| |
A misty, early morning in late November, with clouds cloaking the sun. It might have been two o’clock rather than six. The fog had London so socked in that even the pavement below Rupert’s feet hid.
All the way to the station, he ruminated over the note Chief Constable Derby sent yesterday. Over all these years, he could count summonses from the Chief on two fingers. Those meetings occurred so long ago he had forgotten the reason for them. The Chief’s manner of operation had impressed him early on.
Each man in the force carried out his responsibilities, and in that sense, all the officers worked together. Camaraderie with other members worked out naturally, and at any given time over the years, Rupert maintained good rapport by taking each personality into account.
For example, he’d accepted that Officer Brannigan’s penchant for being late was unalterable, and adjusted his expectations accordingly. At first, this habit troubled him more than he voiced. How could an officer fail to notice the time, especially when another waited for him?
But gradually, considering Brannigan’s many other strengths, his lack of timeliness shriveled in importance. No need to label him, as did Officer Fletcher, selfish and unobservant of others’ needs. Not at all the case—Brannigan simply had trouble saying goodbye to anyone he met.
Furthermore, no one boasted a more observant eye than Brannigan. Not even himself, Rupert admitted, though he constantly watched for things amiss in the quarter.
He had been the one to initiate the demise of Avery Ritter, ‘twas true, but Brannigan could claim a far longer list of triumphs. He had been key in squelching the alarming affair on St. Peter Street—what a service to the community and the Crown!
Far beyond black marketeering, this involved leading the youth of Bethnal Green astray. To be sure, Rupert had noticed small gatherings of boys around a certain lounger in the vicinity of the candy shop, but felt no alarm.
Brannigan, though, had cozied up to those young fellows, kept a watchful ear, and uncovered a plot. The unscrupulous—nay, traitorous—nature of that older fellow led these young louts to avoid military service. Even thinking of such a venture brought a sour taste. Intent on nothing but lining his pockets, this deceiver convinced young gents approaching registration age of another channel to serve their country.
And what would that be? The boys never knew, for no other way existed—either you served in the forces or if deemed incapable, here at home. How down-in-the-mouth Junior had been when told he could not be a soldier—the difference was honor.
Towsley had expounded upon this just the other day. Five simple letters, but without this quality denoting integrity and patriotism, where would we all be?
In these street gatherings, Brannigan had smelled the opposite. When he brought his findings forward, the Chief took instant action. They had stalked this dishonorable sort until he had shown his hand. Soon, he found himself in bonds, awaiting a court hearing.
That was the last Rupert heard, but imagined that criminal executed by now, or imprisoned for life. And his following? All had been channeled into the military force.
Then there was the terrified fellow who went AWOL. Who had fished him out of the alleys? Officer Brannigan, but this time, he showed such obvious compassion, the soldier’s commander gave the soldier another chance to serve.
A true expert, that was Brannigan. Late to a fault perhaps, but always about his business, cracking on, as Officer Young would say.
Seeing a light in the butcher shop but noting no copper smell in the air, Rupert proceeded around to the back. There ought to be some bloodletting by this time.
Covered by his grimy apron, a long knife in hand, Thackery met him. “Ho there, Officer. M’ gout has me a bit behind this mornin’, but I’m about it.”
“Good. Just checking, sir.”
“’preciate it, I do.”
Back to the street, and to the note in his box announcing a brief meeting at ten. Hopefully nothing dire, though nearly everything fit that description lately. Daily V-2 launches that took out whole sections of blocks, debris teams beyond exhaustion, two fires breaking out hours after a strike, a crane crashing into an office building and injuring workers...
Ah well. For now, remember last night’s report: French forces liberated Strasbourg, so close to the Rhine. In addition, American troops freed prisoners in a German concentration camp set up on French soil—the Natzweiler-Struthof camp.
The rabbi would have a word about that. Since he and so many other Green residents had escaped Russian pogroms, he kept his ear to the ground.
The news also reported that the Canadian government had now released 16,000 conscripts for overseas duty. Why wouldn’t they, for Heaven’s sake?
The commentator had gone into a rant. “What was this marching in the streets—these shouts of “Down With Conscription,” and bedeviled Zombies deserting the ranks? Why should they not fight like so many other Canadians? Do these rebels not remember Dieppe?”
What could those chaps be thinking? Were they not Canadian citizens aligned with the Crown? And who were these so-called Zombies? Was not the United States deeply embroiled in the fight? Was this not a world war?
If Britain went down, so would the rest of them. What would have become of the free world had the British army’s doom been sealed at Dunkirk? Without the Prime Minister, although imperfect, that surely would have been the case.
Adolph would have gained the upper hand early on. Free men everywhere would have trembled.
Rupert’s heart raced. He checked his watch—just time enough for a spot of tea before meeting the Chief. Another note awaited him, and unfolding it in the break room, Rupert shook his head.
Officer Fletcher again—an observant fellow, but so weak in his communications.
“Heads up,” neat handwriting read. “The citizenry seeks positive demeanor.”
He included a notice from the Gazette concerning the need to keep a stiff upper lip, muddle through, and any number of other suitable phrases, as if the War Ministry’s posters plastered everywhere were not up to their task. Down in the bowels of the W.M., someone had been given the task of printing up rousing posters, and the one they plastered all around the city during the Blitz had long ago done its duty:
YOUR COURAGE
YOUR CHEERFULNESS
YOUR RESOLUTION
WILL BRING US VICTORY
True, the Germans had not invaded the island, as many expected. But what if they had? Would any amount of courage, cheerfulness, or determination—the “stiff upper lip” British-born citizens supposedly possessed—have done much good?
