Eventually I ignored the corporal’s ceaseless babble and looked with fascination at the passing scenery. Aside from the old architecture, narrow winding roads, and driving on the left, I wondered why England looked so different from America; then I realized that the trees and fields, the buildings and barns, the small villages and narrow winding roads all fit together seamlessly, blended by time into a harmony. No one thing intruded on the other. Each fit the scene as though a natural process had ordained symmetry. Nothing jarred the eye; all was quiet beauty and neatness. There was no litter, nothing offensive to the senses. Every snug cottage had its garden, each shop a quaint window; there were no ugly signs. Even the lettering above the shop doors looked wonderfully ancient and elegant.
Dropping me off in the town square of Ipswich, the corporal shouted, “Don’t do anything in London I wouldn’t do, Lieutenant!” and leered at me as I climbed down to the cobblestone pavement.
I laughed, thanked him, and then asked, “How am I supposed to get back to the base?”
“Wattisham truck’s here till the last train every night,” he hollered, and meshed the gears as he pulled off.
Damned decent, I thought as I set off down the road to the train station. It looked like Ipswich had taken only a token bomb or two during the blitz, and I was fascinated to see the timber-fronted Tudor buildings still standing the way they must have been long before America was colonized. For a naive young fighter pilot, just turned twenty-two, being in this beautiful land was a constant adventure. I was enjoying myself tremendously.
The train station sat across the road at the bottom of the hill. It was a solid granite structure built with great care and attention to detail. Placards above the ticket windows proclaimed FIRST CLASS and THIRD CLASS. I hesitated, wondering where I fit into the class system. Might as well go first-class, I thought, and went up to that narrow barred window. The ticket agent looked at me quizzically and asked somewhat impatiently where I wanted to go. Feeling like a fool, I blurted out, “London.”
“Righto,” he said. “That will be a pound six.” I pushed a £5 note through the wicket and he gave me a hard look. I could almost hear him thinking, “Bloody Yanks … over here, oversexed, and overpaid.” That thought had become a standard music hall cliché.
I went outside and stood waiting on the platform for the train. No one checked my ticket or anyone else’s as far as I could see. Well, I’ll just follow the crowd, I decided; but which crowd? Some climbed a set of stairs going over to the platform on the far side of the tracks running through the station. Do the trains run on the left side like all the road traffic? And which is left as I stand here? My doubts vanished as the London train came whooshing into the station. The doors on the cars, or “carriages” as I learned they were called, were plainly marked with the class designation. I had to move toward the front of the train to enter an exterior door with a big 1ST on it. I found myself in an aisle with compartment doors the length of the carriage, just like on our original ride down from Scotland in May.
Each compartment had a sliding glass door with curtains partially covering my view of the seats. Those already having one or two occupants had closed the doors as if to discourage entry by newcomers. The people sitting within gave off distinct impressions of veiled hostility toward anyone foolish enough to enter their space. They hunkered down behind their morning papers, gave a quick glare of reproach, and turned a shoulder to my hesitant intrusion. I passed a few compartments before I finally gritted my teeth and entered one with an open seat next to the window. I congratulated myself on my good fortune a bit too quickly.
The train had just pulled out of the station when the well-dressed gentleman sitting in the center seat across from me cleared his throat and said, “Leftenant, I believe you are occupying a reserved accommodation.”
My embarrassment must have touched him, for he then remarked in the kindest way, “The gentleman who will entrain at the next stop has had that seat for over twenty years. That being the case, I’m afraid you might possibly strain what he volubly and often proclaims to be our already delicate English-American relations. I should hate being witness to such an outburst on this fine morning. Might upset my kippers.”
He smiled and patted the seat next to him. “Now, move over here. You’ll find it quite comfortable enough.”
I realized I was being teased a bit as I moved over, but my savior kept smiling and did not avoid eye contact. He introduced himself as Nigel Cartwright and asked my name and where I lived in the States. I realized he hadn’t asked where I was based, or anything to do with my status as a young pilot. In fact, other than my name and my home, he asked nothing personal yet seemed sincerely intent on putting me at ease. We chatted away and soon all my impressions of distant, standoffish Englishmen were dispelled. Sure enough, the seat I had originally taken was occupied at the next stop. The two men nodded at each other, and the newcomer raised his eyebrows at me.
