Young gave him a thumbs-up. “MacTavish will follow you with the van. Mind the cord.”
Hugh spooled out cord and looped it over one arm. After he reached Aleida, he waited for Young’s signal. “This is Hugh Collingwood reporting from an Air Raid Precautions post somewhere in London. As you can hear behind me, the siren is sounding. With me this evening is Aleida Martens, an ARP warden. Mrs. Martens, please tell us your first responsibility.”
“First I guide passersby to the nearest shelter, but the street is empty.”
“Quite right.” Hugh gestured for her to continue with her rounds, and he walked beside her, with Tommy behind them. “Ah, there go the guns. Always a comfort to know our men are on duty at the antiaircraft batteries, making life difficult for the enemy. May your aim be true, my friends.”
Hugh told Young to stop recording, and he lowered hismicrophone. Later in the studio, Young would trim the extra or empty bits.
The van rumbled behind them, and the thumps of gunfire crept nearer. He and Aleida turned a corner. A handful of people exited Green Park Station, and Aleida urged them to return to the depths of the Tube.
As the siren died, the throb of bombers filled the void. The Germans rarely came in one massed attack anymore, but in dribs and drabs throughout the night, the better to disrupt sleep.
A sound like hail fell in the distance, and Hugh’s mouth set in a stiff line. Incendiary bombs. Weighing only a few pounds, they did their diabolical work not with the blast of a high explosive bomb, but by burrowing through roofs and setting buildings alight.
Hugh squinted into the dark. To the east, pops of light and sound. Soon a reddish glow pulsed over the rooftops.
“It isn’t far,” Aleida whispered.
Distance was difficult to determine, but the fires seemed to be north of the Thames, perhaps in the City, the original square mile colonized two thousand years ago by the Romans, now filled with banks and offices and government buildings.
Whistles pierced Hugh’s ears.
“Get down!” Aleida crouched then flattened herself to the pavement.
Hugh merely crouched, encumbered with microphone and cord.
A blast shook the ground.
Hugh stood. Dust rose one street over, and orange light built within the cloud.
On her feet again, Aleida stuffed her torch in her coat pocket. No need for it anymore.
Hugh raised his microphone and told Young to resume recording. “A high explosive bomb fell about one street away. Our intrepid warden is on her way to investigate.” He trottedafter her, making sure the cord never went slack or taut behind him.
They rounded the corner to the next street—nothing.
One more street. There it was.
“A house has been hit,” Hugh said. “Flames of yellow and orange disregard the blackout, and are crackling, cackling.”
What Hugh couldn’t report was how the bomb had sliced off the front of the house. Floors jutted out like stage sets, with furniture intact. A bathtub dangled from the second floor, and a man pressed against the back wall, hurriedly wrapping a towel about him.
Aleida dashed closer. “Stay put, sir. Is anyone else in the building?”
“No, I’m alone. My wife’s in the country.” He gripped his towel about his waist.
Hugh stepped twenty feet away from Aleida and Tommy so his microphone wouldn’t pick up the details Aleida would relay. “Upon reaching an incident, an air raid warden’s first duty is to send a report back to her post, and that is in fact what Mrs. Martens is doing at this instant.”
He whipped microphone cord out of Tommy’s way. “Our young messenger mounts his bicycle to hasten to the post. There they will pass along the report, so the Control Center can dispatch any necessary services. Whilst our warden waits for these services, she can assist with first aid or firefighting. As I speak, she’s slitting open a sandbag to smother the fire.”
Amid the rubble on the ground floor, flames devoured. Aleida dragged the sandbag closer—too close to that dangling bathtub.
Hugh lowered the microphone. “Be careful, Aleida.”
She glanced his way, shook her lowered head, and kept going. She hadn’t seen it.
“Aleida! Watch out! It isn’t safe.” Hugh set down the microphone, scrambled to her—the bathtub directly overhead—and yanked her out of the way.
