The Fog

The fog was getting thicker as I crossed Tower Bridge. I clutched the railings and felt my way across. In better times I would have had a torch to help me but with the blackout that was not a good idea. When I felt stone I knew I was almost across. I edged around the stonework afraid to let go. One good thing about the fog; there would be no air raid tonight.

"Can I help you, Miss." The voice came out of nowhere. Then a dark shadow appeared in front of me. I could make out the shape of a helmet; it was a copper.
"Thank you officer, I'm trying to get to the tube." He took my arm and the two of us did our best to negotiate the streets. He fell off the kerb at one point. I have never been so pleased to be in the underground.
"Alright now, Miss?" I nodded and thanked him.

Already the station was packed. Not with travellers but with those for whom the underground had become home. Bombed out, with nowhere else to go, whole families huddled in makeshift beds, their few possessions gathered around them. It least here they felt safe. I was thankful my family lived in suburban Surrey. Although we had our share of air raids it was nothing compared with the East End.

"There'll be bluebirds over ..." someone started singing and soon everyone joined in. The song came to an abrupt end as the tube train pulled in with a whoosh and a blast of air. As the doors opened I stood aside to let out a rush of passengers, then I got shoved aboard and packed in like the proverbial sardine.
"My Fred's serving out in Singapore. I heard the Japs is coming and they're shipping out fast as they can." A man in a smart raincoat tapped the woman on the shoulder and pointed to a sign. 'Loose lips sink ships' it said.

The fog was lighter when the train went overground on the outskirts of the City. London might be safe tonight but some other poor sods were no doubt in for it. I just hoped it wouldn't be Kingston. I was seeing Johnny tonight. He would be shipping out soon. This might be the last evening we got to spend together. We were going up the Roxie to see "Shadow of a Doubt," the new Hitchcock. That Joseph Cotten's in it. As I was thinking about my evening the train lurched to a standstill.

"Sorry, Ladies and Gents, this is as far as we go tonight. There's been bombing further up the line." The carriage doors opened and we had to climb down onto the tracks. I could see a halo of light on the horizon. A whiff of smoke came my way.
"That'll be the factories gone then," the man in the overcoat said.

We were led back the way we had come until we reached a station. It was pretty much every man, or woman, for themselves from then on. "Are there any buses running?" I asked a porter.
"Not much chance of that. They been hit bad up Kingston way. Nothing's getting through." The man in the overcoat tapped me on the shoulder.
"Excuse me, Miss, are you going to Kingston? I can give you a lift if you like." He had already secured a taxi. I gratefully accepted.

I wondered what this man's job was. He was young enough to be in uniform and seemed fit enough. Then he flashed his wallet to the driver and I had a fair idea of his part in the war effort. They also serve who only watch and wait. Our sole topic of conversation was the bombing. "Do your family live in Kingston?" he asked. When I nodded he gave me a look of sympathy. I prayed it was unfounded. As we drove into the town centre I saw that the Roxie was now a pile of rubble.

Mum rushed out to meet me as I jumped from the cab. "Thank God, we thought you were on the 5.30."
"No, I missed it. The fog was so bad I couldn't find the station," I explained.
"Thank heavens for the fog. The 5.30 took a direct hit just outside the station."