"I have heard soldiers say a thousand times,

'If only we could have created all this energy

for something good.' But we rise above

our normal powers only in times of destruction."

- Ernie Pyle

media:

"GI Jive" by Louis Jordan

London, England; July 22, 1941

Once the aged taxi finally limped into the city of London, Clint was swept up in the glamor of it all. Children darted down the streets with gas masks painted like Mickey Mouse. Sandbags piled on every corner, some armed with anti-aircraft guns crouched behind them like slender necks reaching for the sky. Massive blimp-shaped balloons hung over the city like faux clouds, casting amber shadows on the cobbled city streets.

"Wicked," Farley grinned as he leaned over Steve to peer out the window, "We made it! Where to first?"

A match of bickering ensued in the back seat as each sailor clamored for a different location. Owen shouted for the River Thames while Farley pushed for Buckingham Palace. The racket escalated until the taxi driver leaned on his horn again, his impressive mustache quivering as he pointed a gnarled finger for the door.

"That's it, Yanks! Out! Out!"

Muttering an apology and placing some bills in the man's hand, Tony leaped out of the passenger door and onto the curb as the sailors extracted themselves with great care from their cramped positions in the backseat. With an additional honk for good measure, the cabbie veered away and into traffic and out of sight.

Before the group could continue its griping, Clint rested a hand against his stomach. "Let's grab something to eat before we embark on any grand journeys. We have the weekend, anyways!"

Farley groaned and his stomach rumbled audibly. "I'll go in for that. Where can you get a hamburger around these parts?"

The six scanned the street around them. The novel feeling of arriving in London swept over Clint once again as he angled his head back and observed the buildings that seemed to scrape the sky. Twining stone formed neat white facades of classic buildings that had stood for a century, thrust into relief from the blackout window shades. A lone street in London put Main Street, USA to shame.

As luck would have it, a cluster of British privates in dress greens wandered past the slapdash American groups – judging from their stumbling paths, they had been frequenting one of London's famous pubs.

"How goes it, then?" one slurred, his accent so strong Clint could hardly make the words out. He wouldn't have really needed to even speak the man's language, though. Soldiers were soldiers, sharing a sort of innate connection, be it the silver trail of communication lines or one of a bullet. Grinning at the red-cheeked private, Clint thrust his hands in his pockets and leaned back on his heels.

"Know where we can get a drink around here?" he asked, and the faces of the Limeys burst into wide grins. One clapped a hand on Clint's shoulder and dragged him into their small squad, the alcohol strong on his breath.

"I like the way yeh think, Yank! Tell you what, wanna know the best place for yeh sailors and soldiers in this fine town?"

"Swell," Clint nodded his affirmation and the soldiers whooped, one linking arms with Steve and dragging his bulk after him as he started in the direction they had come.

"Well, come on, then! If you dawdle on the streets, you'll dawdle on the battlefield, that's what my commander always says," the most sober-looking of the group cast an eye on Farley and Owen straggling behind the newly bonded soldiers.

Clint raised an eyebrow at the soldier and winked. "Seeing as he's probably dawdling in the sheets with a London dame, I wouldn't say you should take his word too seriously."

Raucous laughter burst from the cluster of soldiers, with one leaning against a tree to catch his wheezing breath. A slur of words in incomprehensible Cockney drawl followed, and Clint smiled and nodded his head as he was swept down the street on the tide of slightly drunk, slightly slap-happy soldiers. This was soldier-speak. This he could handle any day.

The street Clint wound up on had been tailor-made for the influx of soldiers and sailors into the fine city of London. A circular drive wound around a small central square decorated with the statue of some old Limey war hero, a constant reminder hanging above the heads of the soldiers as they danced and drank into the night. The businesses surrounding the drive were largely bars; small, cramped establishments crammed against each other and wooed potential customers with bouncing swing music and flowing beer. The overlapping melodies, clink of glasses and feverish energy of the street gave it a sort of magical quality as the soldiers pulled Clint and his entourage into one of the more crowded pubs, wrangling chairs seemingly out of thin air as they crowded into a table.

