Excerpt from The Dog Who Could Fly by Damien Lewis, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

Robert felt a rush of fear mixed with adrenaline, similar to what he had experienced as their stricken aircraft plummeted toward the snowbound earth. He didn't know enough German to cry out a challenge in the language of the enemy, but who else could have ignored his warnings issued in a rudimentary but workable French?

"Wake up, you bastard!" Robert snarled. "Get up and show yourself?!"

Still there was no response, other than a momentary pause in the sleepy, snuffly intakes of breath. There was no other choice: he inched closer to the upturned chair, his finger bone-white on the trigger. He reached the back of it, but still he couldn't see anyone. Confound the bloody enemy, where is he?

Robert leaned forward and peered around the chair, sighting down the barrel of his gun. There before him lay the culprit. The instant Robert laid eyes on it, the sleeping figure seemed to wake. One moment there was a tiny ball of gray-brown fluff curled up beneath the chair, the next it had stumbled to its feet unsteadily and was peering up at him anxiously, growling out a throaty little challenge.

At the very sight of it, all of Robert's pumped-up aggression and killer instincts evaporated. He felt like a fool. He'd just spent a good few minutes stalking and yelling out dire threats at a tiny little puppy dog. Ignoring the bravest and most defiant of growls, he reached forward with his one free hand. For a moment the puppy tried to edge away, before its big, ungainly paws tripped over its own tail and it half fell back into the dust.

Before it could entangle itself still further, Robert whisked it up by the scruff of its neck—in exactly the same way its mother would have carried it in her jaws. As the puppy looked at him askance he clutched it to his chest, holstered his gun, and started to rub it fiercely around the back of the head. He worked his fingers deep into the thick folds of skin until he reached the special spot just behind the ears. In effect, he was giving the little guy a deep head massage, and within moments the puppy's fierce resistance had dissolved into surrender . . . and then sheer delight.

"So who left you here all alone and hungry?" Robert whispered as he held the puppy close. "And you bereft of any friends . . ."

In answer, a pair of big brown eyes gazed up at him and a little bare finger of a tail twitched happily to and fro.

A couple of minutes of such magical treatment and the puppy was totally smitten. It nestled closer to Robert's chest, its nose wrinkling contentedly and its eyes scrunched closed in delight. Robert had no idea where its mother might be, let alone its erstwhile human owners, but he sensed it had given up all thoughts of resistance—which was fortunate, for the last thing he and Pierre needed was a puppy causing a ruckus, with an enemy patrol likely to put in an appearance at any moment.

The house now secured, it was time to get Pierre. The question was, what to do with his newfound friend? Robert could hardly deposit him behind the chair again, for knowing puppies as he did, this one would likely start whining just as soon as he had disappeared. It was crucial that he keep the little ball of fur happy and quiet, at least for now. He unzipped the front of his leather bomber jacket, slipped the puppy inside, and zipped it closed again.

Little did Robert know that this was the start of a lifelong friendship—one that would see him and the death-defying puppy take to the skies over war-torn Europe as they waged fierce battle against the enemy.

Excerpted from The Dog Who Could Fly by Damien Lewis. Copyright © 2014 by Damien Lewis. Excerpted by permission of Atria/Emily Bestler Books. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.