The hour passed quickly before the train slowed as we entered the suburbs of London. I was stunned as I looked out the window. My new acquaintance must have observed my distress at the devastation of more and more bombed row houses as we approached Liverpool Street Station. He explained, “Old Jerry went for the rail yards during the blitz. Couldn’t always hit where he aimed. Poor blighters living here took a packet. No complaints though, those that survived, that is. Just hatred for Hitler and his bloody Luftwaffe.”
There wasn’t much I could say. The scene and his remarks brought home the awful consequences of the blitz. I could only wonder whether my own countrymen, under similar circumstances, would have shown the same courage and stoicism as the Brits. Cartwright changed the subject and to my surprise said, “I say, would you enjoy having a spot of lunch at my club? Nothing fancy really, rationing and all that, you know, but decent enough nevertheless.”
I thanked him for his kindness and accepted. He told me the name of his club, but no location. I made a hard mental note of what he’d said, thinking I would just instruct a cabbie to take me there when the time came.
The carriages emptied with much hustle and bustle. Liverpool Station was just as I had seen it in the movies. The locomotive on the next track gave out one shrill hoot as it began to back out of the station. A glass ceiling supported by iron grillwork soared far above the platforms. There were many telltale holes in the glass. I could see a tall, grimy building past the access gates. Lettering on the facade proclaimed it to be the station hotel, and I wondered if anyone really stayed there. Of course, you dummy. This wasn’t a movie. This was the real Liverpool Station. All I needed was Nigel Bruce, Charles Laughton, or maybe Dame Mae Whitty passing by to fulfill my fantasy.
The crowd moved purposefully through the gates, where our tickets were finally checked. I followed the flow and found myself on the plaza fronting the hotel. It was crowded with noisy lorries, blocky black taxis, and hundreds of people in an orderly tangle. Horns beeped, drivers shouted, and everyone seemed to be scrambling either for a taxi or moving toward a stairway marked UNDERGROUND.
Suddenly a harsh, growling, gut-wrenching noise split the air. It echoed off the surrounding buildings, filling my head with the pounding of muted explosions. I stopped in my tracks and searched the sky for the source of the terrible racket. The buildings limited my view and I could see nothing above as the noise reached an unbelievable crescendo. Then there it was! It hurtled overhead in a brief flash as it passed my field of view. It had stubby wings and a ridiculously small tail section. The fuselage was cylindrical with a bluntly rounded nose. It roared by, and then the noise suddenly stopped. I looked around to ask what the hell was going on and found the street completely deserted, not a soul in sight. The engine of a nearby lorry was still running. Where had they all gone? Why? Then it dawned on me. It was a V-1, the weapon our intelligence people had briefed us on with little detail, except that the Germans had started launching them in June. We had heard tales of pilots from the No. 150 RAF Wing chasing the things in their Tempests
.
It all flashed through my mind in an instant as I hightailed it toward the nearest doorway. Those British must move like greased lightning. Who could blame them? Three years of this bombing crap and they were fully conditioned. I hadn’t reached halfway to a nearby marked shelter when a huge explosion shook the ground and rattled the windows. Then silence again, broken only by the sound of tinkling glass. It had hit a block or two away. I worried about those under the impact point. The air-raid sirens started to wail. A little late, I thought. To my amazement, people started to emerge from wherever they had sheltered, and traffic began moving just as though nothing had happened. Talk about stubborn courage. Nothing and no one was going to defeat these people!
I ambled around Piccadilly Circus with hundreds of other Yanks for a while, then flagged a taxi and named the lunch club to the driver. He knew exactly where it was, and within minutes we arrived. I found my new friend inside the front entry, expecting me. Nothing was said about the “buzz bomb” except another grumbled curse for those bloody Huns. He sighed and offered, “I hope this doesn’t upset your time in London, Leftenant. Come, let’s go have a spot of dry sherry and see what the chef has in store today.”
