The Lovable Rogue and the Blitzkrieg Bomb

I stepped into my shoes as soon as the sirens pierced the quiet night. I’d been keeping them by the door, untied and stretched open, since the first Blitz. They were always ready and waiting for me, knowing our adventure lay outside in the rubble. 

As I slipped out of the door, I pulled my hat low and my collar high, disguising my face from the panicked few rushing to safety. I made sure to match their pace, widened my eyes, and feigned a frightened expression. In reality, my heart was pounding for an entirely different reason. None of them noticed the rucksack tossed over my shoulder, and if they did, they were too busy fleeing for their lives to mention or question it. 

It took only a few moments for the streets to clear; I would have called it serene were it not for the constant blaze of sirens and the distant rumble of planes and explosions. The air was clear and crisp, and the absence of city lights meant that the sky was speckled with stars. 

I had to hand it to Hitler – the man would make me rich. 

As I watched the last straggling individual slam his way through a heavy door, I slowed my pace, then paused, looking around me for a suitable target. I frowned as I examined the rusted garden gates and doors with peeling paint – I had followed the nervous crowd to a less-than-ideal neighborhood, meaning my efforts that night would probably yield less-than-ideal results. 

I sighed, then spotted the richest looking house in proximity. Shrugging, I headed straight for it, feeling my heart pound as I heard the first round of bombs drop somewhere to the east. I swallowed, taking comfort in the idea that the sound was far away, then jumped the gate and walked up towards the door. 

It wasn’t latched, thankfully, though few were these days. Locked doors were useless against bombs; this was a boon for my business, though, and I grinned as I pushed into the front room. I strained my ears to listen for movement, but heard none. The family would be in the basement or elsewhere, hiding from the possibility of their impending doom. 

Out of either instinct or an abundance of precaution, I continued to move through the house on the tips of my toes, trying to keep myself as quiet as possible, though I knew my movements would be drowned out by the ever-encroaching sound of the Blitz. 

I stopped in the middle of the sitting room, dropping my rucksack to the floor carefully and pulling out my ARP helmet. It didn’t sound like the bombs were close, but it seemed rather careless to work so hard at accumulating wealth only to allow myself to die from a trivial head injury. Once it was snapped into place, I started to work. 

I scanned the room for anything sparkly first, finding a small box on a table with a necklace dangling from its askew lid. I snatched the whole box and tossed it into the bag, then moved down the hallway towards the kitchen, hoping for some silver. My disappointment grew stronger as I examined the desolate walls and peeling wallpaper. Despite its outward appearance, there wasn’t much to this house, and I had clearly wasted my evening. A few dingy photographs of a young couple with a baby and a little girl filled the space, but their frames were cheap and chipped. 

The kitchen turned up some tarnished silver spoons and one large serving dish, but not much more. I shoved them into my rucksack with a grunt, then turned on my heel to leave, wondering if I could pop into the neighbor’s for a quick peak before the raid was over. 

Suddenly, there was a rumble like distant thunder from the street, and the world around me disintegrated. I flew backwards, somehow keeping the strap of my rucksack hooked around an elbow, and hit the wall behind me. Light left my eyes, and the world was quiet again. 

————————-

I woke to the sound of screaming. My helmet was knocked askew and felt dented, and I was laying on my side. The shouts carried up from the floorboards, scared and pitiful; they made no discernible sense, but I wasn’t sure if that was because the bomb had killed my hearing or because there were simply no words in the fear-laden voices. 

They continued for a moment, then went silent, fading to nothing. 

I sat up gingerly, feeling an unfamiliar clicking in my midsection and a few stabbing pains throughout my limbs. But nothing was keeping me from moving, so I got to my feet and examined the wreckage around me. 

My rucksack was still miraculously hooked around my arm. I opened it to examine its contents, breathing a sigh of relief that everything (what little I had found, anyway) still seemed to be present. I turned to rush through the ruined home towards the front door, hopscotching rubble like children on the street. The sitting room ceiling had all but caved in, and I could once again see stars in the inky black sky. 

