James Benn - Rag and Bone

“This way, please, to the shelter,” an ARP warden said, as polite as if inviting me to tea. He stood in front of the twin brick towers marking the entrance, in blue coveralls. He was so coated in dust I could barely make out the white W on his soup-bowl helmet. He pushed his glasses up on the bridge of his nose with one hand and gestured with the other, beckoning the crowd into the Underground entrance with a calmness that the heightening sounds of sirens, bombs, and antiaircraft fire did not seem to penetrate. “Plenty of room. This way, please.”

“Is this the shelter where I can find Archie Chapman?” I asked, stepping to his side so as not to interfere with his view and the flow of people entering the station.

“Yes, sir, you’ll find him here, in one of the sidings. But why you would want to, I couldn’t guess.” He pushed his glasses up again. Freckles stood out beneath the coating of dust on his face. He glanced up, his practiced eye assessing the time we had left. He looked about sixteen. “Best get inside, sir,” he said, before running down the street to help a woman holding a child in her arms and one by the hand. I took his advice and entered the Tube station, following the signs for shelters on the lower levels.

“I never thought they’d be back, the bastards,” a woman said to her man as the escalator brought us down.

“I told ya, now didn’t I? Told you we should’ve stayed in the shelters,”he answered. “Now we got to make the best of it, instead of ’aving a couple of nice comfortable cots.”

Now that solid rock was between us and the danger above, the mood among the crowd turned from panic to resigned petulance, at least among those who had lost their assigned places. At Liverpool Street, several chambers had been excavated for the expansion of Tube lines before the war. With that project abandoned, they had been turned into shelters, with cots, sanitary facilities, and a small canteen for the constant supply of tea that all Brits seemed to require. Tea was rationed, so I had no idea what they were brewing up, and didn’t want to find out.

The station platforms were crowded and those who had grabbed blankets and other creature comforts were beginning to settle in, falling back into the habits of the Blitz. Others, like me, stood watching, unsure what to do next. A series of blasts exploded overhead, dull but not distant, the earth muffling the sound of bombs hitting directly above. I felt the vibration in my feet, and a thin line of grit spilled from the ceiling, showering the huddled crowd with dust. A woman shrieked, and the crowd of people contracted, men and women pulling each other closer, waiting for the next thud, fearing the walls would fall in on them. I felt it too, the sudden, grasping fear, and I wished I had someone to pull close. Diana would have been nice. The moment passed, leaving the platform quiet. All noise from aboveground vanished, the only sound below the escape of breath as voices and senses were regained.

I made my way to the siding, and fished a shilling out of my pocket as I looked for a likely guide. I spotted a kid a head taller than his four mates, the bunch of them weaving a path through the crowd, fast enough that I knew they were escaping from or headed to trouble.

“Hey,” I said, catching his eye.

“Watcha want, Yank?” He was oblivious to the terror that gripped the adults all around him. He’d grown up with the Blitz, and this subterranean world looked to be a natural second home to him. He gave me the once-over, probably deciding I was ripe for the plucking.

“Where can I find Archie Chapman?” I asked.

“Why should we tell you then?”

“Because you’re a good kid.” I flipped him the shilling and took out a pack of chewing gum from my coat pocket. I gave that to one of his chums, who opened it up and spread the wealth.

“That I am, Yank. Not this first siding, but the next. Go on in and straight to the back. He’s all set up like it’s ’is own ’ouse. Don’t mention we told ya, all right?”

“OK, kid, I won’t. Wouldn’t Archie like that?”

“Mr. Chapman don’t like surprises,” he said, and then they were off, vanishing into the crowd on the platform. I entered the second siding, which was as wide as the main chamber, with curved walls and an even floor: no rails or platform in this unfinished tunnel. Unlike the pandemonium outside, it was orderly, with people making themselves at home in their assigned bunks. Metal cots hung from the walls, with another row set up on the floor, leaving a narrow corridor leading to the end. These were the folks who’d come back every night to keep their places in the shelter, and most had a look of self-satisfaction about them. They’d probably been laughed at by their neighbors, but now that the Luftwaffe had returned, they all had who’s-laughing-now smiles on their faces.

Near the end of the tunnel, a blanket hung on a line strung from wall to wall. In front of the blanket, a big guy in a brown leather jacket sat in an easy chair, reading a newspaper.

“End of the line for you, mate,” he said, without looking up from his paper. “No visitors, this is a private area.”

“I’m here to see Archie Chapman,” I said.

“Mr. Chapman ain’t receiving visitors. Beat it.” He’d given me a quick glance, then back to his newspaper. His nose had been broken a couple of times, and his hands were thick, the knuckles swollen where he’d injured his tendons.

“You a boxer?” I asked.

“Used to be. Fought in the middleweight division for a while, but things didn’t go my way. Now be a good Yank and turn yerself around.” He turned the page of the newspaper. It was the Dispatch, and I wondered if he was one of Chapman’s thugs who had slit that poor fellow’s throat on Fleet Street. His boxer’s knuckles didn’t come from fighting in a match with boxing gloves. The swollen, ropy tendons were from repeated applications of bare knuckles to flesh and bone.

“Tell Mr. Chapman I’m here to see him about the dead Russian.”

“Look, mate,” he said, wearily folding his paper and getting up, “best for you to move along ’fore things get out of hand, know what I mean?” He wasn’t as large as Big Mike, but he was bigger than me, and his arms strained against the leather as he folded them across his chest. I was trying to think of a snappy answer that wouldn’t earn me a right hook when a figure stepped from behind the blanket.

“There are many thousands of dead Russians, so I understand. Which one exactly do you wish to talk to Mr. Chapman about?” This guy was tall and thin, dressed in a black overcoat, a black silk scarf at his neck. His dark hair was slightly receding and combed straight back, making his widow’s peak a black arrow pointing between his eyes. His pronunciation was precise and proper, traces of the East End gone from his voice but not his eyes. Topper, maybe?

“The one found outside this shelter, last week, with a bullet in his head.”

“What interest does an American have in a dead Russian, found on a London street?”

“A mutual interest,” I said. I had no idea what that might be, but I was certain Archie Chapman’s self-interest was my only hope.

The thin guy’s eyes narrowed and his forehead creased as he decided his next move. He nodded to the boxer, who frisked me, quickly and expertly, stashing my. 38 in his folded-up newspaper and handing my identification to his boss.

“Are you with the military police?”

“No. I’m with General Eisenhower’s headquarters.”

“You’re a long way from Naples then, Lieutenant Boyle.”

“I’m part of the advance party. The general will be in London soon.”

“Ah, yes, the new Supreme Headquarters. Sounds grand. This way, please,” he said, handing me my identification and ushering me into a room decorated with a carpet, chairs, table, and a cupboard. Two other guys, middle-management thugs by the look of them, sat at the table playing cards. It was cozy, for an underground bomb shelter. My escort parted another set of draped blankets, entered, and held them open for me. This room was even larger than the first, the carpet plusher. A small electric heater provided warmth, aimed in the direction of a man with starkly white hair brushed back from his own widow’s peak. He sat in a worn leather chair, a floor lamp to one side and a bookshelf to the other. Beyond him was a real bed; no metal cot for Archie Chapman to rest his bones on.