I heartily agreed with both suggestions. The lunch wasn’t fancy, but it was the best meal I’d had in England, and it rested happily in my stomach, helped tremendously by two glasses of sherry beforehand. I hadn’t told my host that I’d never tasted sherry before. My first day in London was being filled with new experiences. At lunch, the primary topic had been the V-1 buzz bombs the Germans were raining on the city. Mr. Cartwright and his friends had much to say about the barbarity of “the bloody Hun,” and though I sympathized wholeheartedly, I couldn’t help recalling newsreel shots of Hamburg and other cities burning under the wrath of the RAF Bomber Command’s nightly raids. This was a vicious war. There was little civility or decency left in the world these days. The Allies had proclaimed it would be “unconditional surrender.” The Germans were responding in kind.
I left the club to continue exploring. I hadn’t the vaguest clue about London’s geography. Naturally, I’d heard about Hyde Park and Piccadilly, Buckingham Palace, Parliament, and Trafalgar Square honoring Lord Nelson, but they were all just schoolbook images. Where any of these places were in relation to one another, or to me as I left the club, was a complete mystery. I also realized I hadn’t a clue where the Red Cross building was. That was where I’d be bedding down. At least I had the address in my pocket so that I could hail a taxi when the time came. For a while I just wanted to walk and to see what I could of London.
It didn’t bother me much that the V-1s thundered overhead at odd times, sometimes singly, sometimes two or three at once. Their guttural roar was now punctuated by antiaircraft guns banging away from someplace in the city. Before lunch I had seen some of the guns emplaced in a park nearby, so I imagined they were doing the firing. Dodging the flying bombs became easy. At first, I just followed the lead of the canny Londoners. They ducked. I ducked. They ran. I ran. They dashed down some steps into a building and I did the same. It was a macabre game, but certainly exciting. I couldn’t help wondering why the antiaircraft people shot at the damned things overhead. They were going to come down anyway, but if one malfunctioned, kept on going, and overshot the city, so much the better, it seemed to me.
I soon fell in love with London. The shops and hotels, the public buildings and broad avenues, the narrow, crooked lanes with timbered pubs, all enchanted me. I found myself wandering in a residential district. Small shops clustered on the corners: a greengrocer, a chemist’s shop, a dry goods store, and, naturally, pubs named the King’s Arms or the Rose and Garter and proclaiming Watney’s or Whitbread’s and even one brand called Courage. Shop display windows were pitiful in their bareness. Rationing dominated life; there were no luxury items to be seen anywhere—certainly a grim reminder of the privations the English were suffering.
Later in the afternoon, I came to an intersection where a sign proclaiming OLDE ANTIQUE SHOPPE caught my eye. The bay window held an arrangement of medieval armor. I didn’t question whether or not the items were authentic. They were magnificent! The breastplate, visored helmet, and crossed broadswords were right out of my treasured book The Boy’s King Arthur. I had to ask about them, so, screwing up my courage, I opened the shop door and entered. A bell tinkled overhead. The place was dim. My eyes slowly acclimated to the darkness and I cautiously advanced through clutter barely seen.
A door in the rear opened and a shaft of light silhouetted an old man. He approached slowly. I could see he was wearing a baggy sweater with elbow patches and a long woolen scarf wound round his neck. Tiny spectacles perched halfway down his nose, and wisps of white hair peeked from below, of all things, a French beret. He had a thin mustache, and when he drew closer, I could see that his face and hands were like parchment. He was right out of Dickens.
The proprietor smiled as he approached and remarked with a chuckle, “Ah, an American. How nice to see you, Leftenant. How are you this fine day? What brings you to my little shop here in the wilds of north London?” He wasn’t being condescending or patronizing; his greeting was genuine and his interest in me was open and friendly.
