by Lee Jackson
Having departed the Savoy traveling east on The Strand, and with the ever-present drone of bombers overhead, their taxi drove past King’s College and took one of the side streets south toward the Thames. It worked its way parallel to the river for most of the way and then wound north through back streets and alleys, thick with smoldering ash, until they reached a corridor established by the police along Sermon Lane leading to Ludgate Hill and the great cathedral.
At first, constables regulating permissible traffic into the passageway refused their car entry past a checkpoint they had established. Bill and Marguerite showed their press passes, arguing that they must report to their US readers the extent of the damage to London; but only after Paul produced his army identification did the constables step aside and wave the taxi through.
“We hit the jackpot when we ran into you in the dark,” Bill muttered. He gazed about at the roaring flames. “I recall that last year, a German newspaperman bragged that the London docks and the older parts of the city could be burned off like patches of weed. He was talking about right where we are now, and that seems to be the Luftwaffe’s intent tonight.”
Heat from opposing conflagrations on either side of the street parched their skin, causing their eyes to water and hindering their breathing. As the taxi crept through even more dense smoke, lines of exhausted firefighters struggled to aim heavy hoses and brass nozzles spouting thick streams of water along the base of the buildings and into the lower stories to hold back enormous walls of flame. Emerging through the fire and smoke intermittently with their emergency lights flashing, police cars and ambulances passed the group traveling in the opposite direction.
Then the taxi drove past the flames and through several blocks of buildings that, although blackened by soot and showing signs of having been hit by bombs, were relatively untouched. As they progressed, they noticed a heavier presence of firemen. Thinner smoke cloaked the ground, and the air became less oppressive. The heat dissipated and the sounds of fire and crumbling buildings abated, replaced once again by the incessant low hum of German warplanes passing overhead.
They crossed Carter Lane, and then the tall columns, the grand Baroque façade, and the dome of St. Paul’s rose in front of them in ghostly white splendor. They paid their taxi driver, bade him farewell, and mounted the steps of the south transept.
Entering the building, the trio found that chaos had turned the stately interior to one of gloom. Smoke had penetrated inside, leaving a black film on the walls and statues, and obscuring the ceiling of the rotunda with its dark clouds. People huddled below, speaking in low, anxious tones. Others had moved into the nave to pray.
“This is where we get to work. I suggest we interview people,” Marguerite said to Bill. Turning to Paul, she held out her hand. “What’s it been, five hours since we met? And the bombing goes on. Thank you for your help. We might not have made it without you. I hope we meet again.”
Paul shook her hand and then Bill’s and watched as the two journalists began approaching people. Then he cast about to learn where he might volunteer.
A man hurried by with a worried look. Paul moved swiftly to walk alongside him. “I’m sorry to bother you. I’m Captain Littlefield. I’ve come to help. Tell me what to do.”
Without stopping even for a second, the man glanced at him. “I’m on my way now to see the dean. I’m sure he could use you.”
They found Walter Matthews, Dean of St. Paul’s, on the opposite side of the rotunda as he was about to go through a small door. “I’ve alerted the firefighters that we’re nearly out of water,” the escort told him. “They promised to do what they can to get more in here, but they didn’t offer much encouragement.” Then he introduced Paul. “He’s an army officer, and he came to volunteer. I thought you might use him upstairs. Our architects are nearly exhausted. Surely he could replace one of them.”
Matthews, a man of average height and build with a shock of thick brown hair over a determined countenance, eyed Paul briefly. “Shouldn’t you be out on the front somewhere? Maybe in North Africa?” He turned to the door again and gestured for Paul to follow. “I’m in a bit of a hurry.”
“I’m home on leave, sir,” Paul said, going after him. “We didn’t expect this calamity.”
On the other side of the door, they entered a narrow, short hall, and at the end of it, they mounted a winding stone staircase lit with lanterns and candles. Matthews kept talking as he climbed them. “I don’t know why you wouldn’t have anticipated this bombing. Hitler hit London for fifty-seven straight nights before a single one of reprieve, and he shows no sign of letting up. Where are you stationed?”
“I don’t want to be rude, sir, but I’m not allowed to say.”
The dean eyed him dubiously and then sighed. “I apologize. We’re doing all we can to save the cathedral and I’ve become tired and a little impatient. The man who introduced us is correct. Our architects could use a break.”
“I’m not an architect, sir.”
Matthews laughed involuntarily, a full belly laugh. “Thank you for that comic relief. I’m becoming a bit punch-drunk.” He paused on the stairs, panting for breath. “I’ll explain. These architects volunteered here as firemen. They’ve come every night since the blitz began because they’ve studied the blueprints and they know where the vulnerable places are.”
He started ascending the stairs again, and Paul followed. “This church’s record for surviving fires is not a good one. It’s burned to the ground twice in its thousand-year history. We’re rather challenged in trying to keep that from happening a third time, but we must.”
His voice took on an urgent timbre. “This isn’t just a building. It’s a symbol to millions around the world about their belief system, and that’s particularly true here in London where people see it every day and where we’ve suffered the nightly bombings. Whether the building survives or succumbs to the shelling will affect the morale of both sides of this war enormously, which will in turn affect the eventual outcome.”
