The deflating balloon of a moon overhead guaranteed their arrival.
Standing on the roof of Broadcasting House, Hugh interviewed EdwardR. Murrow of CBS, who was preparing to broadcast live to the United States.
Murrow’s serious dark eyes and serious dark voice drove his point home. “The people of America have heard the courage of the people of London, that calm strength. You’ve shown the world how a free people can live in the most trying of circumstances.”
“Thank you, Mr. Murrow,” Hugh said. “And tonight, my dear listeners, if an air raid should come, if the bombs should fall, we will not be alone, for the citizens of America shall be listening alongside us. This is Hugh Collingwood reporting from somewhere in London.”
Tom Young gave the signal, and the recording ended.
“Excellent, Ed. Thank you.” Hugh handed his microphone to Murrow. Young’s team would aid Murrow as well, but Murrow’s report would air live in America. Hugh’s recording would air tomorrow.
Hugh had behaved himself. In his interview, he hadn’t asked Murrow about his struggle with the Ministry of Information to be allowed to broadcast live from the rooftop. He hadn’t even hinted at how Murrow had appealed to Winston Churchill himself to obtain that permission.
Hugh had respected his editor while meeting the needs of his audience.
He joined François Jouveau at the railing around the roof and nudged his friend with his elbow. “Norman Fletcher is visiting his wife and children in the country.” Not far from the Collingwood estate, as it turned out.
Under his black homburg, Jouveau gazed hard at Hugh. “Fletcher’s no friend of mine.”
“He took Gil with him.” Hugh leaned his elbows on the railing. Fletcher had scowled at Hugh when he announced this, adding, “Not all of us have an ancestral country estate to escape to on the weekends.” Then Fletcher proceeded to deride Elliott Hastings for throwing a lavish country house party with guests staying for days—while London burned.
Jouveau raised one eyebrow.
Why indeed had he told Jouveau about Fletcher and Gil? He grinned. “With Fletcher away, perhaps I could sneak a live broadcast into the programming.”
“Is that possible?”
Hugh shrugged. “I won’t, tempting though it may be.” Not only would it end his career, but it would end Fletcher’s, which wasn’t fair or right.
Besides, his work had never been so vital. Now that London was the front line of the war, he was reporting hard news again.
Jouveau sniffed and pointed his chin to the side. “Another reason to resist temptation.”
Albert Ridley approached in his black bowler hat and Savile Row overcoat. He frowned at Hugh and glared at Jouveau.
But Hugh offered a smile. “Good to see you, Bert. I came by your office today, but your secretary said you were out.”
“I was here in London. I was in meetings all day.” His voice sharpened as if Hugh had accused him of idleness.
“Ah, but your secretary answered my question, so all is well.”
Jouveau tilted his head in Murrow’s direction. “Did you come to see the Yankee make history?”
“A circus is more like it.”
Hugh gave a nonchalant shrug. “I know live, on-the-scene reporting of air raids isn’t possible here in Britain—American broadcastingisrather more advanced...” He waited for his statement—though quite untrue—to awaken Ridley’s patriotic fervor.
Awaken it did. Ridley inhaled sharply. “Surely you don’t mean that. Why, the BBC is the premier—”
The air raid siren released its howl, rising and falling in lament for the hundreds of lives to be lost in the coming hours. Already several thousand civilians had perished in the Blitz.
Searchlights slashed across the partly cloudy sky.
After Ridley left to talk to Young, Hugh turned to the southeast, the usual route of attack. He would take notes on the raid, but he wouldn’t use most of them. BBC news reports typically stated, “Damage is slight and casualties are few.”
Hugh had to find other angles. Tonight, to enhance his interview of Murrow, he’d report on the reporters reporting. The British people were fascinated by Murrow and treated his team like royalty.
Hugh flipped open his notebook to a page with a bit of remaining space.