Everything else was silent. 

I was just about out when the screaming started again. Preoccupied as I was with escape, I had almost forgotten the noise that had pulled me from my bomb-induced slumber. 

I hesitated, pausing with my arm stretched towards the door, biting my lip in uncertainty. There were words now – words that I could barely make out among the panic.

“Mama!” 

I winced. 

“Wake up!” 

And dropped my arm to my side. 

Another voice joined the first, lower, but with just as much urgency. 

“Mary!” It shouted, breaking. “Abigail, come here!”

The first voice descended to sobs as the second shouted louder. “Can anyone hear me?” The man sounded understandably desperate. “Is anyone there? We’re trapped!” 

The other person – a child, clearly – continued to sob, her cries peppered with the word “mama.” 

“Please!” Her father shouted again. “If anyone can hear me, please!” 

It was the sixth sobbing “mama” from the little girl that finally broke my resolve, and I turned to head back into the house, searching for the door leading to the basement, their shouts keeping me company. 

Pressing my ears against every closet and bedroom I passed, I almost gave up, when my voice acted of its own accord. 

“Oi!” I shouted. The screaming stopped, but the sobbing continued. “Oi!” I yelled again. 

“Hello?” The man’s voice replied over his daughter’s cries, then “Abigail, you must be quiet, love.”

“Yeah – hi,” I replied, unsure how to explain myself. “I can hear you. Um – where is the door to your basement?” 

The man paused, and I was sure he could see – hear? – through me. 

“In the kitchen,” he finally answered, and I made my way back to the scene of my crime. 

Their shouts were louder, coming from a door across the room. There were piles of stones and debris blocking it. 

“I have to clear some space!” I yelled to them. “Stay with me!” 

“Please hurry,” the small voice pleaded, as I set to work on a much different job than the one I had left home for. 

My midsection screamed with every rock I lifted, but I continued on. The moon had risen in the sky, and it lit my progress through the broken ceiling. 

More voices joined the two beneath my feet – survivors taking to the street to check on loved ones and neighbors. It was impossible to discern the sobs of relief from those of grief. 

Suddenly, an official-sounding shout echoed through the house. 

“Hello in there!” It called, and I froze. “Is anyone there?” 

The man in the basement had clearly heard the policeman, and his voice rose in excitement. “Who is that?” He asked. 

“I think it’s the Bobbies,” I said, my voice dry and nervous. “I’ll get them.” 

I moved away from the kitchen, back down the hall, and towards the front door just in time to see an officer walking away. 

“Hey!” I got his attention, and he turned back towards me, moving quickly in my direction. “There’s a family in here,” I explained as he joined me in the house. “They’re stuck in the basement. I’ve been trying to get them out.” 

The officer nodded, and we walked together towards the kitchen. 

“You’ve done an impressive job so far,” he commended me, and we bent down together to clear the last few rocks blocking the door. 

“Thank you, sir.” 

He looked at me through the corner of his eye, taking in my helmet and rucksack. 

“Lucky you were close by,” he said as we tossed the last large piece of stone to the side and stood up together. 

I didn’t answer as he pulled the door open with a force I wasn’t sure I could have mustered with my clearly broken rib. We peaked inside together, the officer shining a light through the blackness, and the father started shouting again. 

“Oh, bless you,” he said, his voice breaking into cries. His daughter was quiet now, but we could see their faces in the dim glow of the lantern. 

The staircase was destroyed, but the basement wasn’t deep. The man approached us gingerly, carrying the small girl in his arms. Behind them, I could see two still legs on the ground, twisted and tangled in a bloodstained nightgown. The man didn’t stop to pull this person to her feet, and my stomach turned, remembering the photographs of the young family. 