Someone walked in. Rupert went on about heating the tea water, not even glancing up until he heard a rather loud, “Some blistering soul must think—”
Ah, Sergeant Young.
“Good day, Sergeant.”
“What is this about?” The chap’s face had turned peachy-red.
“Nothing of great concern. One of the officers considers it his duty to remind us of ours.”
The nerve in the younger man’s cheek still did a spritely dance, so Rupert offered more assurance. “The Chief has nothing to do with these notes. In fact, I would wager he received one himself.”
“Chief Derby? So, someone thinks—”
“He knows better than the Chief Constable what we are about? Exactly.”
“But no one can access this room except members of the force, correct?”
“Indeed—one of our own takes it upon himself to cheer us on.”
“Cheer? I take this as the opposite. Perhaps he needs more assignments.”
Mum always maintained that some things were better left unsaid, and her pronouncement instructed Rupert as he strained an extra cup of tea. What good could come of discussing Fletcher’s nervous outlook? Instead, he held out a steaming cup.
“Here you go, Sergeant.”
Towsley would remark on the humor inherent in this rookie’s name. “And honestly—”
“Thank you, sir.” Young’s flush flamed brighter. “But I’ll not be badgered. I do my work as well as—”
“As I witnessed on the night of our recent raid.” Rupert sought how he might communicate his confidence in the new officer.
“Let us drink to the force!” When he lifted his cup, Sergeant Young hesitated, but then joined in the toast.
“And a fine force, at that.”
But the sergeant’s fingers trembled and Rupert looked away as his cup clattered against his saucer. This new officer had been wounded in the North African campaign. Who knew what memories lurked under his topcoat?
Downing his tea in a hurry, he gave Sergeant Young a nod. “A good day to you, then. I must be off”
No reply, but Rupert barely noticed as he approached whatever awaited him in the Chief’s office.
###
“HEY, YOU GOT HERE JUST in time. I may have found Edward R. Murrow again.”
“Oh, I hope you can keep him tuned in this time.”
Jeremy held up his forefinger, so Dorothy sat back to wait. Sure enough, from across the Channel came a voice as American as a baseball game. Easy to lose oneself in Murrow’s rich tones, but she had more interest in discovering facts.
November 12th, 1944
I shall try to say something about V-2, the German rockets that have fallen on several widely scattered points in England. The Germans, as usual, made the first announcement and used it to blanket the fact that Hitler failed to make his annual appearance at the Munich beer cellar. The German announcement was exaggerated and inaccurate in some details, but not in all. For some weeks those of us who had known what was happening had been referring to these explosions, clearly audible over a distance of 15 miles, as “those exploding gas mains.” It is impossible to give you any reliable report on the accuracy of this weapon because we don’t know what the Germans have been shooting at. They have scored some lucky and tragic hits, but as Mr. Churchill told the House of Commons, the scale and the effects of the attack have not hitherto been significant.
That is, of course, no guarantee that they will not become so. This weapon carries an explosive charge of approximately one ton. It arrives without warning of any kind. The sound of the explosion is not like the crump of the old-fashioned bomb, or the flat crack of the flying bomb; the sound is perhaps heavier and more menacing because it comes without warning. Most people who have experienced war have been saved repeatedly by either seeing or hearing; neither sense provides warning or protection against this new weapon.
These are days when a vivid imagination is a definite liability. There is nothing pleasant in contemplating the possibility, however remote, that a ton of high explosive may come through the roof with absolutely no warning of any kind. The penetration of these rockets is considerably greater than that of the flying bomb, but the lateral blast effect is less.
There are good reasons for believing that the Germans are developing a rocket which may contain as much as eight tons of explosives. That would be eight times the size of the present rocket, and, in the opinion of most people over here, definitely unpleasant. These rockets have not been arriving in any considerable quantity, and they have not noticeably affected the nerves or the determination of British civilians. But it would be a mistake to make light of this new form of bombardment. Its potentialities are largely unknown.
German science has again demonstrated a malignant ingenuity which is not likely to be forgotten when it comes time to establish controls over German scientific and industrial research. For the time being, those of you who may have family or friends in these “widely scattered spots in England” need not be greatly alarmed about the risks to which they are exposed.
“Well, I suppose that might make some American mothers sleep a little easier if they’ve got someone in London. Mr. Murrow is usually right. But still, I’d like to hear from some Londoners who’ve been hit by those V-2’s, wouldn’t you?”
“Sure would, ma’am. To tell y’ the truth, anybody can be used to spread government propaganda these days. You’ve heard about the carrots, haven’t you?”
“Carrots?”
“The British War Office put out the word that eating carrots increases a person’s night vision. Captain Siemons says that’s about as likely as Hitler surrendering tomorrow. The truth is the Ministry’s blowin’ smoke to cover the way their new range and direction finding invention hones in on German bombers. Pinpoints ‘em so the anti-aircraft fellas like John Cunningham, an ace, can shoot ‘em down.”
“What do carrots have to do—”
“They’ve got the A-1 vitamin, see. And A-1 is short for the RAF’s On board Airborne Interception Radar, too. So the Ministry put posters all over the place saying the A-1 in carrots helps their aces shoot down German planes. Eat Carrots...they’ll increase your night vision, just like our aces.”
“Wow. You’re like the Captain—you know a lot.”
“Helps to listen to this baby so often.” Jeremy tapped the radio. “But like my Daddy always says, we gotta take what we hear with a big grain of salt.”
“Carrots—A1 and radar. That’s pretty nifty.”
“Yeah. The captain says, ‘Leave it to the British to play with words.’ But no matter what, ain’t nobody with a smoother voice than Mr. Murrow.”
