However, Hugh had thirty years’ experience with disapproval. He pulled off the headphones and climbed out of the pit so he could look Ridley eye to eye. Well, almost. Ridley stood half a foot taller than he, with a rugby player’s build.
Hugh offered a rueful smile. “I’m dreadfully sorry you didn’t enjoy my reports, but Murrow did. The BBC and the MoI approved my participation.”
Ridley jutted out his shovel of a jaw. “Live broadcasts are dangerous, as your uncle and that blasted Frenchman proved.”
If Hugh told Aleida about this conversation, she’d add Ridley to her list of suspects, writing neat notes in neat rows.
With a huff, Ridley stepped closer. “Need I remind you what’s at stake? There are Nazi sympathizers in America who communicate with Germany. Watch your words.”
Like a slap, but Hugh couldn’t step back, away, without falling into the pit. Ridley was right. Reckless, uncensored words could bring harm.
He pulled in a ragged breath. “I promise to be careful. Now, if you’ll excuse me, the broadcast is set to begin in a few minutes.”
“I’ll be here.” Ridley tipped his bowler hat to Hugh.
Of course he would.
Hugh dropped into the gun pit and pulled on his headphones. He worked his hand beneath his coat, and the letter from George Baldwin crinkled inside his suit jacket. If only he had Lennox’s night vision so he could read it again.
His former tutor reminded him to seek approval from the Lord alone, then he’d be free to do his best in the world, unfettered by the expectations of man.
Hugh sagged back against the concrete wall. What would the Lord want? Surely his heart broke at the suffering and destruction Hitler caused.
Did Hugh’s work help the Allied cause or hinder it, as Ridley implied?
“Collie—your microphone.”
Hugh opened his eyes. His engineer held the tool of Hugh’s trade, the instrument that would carry his voice across an ocean to thousands, even millions of ears.
His hand dragged through the night air as through tar. His words could indeed cause harm. Or they could help people see and feel and think and act.
The microphone felt weighty in his hand. But right.
“It’s half past eleven.” Young also wore headphones so he could keep time.
Hugh’s headphones crackled. The announcer stated “London after Dark” in his American accent, and he described what the listener would hear in the next half hour.
From the command post, an alarm sounded, and the batterycame alive. Men rushed out of huts and toward the four gun pits, dozens of dark figures against the purple sky.
The GPO ran over to Hugh. “I’m frightfully sorry, sir, but an air raid alarm is about to sound. We’ll need—I do apologize, but—”
“But I can’t be here.” Hugh scrambled out of the gun emplacement, coiling cable as he moved.
Men thumped down into the pit, their steel helmets in place, gas masks slung to their sides.
“Collie!” The whites of Young’s eyes shone eerily gray. “We must broadcast.”
“I know.” They couldn’t leave three minutes of silence in the middle of the program, and it was too late to ring the BBC and ask them to fill in with something, anything.
A wail arose, the air raid siren warning civilians to take shelter. Few would, since it was the fourth alarm of the day. No bombs had fallen on London, but the airfields had been devastated over the past week and a half. Rumors were, the men of the RAF were at their breaking point.
“Sir.” Hugh leveled his gaze at the GPO, even though the man had more important things to do than help a correspondent. “Where could I broadcast without being underfoot?”
His gaze darted around. “The command post. Please continue. The chaps have talked of nothing else but being on the wireless.”
Hugh smiled. He understood. “Thank you.”
He and Young dashed to the command post standing in the midst of the four guns.