His voice took on an even more grim tone. “Losing St. Paul’s might shorten the war, but we would not like the result. Churchill knows that and that this is tonight’s Nazi target because all their incendiaries and bombs fell within a square mile of here.
“He called to let me know that the cathedral must be saved at all costs, and that he would send whatever aid was necessary for that purpose. The fire department was so instructed, which is why they’ve concentrated on dousing the flames surrounding the church.”
Paul listened attentively as he huffed and puffed his way up the stairs, wondering how the dean could do it so easily while talking. All that Paul could think to say was, “I understand, sir.”
“We’re almost to the top, which is three hundred and sixty-five feet above ground level,” Matthews went on. “I’ll show you how precarious our position is and what must be done, and by the way, we have another volunteer team led by my wife below the cathedral. They’re preparing refreshments for the volunteers. Down there is where the crypt is for Admiral Nelson, the Duke of Wellington, and Sir Christopher Wren. If you don’t know, Sir Christopher was the architect for this rendition of our church.”
They emerged onto a landing. Paul gaped in amazement as the dean shined a torch at various beams built into a framework immediately under the vault.
“This is a ready-made furnace,” Matthews breathed, staring about as he moved his light across the structure. “People think St. Paul’s dome is made of stone, but it’s not. Rather, it’s a lead shell resting on an intricate wooden lattice that Sir Christopher designed. Lead itself has a low melting point at which it becomes flammable and releases noxious gas. That’s another danger we face. And these timbers have been here since the church was erected two hundred and thirty years ago. That should tell you that they are very dry and if ignited in flame…” He shook his head to let Paul deduce the conclusion, and then added, “And below are many items to fuel a flame.
“When the raid first start
ed, we got hit almost immediately with thousands of incendiaries. They were bouncing off our roofs onto the ground, and some penetrated through the lead onto the timbers in the lattice and ignited. Our chaps were out there climbing around on the beams, in the dark, to put them out.” He paused and wiped his eyes. “Extraordinary, really.”
The two stood in silence, taking in the courage already demonstrated and the enormity of what still faced them. “We must stop every incendiary that hits our dome and our other roofs or that penetrate and fall below,” Matthews said. “So far, we’ve been successful, but we’re running out of water and our team is getting tired, so having you come in is a big help. Maybe we can put our chaps on a rest-rotation schedule. Do you have any questions so far?”
“I’m overwhelmed with what your people have already done. I’ll do my best to hold up my end.”
Another figure approached them through the shadows. Matthews introduced him. “This is Mark. He leads the team in this section. He’ll show you to your post.” The dean then explained to Mark how Paul had come to be there. “And now, I must go on about my errands.”
After Matthews left, Mark told Paul, “It’s good of you to come. Let me describe what you’re looking for. Fire, obviously, but the incendiaries are small, round projectiles, tubes really, with fins on one end and a small, flat explosive device on the other to bore a hole in a roof or whatever it hits and light the magnesium powder that’s inside. It’s maybe two inches wide and eighteen inches long, and when it hits, it makes a popping noise. The magnesium ignites and spreads immediately, setting everything around it on fire.”
Paul listened almost in a daze. He was tired himself from spending the day with Ryan, driving her home, and then trekking across London through smoke and fire. But the danger was unfathomable. The idea that the enemy was so close, right overhead, and intent on killing him, Mark, the dean, everyone within the cathedral, those in proximity, and, in fact, anyone and everyone within the City of London was beyond comprehension, which made this task an immeasurable challenge.
When he had finished explaining, Mark asked, “Do you have any questions?”
Almost numbly, Paul shook his head.
“Then I’ll show you where your station is and what to do in case of a strike.”
Sitting in the dark, Paul listened to the distant, continuing roar of German aircraft and the far-off thud and concussion of high-explosive munitions. He wondered absently how many casualties would occur that night, how many children orphaned, and how many mothers and fathers left childless.
He also wondered about how St. Paul’s had been spared amidst the destruction he had witnessed all around it. Then the thought occurred that perhaps, if the first fires in or near the church had been quickly extinguished and the Luftwaffe used the incendiaries as location beacons, then as the fires raged in other places but the area around the cathedral became dark by comparison, the bomber pilots might have been fooled into releasing their bombs away from the church. Apparently, no one had queried the German chain of command about the dark area amidst the orange and yellow blaze.
As he mulled the thought, Paul became aware of a higher pitch within the cacophony of the overhead drone of engines. The errant sound grew louder and deeper and Paul knew what it must be—an aircraft approaching the church, possibly at a lower altitude. And then he heard the engine coughing and sputtering. It passed overhead, and he heard another sound, one that Mark had described to him, that of heavy raindrops falling on the metal roof. He knew what they must be: incendiaries.
He looked about wildly. The sound disappeared as quickly as it had come, and then was followed by another, a clattering noise as incendiaries landed on and rolled from the roof and then made a plopping noise as they fell to the ground. And in the distance, Paul heard another explosion, this one longer, louder, perhaps closer, but it was followed by additional explosions with similar qualities. Then they fell silent, and once again, the monotonous hum of the bombers resumed with the thud and boom of farther-off explosions. Did the bomber that flew overhead go down?
