Then the sirens sounded.
Everyone on the street stopped and looked to the sky. As if in answer, searchlights stabbed at the darkness, each one brilliant white at its base, fading into starlight and casting a reflective glow against upturned faces. The wail of the sirens rose and fell, rose and fell, the rhythmic pattern endlessly repeating. I didn’t know which way to turn or where to go. Everybody seemed confused, dumbfounded by what had been a nightly routine short months ago.
I ran, heading for the Liverpool Street Underground. When the first explosions came, a woman screamed, holding her hands over her ears, as if the noise was what she feared most. But the sound was antiaircraft fire, coming from somewhere to the east, near the docks. Searchlights darted across the sky, followed by more gunfire, the explosive shells joined by tracer bullets in their deceptively graceful arcs as gunners sprayed the assigned quadrant of air, filling it with burning phosphorus and hot lead, hoping for that terrible symmetry, the geometry of death, as intersecting lines of fire and aircraft met, carrying the planes and men of the Luftwaffe to the ground, altering their course with a finality that only mathematics and bullets can ensure.
I ran along Fleet Street, gathering speed until a group spilled out of a pub, knocking me over, leaving me on my back in the gutter. The last of them sauntered amiably by, stopped and leaned down, his hands on his knees and his breath harsh with whiskey and smoke.
“So is this the real thing, or a drill, d’ya think?”
“Get to a shelter, pal,” I said as I got up, wondering why he thought a Yank lying in the road might know one way or the other. I scanned the sky, watching for the searchlights to latch on to the bombers, but there was nothing but dancing spears of incandescence. A giant pair of spectacles gazed at me, eerily illuminated by the reflected light, holding me in its grip until I realized it was a store sign, a pince-nez suspended from curved iron grillwork. I wondered if the spectacles had witnessed that nameless East Ender get his throat slit as a warning to Kaz’s friend, or if he had seen them in his last moments, the blank eyes of an uncaring, watchful God.
The sirens continued their wails, louder now, as I came closer to the docks. I caught a glimpse of St. Paul’s just as the first bombs fell, the distant crump, crump, crump signaling the hits as they crept closer. I risked a glimpse up and saw, finally, the dark shape of a German bomber caught in the lights. I careened into another figure running in the opposite direction, and cursed myself for looking up. I saw a sign for a shelter and ignored it, passing the sandbagged Bank of England on Threadneedle Street as I turned north, close to Liverpool Street. I could make out the drone of aircraft over the howl of the sirens, and occasional explosions as bombs hit their mark, or at least detonated. The bombing seemed uncoordinated, as if the aircraft had been split up, each releasing its separate load, in a hurry to avoid the antiaircraft fire that was now growing in intensity.
“This way, please, to the shelter,” an ARP warden said, as polite as if inviting me to tea. He stood in front of the twin brick towers marking the entrance, in blue coveralls. He was so coated in dust I could barely make out the white W on his soup-bowl helmet. He pushed his glasses up on the bridge of his nose with one hand and gestured with the other, beckoning the crowd into the Underground entrance with a calmness that the heightening sounds of sirens, bombs, and antiaircraft fire did not seem to penetrate. “Plenty of room. This way, please.”
“Is this the shelter where I can find Archie Chapman?” I asked, stepping to his side so as not to interfere with his view and the flow of people entering the station.
“Yes, sir, you’ll find him here, in one of the sidings. But why you would want to, I couldn’t guess.” He pushed his glasses up again. Freckles stood out beneath the coating of dust on his face. He glanced up, his practiced eye assessing the time we had left. He looked about sixteen. “Best get inside, sir,” he said, before running down the street to help a woman holding a child in her arms and one by the hand. I took his advice and entered the Tube station, following the signs for shelters on the lower levels.
“I never thought they’d be back, the bastards,” a woman said to her man as the escalator brought us down.
“I told ya, now didn’t I? Told you we should’ve stayed in the shelters,”he answered. “Now we got to make the best of it, instead of ’aving a couple of nice comfortable cots.”
Now that solid rock was between us and the danger above, the mood among the crowd turned from panic to resigned petulance, at least among those who had lost their assigned places. At Liverpool Street, several chambers had been excavated for the expansion of Tube lines before the war. With that project abandoned, they had been turned into shelters, with cots, sanitary facilities, and a small canteen for the constant supply of tea that all Brits seemed to require. Tea was rationed, so I had no idea what they were brewing up, and didn’t want to find out.
The station platforms were crowded and those who had grabbed blankets and other creature comforts were beginning to settle in, falling back into the habits of the Blitz. Others, like me, stood watching, unsure what to do next. A series of blasts exploded overhead, dull but not distant, the earth muffling the sound of bombs hitting directly above. I felt the vibration in my feet, and a thin line of grit spilled from the ceiling, showering the huddled crowd with dust. A woman shrieked, and the crowd of people contracted, men and women pulling each other closer, waiting for the next thud, fearing the walls would fall in on them. I felt it too, the sudden, grasping fear, and I wished I had someone to pull close. Diana would have been nice. The moment passed, leaving the platform quiet. All noise from aboveground vanished, the only sound below the escape of breath as voices and senses were regained.
I made my way to the siding, and fished a shilling out of my pocket as I looked for a likely guide. I spotted a kid a head taller than his four mates, the bunch of them weaving a path through the crowd, fast enough that I knew they were escaping from or headed to trouble.
“Hey,” I said, catching his eye.
“Watcha want, Yank?” He was oblivious to the terror that gripped the adults all around him. He’d grown up with the Blitz, and this subterranean world looked to be a natural second home to him. He gave me the once-over, probably deciding I was ripe for the plucking.
“Where can I find Archie Chapman?” I asked.
“Why should we tell you then?”
“Because you’re a good kid.” I flipped him the shilling and took out a pack of chewing gum from my coat pocket. I gave that to one of his chums, who opened it up and spread the wealth.