Sowerbutt feared this was the
end game. London could not survive wave after wave of Jerry bombers, there were
no defences that he had seen. Churchill would have to do some sort of
deal.
Part of a fence had already
burnt down and flames were licking up a telegraph pole by the time the two men
reached their first house. Kicking open the front door, they pushed the tenants
out into the street. “No
time to pack your gear,” shouted Sowerbutt. “Get up to the All Saints bomb
shelter, you’ll be safe there.”
Pointing to an old man
wandering past, his hands outstretched, Sowerbutt said: “And take him with you.” The dazed man, streaked in black and his
collarless shirt in shreds, was muttering: “Lost my house and the missus. All
gone, gone. Nothing left, what can I do?”
Huge clouds of black smoke
and dust billowed along the street, temporarily blocking out the glowing sky
which seemed to get redder by the minute.
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