggles to carry his suitcases in a large

metal box through London's Houston station.

29 years old, with a naturally earnest face, he's doing his best to blend in, to seem

like any other traveler, but sweat drips down his brow, and his breathing is fast and shallow.

A porter finally notices Bowen wrestling with his belongings and approaches.

Can I help you, sir?

Bowen sets down his luggage and looks up, gratefully.

Yes, thank you.

I'm headed for the Liverpool Bound Train.

Of course, sir.

In one quick move, the porter swoops up the metal box, perching it on his shoulder, and

grabs Bowen's suitcases.

No, no, not, but it's too late.

The porter has already taken off through the crowd.

Bowen hurries after him, pushing his way through the morning commuters.

Hey, watch it.

Sorry, excuse me, coming through.

Bowen doesn't understand how the porter is moving so quickly.

Bowen ran cross-country in school and is still fit, but the porter moves farther and farther

ahead of him.

...