London was burning. Sean described the sights to his listeners - a man in Piccadilly, warding off flying shrapnel with an umbrella - a girl in Pall Mall, using her evening cloak to smother an incendiary bomb.
He recorded the sounds - bombers circling like dogs on a scent - that aching split second of silence between the fall of a bomb and its explosion - birds singing in the park when searchlights turned night into day.
He even recounted the smells - the harsh stench of cordite, the choking dust of pulverised plaster, the pungent whiff of burning wood.
Burning, but not beaten. Anti-aircraft Command spread their box barrage around the city and blazed away night after night. Factories raced to build night fighters. Caches of guns and ammunition were stashed along the south coast in readiness for the invasion. Churchill poured scorn on the German efforts: "On Thursday night 180 persons were killed in London as a result of 251 tons of bombs. That is to say, it took one ton of bombs to kill three-quarters of a person ..."
Londoners laughed - but in six weeks fourteen thousand tons of high explosives and twelve thousand incendiary canisters had rained down upon the city. Regent Street was ripped apart by a delayed action bomb. Parliament was hit. Westminster Abbey was bombed. Wren churches were destroyed, along with houses, pubs, factories and offices ...
Sean and three other journalists were given a confidential briefing by the Secretary of State for Air. The news elsewhere was as bleak as on the home front. "We shall probably lose Egypt, Malta, Aden, the Middle East, Singapore and, I'm very much afraid, dear old Gibraltar too." It sounded like the death of the British Empire. Sean expected to hear that defeat was inevitable. Instead, frowning furiously and shaking his head, the Secretary of State said, "Yes, I very much fear it will take five or six years before we win this war."
The mood of defiance was growing. When Buckingham Palace was hit, the Queen said, "I'm glad we've been bombed. It makes me feel I can look the East End in the face." And she did, constantly visiting the debris-strewn streets, clambering around bomb craters on the arm of the King. Sixty suites of furniture were sent to the East End from Windsor Castle, along with linen and carpets and rugs ...
To survive was a victory. Signs in pubs quoted Queen Victoria - "We are not interested in the possibilities of defeat because they do not exist." Deprived of the theatre in the evenings, Londoners flocked to the Strand at noon, where Donald Wolfit packed a thousand people a week in to see potted versions of Richard III. "Shakespeare beats Hitler", crowed the Express.
Make-do-and-mend became a way of life. Blitzed though it was, the capital was surviving - and surviving amazingly well. At a party one night Lord Woolton, the Minister of Food, confided to Cynthia - "It isn't the Government that's going to win this war - it's the people."
"I said that months ago," Val said proudly when she heard.
Val was broken-hearted about the East End. Shadwell was gutted. In October, her precious flat - symbol of her independence and of her first love-making with Sean - was blown apart. She was there the next day, rescuing a few charred books and other possessions. In fact Val spent most days in the East End. Morrison had switched her duties and given her responsibility for co-ordinating relief services in the docks. She was pleased. The East End was full of her people, they knew her, trusted her, flirted with her, and helped her get the job done. When German bombers destroyed her efforts overnight, she was there again at dawn to start all over again. Sean worried himself sick when she stayed overnight in the East End, but she was quite firm about it - "Darling, there's so much to do, and I'm on at five in the morning. Besides you'll be out all night - it's you we should worry about."
They snatched a few words on the telephone every day and spent an afternoon each week at Craven Street making love. Their feelings for each other deepened until it seemed their hearts would burst.
On 13 November, Sean had a letter from Freddie, delivered by the American Embassy. By then bombs had rained down on London for sixty-seven consecutive nights. The storm showed no signs of abating.
"If Joe Kennedy steams this open he will arrest me for treason. I'm working night and day contradicting everything he stands for. Sean, it grieves me to admit it, but a lot of Americans are still against us getting into this war. Opinion here is changing, but slowly. 'Seven Days' is helping a lot. Everyone I meet listens to it. My mother has been moved to tears by your words and she is not alone by any means. Did I tell you, you're famous over here. Even the President listens - I was at a reception last Thursday when he told the audience that he tunes in every week!
