1. Taking Shelter


    Date: 9/17/2015, Categories: Historical, Author: ClarkRoberts, Rating: , Source: LushStories

    “Evening, Captain,” said the Marine sentry saluting as I stepped out of the U.S. Embassy in London. He wore a British style tin helmet reminiscent of the last war. He stood outside a bunker of sandbags. “Good evening, Corporal,” I replied, returning his salute. “They say there’s a good pub around the corner. Is that true?” “The ale’s okay there, sir, but the food is better a few blocks further at the Red Lion Pub. If that’s what you’re after.” “It is. I’ll give it a try. Thanks, Corporal.” I fished a cigarette from my uniform pocket and lit it. The match flared bright in the blacked-out street. I inhaled and felt the smoke bite my lungs. Exhaling, I contemplated my mission. Headquarters Marine Corps had sent me to England to study the training, tactics, and operations of the British Commandos. Someone at HQ thought the Marines would probably be raiding hostile shores once America joined the war. I would be embarking with the No. 3 Commando tomorrow for their raid on the German occupied Lofoten Islands in Norway. “Once more into the breech,” I sighed. Having been in combat before, I did not relish the idea of getting shot at again. I was under the hanging sign with a Red Lion on it before I saw it in the dark conditions. I stepped into the pub and through the blackout curtains. It was crowded and loud. A cloud of cigarette smoke hung from the ceiling. Elbowing my way to the bar, I counted the uniforms of a dozen nations, most of them now occupied by the Germans with exiled ...
    governments here in London. I squeezed into a spot at the bar and ordered fish and chips with ale to wash it down. Fish and chips were one of the few food items not being rationed in war-time England. The bartender sat a pint of ale in front of me then got my food. A woman with straw-colored hair smiled from across the bar and hoisted her pint in silent salute. Smiling back, I lifted my own pint in return and took a sip of ale. The bartender placed a wrapping of newspaper down on the bar in front of me. I snagged a battered fried fish filet and wolfed it down as if it was my last meal. If things didn’t go well on the raid, it may well be. I was to be a neutral observer and not a combatant, but I had been to enough war zones to know that noncombatants got killed all the time. London in the spring of 1941 was still under the German Blitz. The air raid siren blared its warning outside silencing the rumble of the crowd inside the pub. “Bit early tonight,” remarked the bartender, taking an empty glass from the bar. He shouted, “Air raid, bar’s closed, air raid.” He busied himself picking up pint glasses left by patrons as they hurried out the door to find the nearest bomb shelter. They understood the danger. Many had headed for the exit as soon as the siren wailed. The Blitz had started last September with the Battle of Britain and hadn’t slowed since. Every night the Luftwaffe sent bombers over the cities of England to destroy their industrial base. The inaccuracy of night time ...
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