This was the way 8,000,000 people in London lived their lives last week:
They burrowed underground like gophers, into damp shelters and subways where they slept on hard benches, on concrete floors or sitting upright like yogis. Those who had worked hard all day slept most easily. Chief bores were oldsters, who kept others awake chattering about the raids, and all those, young & old, who snored. Official "shelter shakers" moved about waking the snorers; and apartment-house porters became self-appointed Admirable Crichtons, supervising sleeping arrangements, moving furniture, brewing tea.
Into the shelters crowded Jews, Gentiles, pickpockets, lovers. Crime was non-existent in London last week, the lawless taking shelter with their victims. Burglar alarms, set off by concussion, rang aimlessly for hours. Love was almost as difficult, since there was no privacy in shelters and little time during the day. Snobbery survived. Better-dressed people in some apartment houses refused to enter shelters with the proletariat, insisted on sitting on back stairways.
Into the swank Savoy Hotel shelter, where guests can dine, dance and sleep, marched 50 ill-clad men & women with two children. Leading the pack was Phil Piratin, famed Hyde Park Communist orator. Two elegant Savoy directors, a constable and a Scotland Yard detective could not make them budge, but the stunt missed fire when the all clear sounded after only 13 minutes.
Nerves were still good in London last week, but they tightened with the sound of approaching planes. In shelters the tension could be felt as raiders droned overhead. When bombs struck near by, nerves were near the snapping point, but in few cases did they snap. They relaxed when the bombers droned away.
Out of the ground like gophers popped the people after the raids, to cheer their batteries and count fires. High roofs were in demand, and in one building a porter conducted five-minute tours to the roof. Delayed-action bombs killed some of the curious. Down Piccadilly one afternoon strolled a civilian with a bomb he thought was a dud and was carrying as a present for his wife. Another Piccadilly stroller on a bright moonlit night wore a black jacket and a black Eden hat, carried an umbrella sedately over his head against the shrapnel shower.
London's animals lived as the people lived. Dogs & cats slept in shelters with their masters. Women rescued pups & kittens from bomb holes. A litter of rabbits was born in one hole, in the shadow of a delayed-action bomb. Many wild birds were killed. On one balcony were found a score of dead sparrows, huddled together with two mice in their midst.
Private cars helped to transport people to & from their work. They drove up to bus stops, offered free rides. Those which did not stop voluntarily were halted by the police.
Theatres were closed and cinemas shut at 9. Lights were off in many parts of London. Many places were without fuel. Food was served to the homeless by many volunteer organizations and nobody starved. The power plant of an East End meatpacking factory was bombed. Instead of letting five tons of meat spoil, the manager dumped it in a caldron, added vegetables, served stew to bombees. But an increasing number of London's poor had no shelter but bomb shelters.