Which brings me neatly to the point. You've become such a celebrity in America that I think you should take over my lecture tour. Thousands of people would like to shake your hand and get your views on the war. I think it might help - especially with you being Irish ..."
"Well," Val said, reading the letter, "fame and fortune await you in New York."
She sat on the end of the bed, quite naked. When she spoke her voice was artificially bright. "What am I saying, fame awaits you - Freddie says you're famous already." She gave him a quick smile, "I'm pleased for you, darling. It's what you deserve."
When he reached for her, she avoided him and sighed, "You must go as soon as you can."
"Will you go with me?"
Her eyes clouded. "What a heavenly thought. The two of us, going to America." She blinked to dispel the dream. "I'd like that, more than anything, you know that, don't you? But I couldn't, not right now, not yet..."
"Then I'm staying too."
"No. You must go. It's such an opportunity. Besides Freddie says it might help and -"
"We both go or we both stay."
"That's dreadfully unfair. People depend on me here. I could do nothing in New York. But you must go. You must. I'd be glad in a way. You'd be safe. Then when this war's over ..."
She came to him, scrambling around the bed to throw herself into his arms. "Darling, we'll have wonderful times, I promise. Oh Sean, I wish I could stay here tonight - but I'll be back again in a few days and ..."
He kissed her and held her close. They lay in each other's arms for a long time, just talking and stroking each other.
He would never go without her. Finally she accepted his decision. She wept then, and told him the truth, how much she had wanted him to stay, how terrified she had been that he might go. "I'd crack apart without you. Seeing you gives me strength. I love you so much."
They made love so tenderly that afterwards Sean wondered if he had dreamt it. Neither of them seemed to move. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes closed, the rise and fall of her breathing so regular that except for the faint smile she might have been asleep. Then her eyes opened and her long shuddering sigh seemed to last forever.
An hour later the car from Morrison's office arrived to take her to Coventry.
Sean was introduced to the two Ministry officials who would travel with her.
After she had kissed him goodbye, she said, "I'll be back in five days. Meanwhile stay in the shelters at night and -"
He placed a finger against her lips and settled her into the car.
She twisted round as the big Austin rolled down to the Embankment.
For the next hour he fidgeted, imagining her journey to the Midlands. He was glad she was going, if only for a few days. The Midlands were safe. She so desperately needed a break from the bombing. She worked too hard and lived on her nerves more than people realised. If this unexpected job for Morrison hadn't come up, Sean would have insisted that she leave London for a while. He had even spoken to Cynthia about it.
He settled at the typewriter to answer Freddie's letter. He hoped Freddie would understand and agree. The argument with Dinny still haunted him. "Turning your back on your own people," Dinny had shouted - and Sean had snarled back, "Dev's not my people - or the Da's either!"
But who were his people? Freddie was his friend. Val was his mistress. They were the only "people" he had.
When darkness fell Sean went down to
the docks. Bombers came, but not in force. It was a quiet night, the slackest in weeks. He drank a few cups of tea at various fire-watching points, but there was little news to be gathered. Even so, he still felt glad that Val had gone to the Midlands - London was quiet, but Coventry would be quieter. With so little happening he returned to Craven Street and was in bed before one o'clock.
The telephone rang three hours later. "Sean? Sean, for God's sake wake up."
He recognised Bob Thompson, a friend in the Fire Service. They had shared a cup of tea earlier.
"Sean, there's a story if you want one. Coventry's been hit. We've had an SOS for two hundred firemen. From what I can make out -"
He dropped the phone, then scrambled after it, praying to have misheard. But he had not been mistaken. It was Coventry.
Thompson said, "I'm leaving in fifteen minutes. There's room in my car if you want -"
By five o'clock they were racing through the black-out to the Great North Road. At dawn, they were still twenty miles south of Coventry.
Thompson grumbled bitterly as he drove, "First easy night in weeks, now this!"
Two other firemen cat-napped in the back seats, resting while they could. Sean had already pieced together what little they knew.
