The Blitz MW2017 [Writer]

William Mckay loped through the flame lit streets of Whitechapel. It seemed the sky itself was aflame as he looked up at the infernal orange glow. This was the worst night's bombing yet and he wondered if the bloody Luftwaffe would ever run out of bombs or planes or men. His gait was rather clumsy, he'd lost an arm at Aisnes back in 1914 aged just eighteen. That blighty wound had probably saved his life as he was forced to sit out the rest of the Great war and see almost every lad he had joined up with slaughtered in one battle or another. And now it was happening again. “German bastards” he hissed between breaths as he rounded the corner by The Bull pub, still standing defiantly amongst the rubble of the surrounding houses. He checked for any chink of light that might give the enemy an aiming point and, satisfied at the lack of even the tiniest sliver, moved on. Most of his ARP warden mates had bicycles, riding a bike was something he had never gotten the hang of after losing his arm though and he ran instead. On and on, through streets turned to rubble, through blackened skeletons of what once were homes or offices or shops. “It ain't the one you hear that kills ya lad” He muttered, remembering the advice of his old sergeant the first time he had dove into a ditch in France. The explosions seemed to be getting a little closer and he figured that he must be near to the track of the fourth or fifth flight of bombers because of it. Just as he paused for a breather on the corner of The Whitechapel road an almighty crash picked him up and threw him through the air, smashing him into a billboard advertising Player's Navy cut cigarettes and almost knocking him out completely. He groaned and took several shallow breaths as the stars slowly faded from his sight and the fuzz melted from his head. Standing, he had to reach for the edge of a broken wall as the ringing in his ears made him lose all sense of balance. It took a further two or three minutes before he was able to look around and assess the damage around him. It seemed as though a whole stick of bombs had fallen, demolishing an entire row of terraced houses. He choked on the stench of smoke and cordite as he made his unsteady way across the ruined street. His helmet laying forgotten where her had fallen and the thin trickle of crimson down his brow similarly ignored.

The devastation at the site of the blast was just incredible as if some giant had picked up the houses, smashed them together and dropped the bricks and wooden beams in one long berm. As he scrabbled over the pile of debris he used the light of the fires burning at the docks to pick his way and, his heart almost stopped on seeing a small, pale hand, wrinkled with age and bearing a simple gold wedding band upon one finger. When it clenched into a fist he almost fell over as he skidded back down the slope. “Pull yersel' together laddie” he grumbled to himself and went down on his knees , reaching to clasp the hand in his, gently, just to let the woman know that help was here. He released it and bent low to call out “You are going tae be alright lass, help is here, I'll get you out.” despite spending the last twenty years in London, whenever he was angry or stressed, his native Scottish burr resurfaced and he smiled grimly as he released the hand and began pulling the broken bricks from around the arm, one at a time and tossing them further down the slope of ruined homes.

Brick dust and ash stung as it stuck to the sweat streaked skin of his face and he had to pause often to wipe at his eyes. He had been digging for twenty minutes when he finally uncovered the woman's head. A nasty gash glistening in her scalp and sticking her grey hair down in a congealing cap of black blood. He leant low to listen for signs of breathing and the breath rattled from her parched lips, a trickle of black at the corners and the lighter froth around her nostrils told him at least one of her lungs was punctured. As he dug down further he was dismayed to find the jagged end of a roof beam sticking out from the side of her chest and he paused a moment, trying to think of a way to get her out. There would be no help, not this night, with what looked like half the city ablaze and bombs still falling from out of the black sky where the drone of more bombers seemed never ending.

She coughed then and wheezed something, dragging him from his reverie and he crawled a little higher to place his ear closer to her mouth “What's that lass?” He asked and managed a smile as he thought she must be at least seventy years old. The sort of woman who would have shooed him away for calling her lass, no doubt.

“I'm a gonner” she hissed and, before he could offer her the comfort of a lie, she continued “I can feel my breath getting shorter. I need something, I have to tell someone, I did a terrible thing and...and I can't go and meet my maker without trying to make it right, will ya just listen son? Just do this for me and I can go.”

Those few words seemed to have exhausted her and he patted her hand and said Ok Missus, My name is Bill, I am the air raid warden. Hat's your name? Just try and be still, more help is coming, we'll get you out, I seen worse than this in France you will be alright lassie."

She chuckled at that and shook her head ever so slightly “I ain't getting out of this one Billy boy My name's Jenny Mrs Carpenter to my neighbours, but Jenny will do just fine fer now.” She took a breath and continued I am 67 years old and, I have seen the very devil himself on these streets. So I ain't afraid of no German.” A wet sounding coughing fit halted her and he smoothed a lock of hair out of her eyes as she gathered herself. “I got a story to tell you, I ain'y never said nothin about it afore and I aint't gonna be around ta tell anyone after you, so listen close, you hear me boy?”

