In Hugh’s headphones, the BBC’s Sandy MacPherson played on the great organ at St. George’s Hall.
Searchlights snapped on, dueling swords of light clashing in the dark.
The siren kept wailing, and the men at the command post called out positions to the guns, which swung as one to the southeast.
Ed Murrow’s sonorous voice came live with the air raid siren in the background. “This ... is Trafalgar Square.”
“Surely you’re not proceeding.” Ridley stepped in front of Hugh.
Hugh held up his microphone with one hand, pressed the headphones over his ear with the other, and averted his gaze, trying to listen to Murrow describe the searchlights, a red double-decker bus.
“Hugh!”
“Not now.” Hugh ground out his words, and the drone of aircraft rose in the distance.
“You can’t broadcast in the middle of an air raid.”
“Ed Murrow is doing so, even as we speak. Please excuse me.” Hugh stepped to the side.
To his relief, Ridley backed away. Just in time for Hugh to hear Murrow set his microphone close to the ground to pick up the sound of footsteps, calm but purposeful, heading to the shelter beneath St. Martin-in-the-Fields.
“Masterful,” Hugh whispered. In the simplest of words, Murrow had described the scene, and every American sitting by their wireless would see and hear London at war.
The announcer at Broadcasting House switched to the Savoy Hotel, where the band played a lively tune and Robert Bowman of the Canadian Broadcasting Company interviewed the French chef.
Bob’s cheerful voice and the happy sounds of dining and dancing—Americans would love it, and Hugh smiled.
Overhead, the sirens died away, the drone faded, and searchlights winked out.
The men at the command post remained vigilant, tracking the skies with the spotter identification telescope. They wouldn’t return to their huts until the all clear sounded.
The announcer cut in, interrupting the chef with his colorful accent. “Somewhere in London at this very moment, HughCollingwood of the BBC is stationed at an antiaircraft gun post, and we’ll hear from him now.”
Hugh had a more serious story than Bob, and he set his face to match. “I’m standing by the command post of an antiaircraft battery, and I would like to give you a picture of Britain at war, Britain in action.”
He described how the crew had rushed to their stations when the alarm sounded, and how the spotters prepared to call out bearings if the searchlights trapped an aircraft in their beams.
The GPO shouted a command, and searchlights popped on again.
They’d seen something. For a moment, Hugh continued his prepared talk as his mind flew over the necessary deviation—the chance for some thrilling reporting.
His time was almost up, and his voice rose in excitement. Machinery cranked beside him, enemy aircraft rumbled overhead, and the GPO called out bearings. All those sounds would be picked up in his microphone.
Young held up his hand—five, four, three, two, one, and the announcer cut off Hugh midsentence.
He didn’t care. It was exhilarating.
He almost wanted to thank Hermann Göring for sending his Luftwaffe across London’s skies for this moment.
But not at the cost to the airfields ringing the city, to the beleaguered fighter pilots risking their lives, shedding their blood.
Not if bombs should fall on London and her citizens.
Off to the side, Ridley walked away into the night.
Hugh saluted his defeated back. Murrow and his team were showing America the dangers England faced, her fortitude, and her cheer.
For thirty minutes, those listeners weren’t in Boston or Wichita or Hollywood. They wereinLondon.