"Same old story," Thompson complained, "Jerry had things all his own way. No sign of the RAF. The message we got claimed 30,000 incendiaries were dropped before midnight. 30,000! Two hundred fires were out of control when we heard. Afterwards the bastards dropped high explosives. It must have been easy - a blaze that size could guide them half way from Hamburg."
"But if that was before midnight -"
"Phones went, everything went. The place was cut off hours ago. Birmingham called us - they've sent every man they've got. Water's a problem I think - the mains fractured and once that happens -"
"Val's there," Sean whispered.
Thompson swore. "Why didn't you -" he threw Sean a sideways glance. "You okay? Ah, don't worry, Val's a sensible girl, she'll be all right."
Few people were all right in Coventry. They drove into a city razed to the ground. Even Thompson, hardened by the London Blitz, blanched at the devastation. The city centre was a pile of rubble, with nothing left standing. Pavements crept out from beneath the debris like broken veins, severed by craters of thick red mud. Twisted steel girders and looped telegraph wires marked what had once been lines of buildings. Smoke rose from still burning fires. Pathetic groups of people fought their way through the wreckage, hoisting timbers and masonry as they searched for survivors.
Sean wandered those devastated streets for hours. He shouted, "It's all over" into basements and Anderson shelters, then helped survivors climb out, explaining that without power-cables no sirens could sound. He went looking for Val. She would have visited one of the factories. Coventry had dozens, all working round the clock, seven days a week - Vickers Armstrong turning out engines for Blenheim bombers, Hawker-Siddeley delivering engines for Whitleys, Rolls-Royce making for Spitfires, Daimler producing scout cars, nylon parachutes at Courtaulds, rubber tyres at Dunlop ... Val could have gone to any of them.
He stopped asking questions after a policeman arrested him. When he had properly identified himself, the constable apologised. "Sorry sir, I thought I detected a trace of an Irish accent. That might have caused you trouble."
The IRA had bombed Coventry too!
Another lifetime, a different war. How strange that this tired-looking policeman in his torn uniform should remember it. The man managed an exhausted smile, "Reckon we'll have something else to look back on now."
Sean accepted some strong tea from a thermos flask and they parted as friends.
The tea helped ease the shock, and when he saw Bob Thompson at ten-thirty he was functioning again. "Put me to work, Bob. I don't know what to do by myself - you tell me, and I'll do it."
Thompson got him to the Gulston Road hospital where he worked as a stretcher bearer in an ambulance. Back and forth they went, picking up the maimed and the dying. People flagged them down as if they were a taxi. Sean's stomach turned over whenever they stopped, fearing that the next crippled wreck would be Val. The sights and stories were pitiful. Sometimes the debris was so bad that Sean had to clear a path for the ambulance. They were lost twice when the Coventry-born driver failed to find a single recognisable landmark.
Down torn streets, past gutted houses, around flattened churches, once through a graveyard because the road was impassable. Pangs of hunger were stirred by the juicy aroma of three hundred tons of Sunday joints roasting in a government meat store, still smoking despite the efforts of firemen. The affluent smell of good cigars came from a smouldering tobacconist's. But most smells were of cordite and rubble and death.
By mid-afternoon Sean had still not found Val. Neither had Bob Thompson, nor George Hamilton who arrived just as Thompson was on the point of departing for London.
"You're staying, Sean, are you," Thompson stated rather than asked.
Sean nodded bleakly.
They worked until dusk, which is when Sean collapsed. Wrapped in George Hamilton's camel hair coat, he dozed in a corner of Gulston Hospital. He slept for only an hour. He knew she was dead when he awoke.
George Hamilton came in and laced a mug of tea with brandy from a hip flask. He passed it to Sean as he talked, "The rescue teams are still working. She could be anywhere, maybe not even hurt, just helping and too busy to send word."
Sean remained silent, unable to speak about Val, even to her father.