“Come in, come in,” he beckoned. “Come in and tell me how you are taking the bombing,” he asked, expressing his concern in what must have been the phraseology of the blitz. I hadn’t thought of the V-1 attacks as bombing. To me, they seemed more like a shelling. The distinction was uselessly academic anyway.
“What may I show you in my humble shop?”
Looking about I had to say, “Everything, sir.” This was in deference to his age and my growing respect for these Londoners.
“Well now,” he exclaimed, rubbing his hands together, “I was just having a cuppa. Would you care to join me?”
I didn’t know what a “cuppa” might be, but I thought I had interrupted something he wished to continue and said, “Sir, I would be delighted, if I’m not intruding.”
“Not at all, not at all. Only too happy to have company. Oh, and by the way, my name is Warwick. Yours?”
“The name is Olds, sir,” I replied, and followed Mr. Warwick toward the back of his shop. I had to turn sideways in places to avoid the haphazard stacking of old items. He opened a door and motioned me into what seemed to be the sitting room of his residence. A teapot and saucer sat on a small table near a tiny, unlit fireplace. I looked around as he filled a pot with water and placed it on a gas ring, which he then lit. Having put another cup and saucer on the table, he gestured about the room almost apologetically and said something about the war and no heating fuel. He sat down and asked if I would like a piece of the small morsel of pound cake left on a plate. I declined, saying I had enjoyed a fine lunch not long before. His hospitality was gracious, but I was reluctant to assume any of his meager ration. This was the second time in one day I had been befriended by a stranger.
The tea was excellent. Both the aroma and the taste fit the surroundings perfectly. A V-1 rumbled far away and my host muttered, “Bloody Huns!” That was his only comment and I just nodded. We finished our tea and Mr. Warwick asked, “What brought you to my shop this far from the more interesting center of the city?”
I told him of being in London for the first time and how, after lunch with a friend, I had relished every moment and each new experience just wandering about. I tried to explain my fascination with the knights of old, and how my childhood images of England and London had been delightfully confirmed. I went on to say that the longer I roamed the streets, the more affection I felt for this city and its people. When I came upon his shop window, I was drawn like a magnet to the display of armor. At that point in my babbling, I stopped. I wasn’t sure how to go about asking if the pieces were for sale. They seemed to belong right where they were, precious statements of Mr. Warwick’s understated yet genuine passion for history.
Warwick sensed my hesitation and explained, “Those pieces are truly authentic. Lots of chea
p copies about, mostly in town in those posh places on Knightsbridge. Wouldn’t go there if I were you. Are you interested in them? I happened upon that set long before the war at an estate auction. Some old duke in the Midlands died and his heirs didn’t give a farthing for his treasures, only for his money. In any event, the duke’s armory was a trove of ancestral history, and the heirs only wanted it cleaned out for a small price. My good fortune. Thought I could retire on my profit, but the normal trade in the old things has gone by the wayside for the duration, so I just let them sit and gather a bit of dust. They have very good papers, you know.”
I was fascinated, but more than ever reluctant to ask the direct question. Would Mr. Warwick be annoyed or upset that a brash young Yank would have the audacity to want such an important part of England’s history? If he intended to retire on the profit, as he had said, how in the world could a first lieutenant afford him that luxury? My interest seemed superficial under the circumstances.
Instead, I asked, “Is the helmet called a helm? Is it used for just tilting and jousting rather than warfare? Did it sport a feathered plume? How could the ancient smithies fashion such an intricate thing? Did they—”
“Hold on, Leftenant,” Warwick interrupted, smiling, “one question at a time. I can tell you want to know a lot, but I’m old and there’s a lot to tell.”
Two hours passed as I listened to his detailed descriptions of the days of armor and knights. It was as though he had been a part of those times. I knew I had to have that armor, but by now was even further from how to broach the subject of the cost. I saw my host glance at the grandfather clock against a far wall. I hastily rose to leave.
“Thank you, sir. I’ve had the most wonderful time and deeply appreciate your hospitality. Would you mind if I came back to visit you in the morning? I would like to hear more of your stories, if it wouldn’t be an intrusion.”
Fighter Pilot Page 9