“Take her, please,” he pleaded, lifting his daughter towards us. I grabbed her hands and pulled her through the doorway. She immediately began crying again as I set her down in the kitchen. Her nightgown was also covered in blood, and I could see a rather deep gash on her forehead. I pulled a handkerchief from my pocket and dabbed at the wound, hearing the officer struggle to help her father up to the landing. 

“There now,” I said quietly as she looked at me with terror and confusion. “You’ll be alright, girlie. It’s just a wee cut.” 

She sniffed. “I want my mama.” 

I frowned. “I know, love,” I whispered. “I want my mama too.” 

In moments, her father was through the door and across the kitchen, picking her up and holding her in his arms. He cried into her hair as he held her close. 

“Papa, where’s mama and Jojo?” She kept asking. “You left them in the basement.” 

The officer stepped away to call a medic, and I started to head quietly for the door. I was almost gone again when he returned, looking me up and down curiously. 

“What did you say your name was?” He asked pointedly.

“I didn’t,” I answered, extending my hand. “It’s Jack. Jack Davies.” 

“Well, Jack Davies,” the officer said carefully. “I suppose this family is extremely lucky to have had your help.”

He stared at my helmet. “How did you happen to come across them?” 

I swallowed. “I was outside after the bomb -” I paused. “After it hit. I found this helmet – wanted to protect myself in case it happened again – and was trying to run to check on my friend… Bobby… when I heard ‘em shouting.” 

I shrugged, leaving out as much detail as I could. He eyed me curiously, but didn’t press on. 

“Well then,” he said as I started to walk away again. “You had better go make sure Bobby and his family are alright.” 

I nodded, but didn’t turn back towards him, then rushed through the door and down the street. 

It was a sickeningly beautiful thing to see that my house had not suffered a single broken window. I unlatched the front door and stepped into the front room, kicking my shoes off so they landed beside my favorite chair. I sat down, wishing like hell for a bit of sherry, and fell asleep for what felt like days. 

———————–

It was an entire week and one more raid before anything happened. I was sitting in my front room, on that same chair, when the bell rang. Still sore in my midsection, I winced as I stood up and peaked out the window. 

There were two officers standing at my front door, and I blanched. It had obviously been too good to be true, to think that I had been let off. 

Silly Jack, I thought. Always caught off guard. 

They rang the bell again, and I sighed, resigning myself to my fate and opening the door. Their faces were brighter than I imagined two arresting officers should be. Perhaps they were elated at the thought of bringing such a despicable rogue to justice. 

They smiled at me and tipped their hats, and I recognized one as the man who had helped me rescue the family from their basement. 

“Mr. Davies,” he said chirpily. “I bet you know why we’re here.” 

I tried to keep my voice steady, but I did not intend to play dumb. “Yes, sir,” I replied. “I surely do.” 

The other officer laughed heartily. “What a gent! You’re not a modest one are you, Jack?” 

I tilted my head in confusion. “Sorry?” 

The first officer pulled an envelope from his pocket and handed it to me, smiling slyly as he did so. “You’re getting a medal for bravery, Mr. Jack Davies,” he said evenly. “The highest honor a civilian can receive.” 

I took the envelope from his hand slowly, waiting for the moment he would pull it away and slap me in handcuffs. 

But he didn’t. 

“I can’t believe this,” I said quietly, looking down at the official looking writing and the royal seal. “Thank you.” 

“No, thank you, Jack Davies,” my friend the police officer said, clapping my shoulder in a way that made my knees buckle. “You are one good man.” 

He stared at me hard as he and his partner turned to walk away. “I reckon you’ll never pay for a pint again in your life,” he called over his shoulder. 

I stood still and stared at the envelope a few seconds more, then closed the door behind them and wandered back into my front room. 

I set it down on my side table without opening it, not wanting to confront the evidence of my own treachery. 

Eventually, my guilt would fade, and I would indeed use the shiny thing inside to drink for free for the rest of my adult life. 

But right then, I sat back down in my chair, closed my eyes, and thought about writing a letter to my mother to tell her the news.