December 2, 1940
London, England
I stand as close to the edge of the rooftop as the soldiers will allow. I’d wanted to serve my shift as fire watcher without the meddling presence of Winston’s personal guards, but he would not hear of it. In fact, we’d had quite a row over me serving as fire watcher at all.
I’d argued with Winston. “If you hadn’t wanted your citizens to serve in this so-called dangerous role, then why did you push for the Fire Watchers Order?” This law, introduced in September, required business owners to ensure that someone was on-site to scan for fires at all times—both at the building and beyond—so as to prevent further fire damage, particularly from the ubiquitous incendiary bombs that were raining down on London nightly.
“By citizens, I did not mean to include the prime minister’s wife. You do quite enough for your country, and the prime minister needs you by his side. It’s not the place for you,” he barked at me as if I were one of his many underlings.
His behavior only reinforced my commitment to the role, so I stood up and announced, “Winston, I have only informed you about my shift as a courtesy to your schedule. As you know, I publicly responded to Home Secretary Morrison’s complaints that the fire-watching service was understaffed by urging him to request that all middle-aged women of independent means assume shifts as fire watchers. Now that I’ve called on women to serve as fire watchers, how can I urge them to clamber onto rooftops in the dead of night if I won’t do it myself?” I pause and use one of his own arguments against him. “Just like you do when you venture out onto the city streets during the nighttime bombings.”
Sighing heavily, Winston puffed on his cigar for a long moment. His silence told me that I’d won this point but that he would exact some sort of concession from me. “You will take some of my guards with you.”
I wanted to protest, but I knew he’d be worried the entirety of my shift unless his men accompanied me. So I acquiesced, but in this respect only.
* * *
My arrival on the rooftop flusters the older, white-haired gentleman from whom I’m taking over, a Mr. Peacock. Despite the fact that he appears to be over a decade older than myself, he’s remarkably spry, which he demonstrates by jumping at the sight of me. “Mrs. Ch–Churchill? What on earth are you doing here?”
“I’m here to take the shift after yours as fire watcher,” I answer calmly with a smile, trying to imply that my appearance on this rooftop is no more unusual than his own.
“Fire watcher?” he blurts out, then his hand flies to his mouth. “My apologies, ma’am. I’m just so surprised to see the prime minister’s wife up here on the roof.”
I fear the poor man may never recover. In the hopes of smoothing his nerves, I ask, “Can you show me the ropes? This is my first time after all.”
After a moment’s hesitation, he undertakes the instructor role so naturally that I guess he must have been a teacher at one time. Slipping on this seemingly familiar hat, he calms and explains the tasks I’ll be performing for the next eight hours. As he hands me a pair of greasy binoculars, he says, “The most critical part of the job is scanning the horizon for incoming bombs as well as smoke and fire.” He walks me around the perimeter of the rooftop, pointing out the various buildings in the skyline, although, of course, I recognize St. Paul’s myself.
He leads me to a telephone that appears as though it’s been hastily installed on the rooftop wall. “The moment you spot anythin’ like that, you’re to give a warning to the staff in the offices below. The proper number is posted here. That way, they can protect themselves and the building and get the word out to those in the other targeted buildings by sounding an alarm for the staff to get to the basement shelter and with other telephone calls.”
Pointing to the piles of sandbags and buckets of water and sand scattered about, I ask, “What are those for?”
“For shelter if the Germans fire on you directly,” he answers quietly, as if he’s hesitant to share the reality of this post with me. As if I was unaware—until this very moment—of the risks. “And water and sand in case their fire and bombs start a fire up here.”
Ah, I think. They serve the same purpose as they do in the War Rooms, which are littered with buckets of water and sand.
I nod briskly and say, “Well, sir, thanks to your excellent instruction, I feel ready to assume my post.”
“Are you certain, ma’am?”
“Quite. We all need to do our duty.” I see that my words do not mollify him. Gesturing to the soldiers lining the rooftop wall, I say, “Not to worry. Those fellows won’t let a thing happen to me.”
“Wouldn’t let the prime minister down, ma’am. He does so much for us.”
I clasp his gloved hand with my own. “I’ll be sure to share your sentiments with him. But now, I must begin.” I sling the binoculars around my neck, place the required helmet on my head, and begin to patrol the perimeter. I’m thankful that I broke protocol and wore pants.
I try to ignore the guards as I undertake my rounds, but their constant surveillance of me and the rooftop itself makes it challenging. I nearly trip over one silvery-blond young soldier as I round the corner to check the north side of the building. After a few hours of this rather monotonous work, the soldiers begin to relax their vigilance, and I am able to linger at each vantage point and study the cityscape below me.
Even though it is dusk, I can make out the outlines of our citizens scurrying about their evening tasks. Men in topcoats and trilbies returning home from the office, although perhaps to empty houses and apartments as their loved ones have been evacuated. The occasional woman strides down the street, purposefully carrying parcels. The only evidence of the war that I see from my vantage point is the shelters, dotted across the cityscape.
I am lost in thought, admiring the resiliency of the British people, when I hear a clatter of gunfire and the roar of plane engines. Instinctively, duty calls, and I lift the binoculars to my eyes. Biplanes streak through the sky, and huge fiery incendiaries rain down over buildings, streets, and parks. The smoke billows from the ground toward the dusky sky, and the smell of sulfur fills the air.
Immediately, I race for the telephone to alert the workers in the building below, but I am intercepted by the guards. They form a circle around me to ensure my protection. I know they are simply following instructions, but I am determined to do my job.
“Gentlemen, I have a call to make.”
The blond soldier says, “Ma’am, we’re under orders to protect you. We cannot take the risk that a stray bullet or bomb will harm you.”
“You may follow me to that telephone, but I will make that call.”
The soldiers in tow, I race to the phone and inform the building staff about the bombs in close proximity so they can run to the basement shelter, even though this particular building hasn’t been hit. Returning to the perimeter of the roof, I scan the horizon again with my binoculars. I see nothing except the gleaming dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral rising above the billowing smoke and scattered fires. I have seen the devastation firsthand on the ground, but how different it looks from the air, I think.
The sound of gunfire grows faint, and then the scream of dropping bombs ceases altogether as the action moves into the distance. The soldiers refuse to leave my side, even when the night grows completely quiet. As the smoke clears, through the binoculars in the dim moonlight, I see the detritus left behind on sidewalks as people ran to safety. The outlines of a wrapped parcel of food here, an umbrella there, even a woman’s shoe. I am relieved that I do not spot any human casualties. How terrible is this war.
One of the soldiers clears his throat behind me and then says, “Ma’am, since there is a lull in the action, this might be a good time to return to the Annexe.”
I turn toward him and respond in an unwavering voice, “I have every intention of staying for the entirety of my shift. I must fulfill my duty.”