By noon next day the crippled city was revealed in all its misery. Eight out of every ten buildings had been destroyed or damaged. All twenty seven vital war plants had been hit. Teams of doctors and nurses were arriving from all over the country to cope with the injured. The death toll rose all the time. Establishing exact numbers was difficult because bodies were still buried beneath tons of debris, or had been blown entirely apart.
Sean helped at the hospital until mid-afternoon, at which time he was replaced by qualified medical orderlies. He was thanked for his efforts and told to go home.
Valerie Hamilton had still not been found.
He wanted to die. His heart had been torn out. "Oh Val," he whispered, "I love you so much."
George Hamilton found him sitting in the street, apparently watching a man boil a kettle on a still smouldering incendiary bomb. But Sean was staring with unseeing eyes which saw nothing.
"She's gone," George choked up. He squatted in the dirt and rested a hand on Sean's shoulder.
When Sean looked up, George Hamilton was crying, George Hamilton, who was always so assured, so in control of things, was sitting in the rubble of Coventry weeping.
Sean said nothing. Inside his head he was still talking to her. They were in bed at Craven Street, not making love, just talking softly about how much they loved each other.
George buried his head in his hands. His shoulders heaved as he struggled to talk. "They only found her arm ... Oh God, only her arm..."
Sean tried not to listen. He closed his eyes and saw her beside him. Gently he kissed her lips. "I love you," she whispered back.
"Her ring," George gulped, "... still on her finger."
Val's opal. A present from a proud father on her twenty-first birthday.
Sean stared at the ring, then closed his eyes again. "I love you," she whispered on the breeze which sighed through a trellis-work of broken bricks and twisted iron railings.
A long time later George Hamilton blew his nose noisily and stopped weeping. With a trembling hand he offered Sean a cigarette.
Sean declined, shaking his head.
George Hamilton smoked in silence. When the cigarette was finished he cleared his throat. "I must get back to Cynthia," he said gently, "I bumped into a man I know, he'll give us a lift."
He looked at Sean. "Come on, son, we're doing no good here. Val would have said, she'd have said, 'Don't you know there's a war on?'"
Sean tried to smile, until his mouth twisted and his
eyes spilled over with tears.
Chapter Ten
8 January, 1942
To my Dear Sister,
Really I'm writing to Uncle Ned and Aunt Eleanor to thank them for my Christmas present which arrived last week (late). It was clever of you to let them know I wanted a slide-rule. American slide-rules are wonderful and every boy in my class wants one now. I only lend mine to my best friend and that upsets the others who say I get more of an Averdale every day. "What's his is his" they say, as if there was something wrong in that. Anyway, I WANT to be as like an Averdale as I can possibly be.
Tell Uncle Ned that I am sorry about his ships getting sunk at Pearl Harbour, but all my friends are pleased that America is now in the war. We are going to win, everyone says so, especially now. And guess what - the first American soldiers coming to Britain will come here to train. Three whole Divisions are arriving soon, it was in the papers. Perhaps some will be from Dayton, Ohio, and will know Uncle Ned and Aunt Eleanor, or even you as you've been there so long.
I am going in for business and politics when I get bigger and the war is over. UNCLE MARK said I can. Did I tell you I call him that now? He said I could at Christmas when we were talking about politics and the war and men's things like that. He said I am just the man to deal with the Croppies. He says having Americans here will be a good thing because they will see what we have to put up with. He says it's all right for Croppies to be Catholics, he says they can worship the sun for all he cares (he said BLOODY WELL CARES - don't show this to Aunt Eleanor) but it's their disloyalty he can't stand, and neither can I. Do you know there's no rationing down there, but up here even Uncle Mark has to have coupons and things. He says all that Madman de Valera does is complain about the British, but if it wasn't for us he wouldn't have anything. We send him petrol and coal and food and all sorts of things, and all he does is let German spies run around Dublin (and JAPANESE spies, tell Uncle Ned). Uncle Mark says perhaps Americans won't be so keen to send guns to the IRA now that American soldiers will get shot here instead of British Tommies and RUC men.
Ian St James Compendium - Volume 1 Page 129