I stepped out from my house into the pitch black of night. Searchlights streamed across the sky, illuminating only what was in their paths. I hated London like this. I was used to lights, people and laughter. It felt like the color and volume had been turned off in this dark and dismal place. I edged my way around one of the many bomb craters that were destroying our country, making the roads look like Swiss cheese.
Poisoning the air was the foul stench of gas and a permanent smell of burning lingered, thick, in the air. It was not my London. It was hell on earth.
An earsplitting, eerie wailing filled the air, wavering high and low. It was the reason I left my house in the first place, the reason I had to leave it most nights. It was the evil song of an air-raid warning and because of it I was trundling along the dark roads with most of our neighborhood to the underground station – our only source of protection.
Friends, families, strangers, the rich and the poor huddled together. Talking together, laughing together, crying together. Ignoring the decrepit smell, the scurrying of rats, the crying starving children, the old sick and dying, the people came. From far and wide, they came to the only place they felt safe.
Then the illusion was over and the inevitable came – a massive explosion hit the earth, shaking the foundations, making our bones shudder. It felt like the earth was going to open and swallow us. It’s prey. But the attack came from above, and this time, our lives were spared.
... are two main causes of air pollution; fuel burning in residential, commercial, and industrial places is one cause. The ... is not taken seriously. The future of the earth is in our hands and we should treat ... that it is due to chemicals made on earth, the extreme temperature in Antarctica, and some believe ... mingle in the clouds, and than return to earth in the form of precipitation. The Greenhouse effect ...
Everyone’s face was a mask of worry, each wondering if it was their street, their house or people they knew and loved that got caught in the blast. Maybe they weren’t quick enough, didn’t find shelter in time or were just caught unawares.
The explosions lasted all night.
As dawn broke, people began to slowly rise and return, worn and shaken to their houses. Discovering piles of rubble, unknowing of the whereabouts of their loved ones, if they’re safe or if they have to dig them out of the ashes. As I scrambled over the debris, carefully inching around new craters with a fresh, acrid smell of burning in the air, I observed a family eating breakfast and preparing themselves for the day ahead. A typical, heartwarming family scene: Mum, Dad, schoolchildren, baby in the highchair. But something was off, wrong. The front of their house had been blown clean off and I could see right into their kitchen from the street. That meant Buzz Bombs had been flying that night.
Everywhere constant reminders of war slapped you in the face. Queues outside food shops, boarded up windows, sandbags in doorways, even people being pulled out from under piles of rubble.
Before I could make it to my door to discover the horrors that awaited me there, a low growling began in the distance. More Buzz Bombs. And although that one sounded far away, we all knew, they were sent in relays. The next one may very well land on us. People were already sprinting, limping, and crawling back to the shelter. The sirens stomach churning wail filled my ears again and the air began shuddering with the vibrations of the bombs. I was still and gazed into the sky. The first bomb exploded overhead – the next on its way.
This was not my London, this was hell on earth.