“ Yes Jenny.” He said, feeling sad at the contrast between the strength of the old woman's character and the frailty of her present condition. “I'm listening, I'm sure you ain't got anything to worry about though.”

His contradiction was cut short by her barking “Shut up and listen will yer?” He shut up and she continued “I was born over in Buck's row in 1873 I think. Da went off and me Ma did her best but by the time I was thirteen I was working fer Porky Johnson's lot over in Hanbury street. There wasn't a choice back then We 'ad to do what we 'ad to do or else starve or even worse if one of tha gangs found out. It was a hard, nasty, bitter life. By the time I was fifteen I 'ad seen it all and was sick of it. I jumped inta the river one night but Got dragged out by me hair by some bargeman. He took me over to The Bricklayer's arms on Settles street. He had a girl there, Lizzie, Long Lizzie Stride they called 'er. She was about 40 and had been on the game fer years. She cleaned me up and fed me, got me a place to stay and helped me out, taught me how to pick a man who wouldn't rough me up, like. If it weren't fer her I'd have gone back in the river or else one of Porky's lot would have done fer me.” She paused and took a few breaths, recalling times long gone. Then continued. “She never did deserve wot 'appened, so 'elp me. I should have done something. Poor Lizzie.”

Bill squeezed her hand as she sobbed almost silently and said “There there Jenny, its' alright . I'm sure you didn't do anything to her.” Though his eyes were haunted as he worked out the dates and realized with a shock that she had been living in Whitechapel since at least the 1880s.

Shaking her head she said “Shut up will yer? This is my confession and I don't wanna be standing infront of Saint Peter with this on my soul.” He nodded and, satisfied, she carried on. “Old as she was then, she kept working, she was a good looker, even in her forties. I suppose that's Swedes for yer though, eh? Anyway, I was on my way back to Flower street, where we lodged. I had been with one of my gentlemen and copped a bottle of gin to keep me warm on the way 'ome. I was just passing the the club there, The jewish socialists club or something like it, when I saw Lizzie and one of her blokes. They didn't see me 'cos they was getting frisky in the gateway of Dutfields yard. There was another man there opposite just stood there like he was watching them. And Another man came round the corner then started to run as the watcher chased him. That was enough fer me, I squeezed into a doorway, making myself as small as I could, willing the shadows to hide me from them. That's when I heard her scream. I looked over and she was on the floor, her bloke crouched over her and he had his arm up, a wicked looking knife in his hand. I just watched it rose and fell, twice more she screamed and I am sure she looked at me in that doorway, I can still see her eyes now, blue and wide and terrified.” She sobbed a little and sniffed before she was composed enough to carry on. “I knew what I was seeing, it was 'im. That bastard Jack. Only no one had ever seen 'is face and lived to tell about it 'ad they? Oh, but I saw. When he had finished with her he turned and came back out into the street and stood under the lantern ta light his pipe like some gent on his way from the theatre or somefink. Not a monster 'oo 'ad just murdered my friend. And I will tell you something else, I knew 'im. Everyone would have known 'im if they 'ad ever seen a picture of him with his granny, Queen Vic herself!”

Bill's eyes were as big as saucers as he took in the enormity of what the old woman was telling him and he was about to press her on the identity of the man when a 2.200lb German “Satan” bomb detonated just five yards away blasting them both into atoms and perhaps preventing the worst scandal the monarchy could have faced.

THE END

a reply to: SprocketUK

Good on ya Sproket. Kinda put me there amidst the chaos.





bally

P.S. Absolutely fantastic spelling

a reply to: bally001

Thanks Mate. I am a bit meh about how I wrote the latter part but its done now. Glad you approve of my reasons for editing though

a reply to: SprocketUK

Great job mate , Bally with the Aussie lingo and you with the cockney , seems i have a long way to go .

a reply to: hutch622

just wait for my scouse story lol

a reply to: SprocketUK

Cockney and strine have a lot in common but you got me with scouse .

a reply to: hutch622
Geordie or Mackem are the ones. Like a foreign language lol

a reply to: SprocketUK

That was awesome Sprocket! I love how you did the setting in this one.

a reply to: FauxMulder



TA mate. I was reading about Jack the other week and it struck me how recent it was in terms of life spans.

a reply to: SprocketUK

That had me riveted.

A great story!

a reply to: DBCowboy


Thanks

Sprocket, man, that was excellent - well done!

a reply to: PrairieShepherd


Thanks mate

a reply to: SprocketUK

I really really liked this!!!

a reply to: AboveBoard

Thanks. I enjoyed writing it

a reply to: SprocketUK

Had to come back and flag yours, superb writing Sprocket. The details were sharp, well written.

a reply to: PillarOfFire

Thank you mate

a reply to: SprocketUK

I really liked the twist on the Ripper and was caught off guard by it.
I also liked trying to read it in an accent (it was pitiful! I am not skilled!)

a reply to: TNMockingbird
Thanks, it's funny, but I can write an accent way better than I can speak in one.