The thought lifted his spirit, but his hope was immediately dashed by a peculiar smell and then a hiss barely heard above the din. Scanning his section of the dome anxiously with his torch, he saw a dark spot appear on the lead shell. It deepened and grew larger, and then turned into a bright, sparkling light casting tiny shards of flame in all directions. Within seconds, the incendiary had burned through and dropped to one of the smaller crossbeams to Paul’s front, where it continued to burn.
A small flame ignited.
Jumping to his feet, Paul felt his way along the outer rim of the frame supporting the leaden dome. With his other hand, he shined his light across the network of beams, looking for the one that would provide him adequate support to climb out to the incendiary. Meanwhile his mind worked to determine how he would put it out.
The tube had landed on a smaller horizontal beam on the opposite side of a vertical timber. To get to it, Paul would have to mount onto a main beam several feet below the one where the device now blazed, raise himself over two more intermediate supports, and pull himself out to the upright, reach around it, and somehow manage to douse the incendiary, all while it spewed hot magnesium powder toward him.
Keeping an eye on the live flame that had started to grow, he shoved the end of the torch into his mouth and mounted the first beam. Below him, he saw nothing but darkness.
Mark yelled from behind him, “Take this,” and stretched out over the cavity to hand Paul a large piece of canvas. “We’re out of water, but in any case, we couldn’t get it up to you. You’ll have to use the canvas as a shield to get close, and then cover the tube and pound it out with your hand. Double the cloth over to make it as thick as you can.”
His heart pounding, Paul took the canvas, shoved it in his belt, and continued across the beam. He reached the first upright and climbed. With his breath coming in short gasps, and heaving for oxygen amidst still prevalent smoke, he pulled himself to the next horizontal beam. Steadying himself, he started for the third.
And slipped.
Throwing himself fully at the vertical support, he caught it, pushed upright, and steadied himself.
He glanced at the flame. It grew higher with each passing second, but fortunately, the magnesium had all but burnt out.
One more time, he reached for the next horizontal beam. His muscles screamed in protest and the filthy air made him lightheaded, but amidst much groaning and panting, he pulled himself firmly onto the third beam and edged toward the obstructing upright. It was thick, perhaps eight inches square, and had itself begun to smoke on the side away from him for being near the growing flame.
Not daring to look down, Paul pulled the canvas from his belt and reached forward to feel the side of the upright closest to him. It was warm, but just barely. Reaching around to the other side, he tapped it gingerly. It was not yet too hot to touch.
He pulled himself against the upright, and leaning against it for support, he reached around it. In doing so, he had to twist his head to the side to keep his torch out of the way but miscalculated and knocked it against another timber. The action wrenched the torch from his mouth and sent it clattering against the framework into the void, finally coming to rest far below on the attic floor.
Paul leaned his head against the upright and took a moment to steady himself. The flames had grown into dancing demons and threatened higher crossbeams. The upright was too large for Paul to reach around to throw the canvas over the fire with any certainty of success. Instead, he wrapped the cloth around his right arm and, holding on with his left hand, leaned out and around the upright, extended as far as he could, and directly pounded the flames.
The fingers on his left hand shook as they supported most of his weight, and Paul wondered for a fraction of a second if he would have the strength to pull himself back. At first, the fire showed no effect from his effort, but as he continued to beat it, the fire became smaller, and smaller, and finally flickered
out.
For a time, Paul hung where he was, the pain in his left arm and fingers excruciating. When he tried to pull himself back, he found that fatigue and smoke inhalation had overtaken him. He was too weak. His fingers started slipping.
23
December 30, 1940
Stony Stratford, England
Early the next morning, Claire paced her living room floor while Timmy played. Minutes ticked by and she glanced out the front window again for the umpteenth time. The phone rang, and she raced to pick it up and greet her caller.
Her shoulders slumped as she heard Ryan’s voice. “No. Nothing yet,” she said. “I’m sure Paul’s all right. We’ll just have to wait. I’ll call if I hear anything.”
“You won’t be able to,” Ryan said. “I’m on duty. Access to outside phones is limited. I’ll call you as I can.”
Claire recognized the worry in her voice. “That will be fine. I’m sure Paul will try to reach you at first chance as well.”
“Thank you. I must get back to work.”
As Claire hung up, a taxi turned into the driveway and proceeded over crunching gravel to the garden path and parked. She stepped to the window and watched as the rear door opened and Paul appeared. When he straightened, his clothes were rumpled, he appeared haggard and dirty, his hair was disheveled, and his eyes were sunken. She hurried to the door, opened it, and ran down to meet him, seeing then that his left hand and right arm were bandaged.
“What’s happened?” she cried. “Did you get caught in the raid?” She started to hug him but held back as he appeared to be in pain.
Paul nodded and smiled as best he could while limping stiffly. “I’m afraid I did. It was silly, really. My own fault. I’ll tell you all about it.”