The reactions of the group were so at odds with each other Clint had to laugh. Steve and Farley glanced around the pub like a German were about to jump out at them from behind the counter, a childlike innocence etched across their faces. Owen lit a cigarette offered to him from one of the British soldiers and leaned back in his chair, observing the scene through a film of cobalt-blue smoke, and Tony was shamelessly flirting with one of the prettiest girls at the bar. Judging from the blush on her face it appeared to be working.

"You gotta tell me – have you fought yet?" Farley swiveled back to the table and propped his elbows on the greasy tablecloth. The Limeys threw their heads back and laughed as if he had made a particularly funny joke.

"I'm telling you, Farley, you gotta go into comedy. You'll be the next Charlie Chaplain."

"Yeah, you're a real laugh yourself," Farley threw an elbow into Clint's ribs. "What gives?"

Recovering from their bout of laughter, the soldiers focused their attention back to the question at hand. "Not us, we haven't seen a lick of combat between us. We steam off to Africa after our weekend's leave."

A somber silence fell across the table, interspersed by the dim-sounding record beating out jazz tunes and Steve attempting to wave Owen's cigarette smoke away from his face. Farley saved the mood with his boyish enthusiasm, leaping forward in his seat with eyes the size of saucers.

"No way! I don't know anything about Africa... Have they got lions there?"

"I reckon they do. And Germans," Clint responded, knowing that the LC would be proud of his proper terminology.

"Say, do any of you fellas drive tanks? I've always wanted to drive a tank, but they stuck me in the Navy!" The conversation immediately picked up after this question, because someone's aunt's son was in a tank division in Africa and someone thought he knew one of the guys from his school saying he was going to be a tank driver.

Full tankards of beer were thrust on the table by a pretty bartender donning an apron and a wide smile. She batted her eyelashes at Steve, who was oblivious to her advances by taking his mug without comment and looking at the foam with a strange mixture of curiosity and distaste. The clink of glass echoed in the pub as the soldiers toasted to everything from their hometown sweethearts to the bullets in their guns to the Queen of England herself. Clint took a deep draught from his glass, the cool liquid filling his chest with a flicker of fire. All tension in conversation melted away as their glasses drained, tinting the golden afternoon with amber beer and good companionship.

Conversation wandered to politics, as it often did with soldiers, especially those about to ship off to certain danger. Even though political gossip was taboo concerning troop movements and the like – Clint had seen enough 'Loose Lips Sink Ships' posters to know that much – the alcohol made him feel safer as they bent closer to discuss the matter.

"I've been hearin' round," one soldier ventured, and everyone leaned closer partly to hear his low voice and partly to make any sense of his thick accent, "that they're saying Africa is only the beginning. I've heard 'em say Hitler's rearin' to aim at us again. As if London didn't take a big enough poundin' last time around! They're sayin' the battle for the skies was only the beginning."

"Why London?" Farley inquired, unable to keep his eyes from the windows as if a fleet of Kraut planes were about to zoom over the darkening skies.

"Why d'you think, chap? The PM's here and a good lot of soldiers, along with all the higher-up military folk. B'sides, they're the Germans, they don't care who they kill to get when they want."

His face illuminated by his amber drink, Farley looked down to the table with a frown. "That's twisted."

Clint leaned over in his seat and rapped his knuckles against Farley's temple. "Knock on wood, gentlemen. I'm not gettin' bombed on my first night in London."

The British soldiers' eyes grew bright as they observed their American compatriots in a new light. "Your first time here? And you haven't even gotten to see the queen yet?"

"I told you!" Farley jabbed a finger in Clint's direction, only to fall back into his seat at the laughter of the soldiers. A red blush bloomed across his cheeks, which he disguised behind his tankard of beer.

"Oh, but there's loads to see in town! We haven't even scraped the surface!" the dark-haired soldier began, but his attention wandered to the windows. Above the wailing of a trumpet solo, the voices of soldiers and civilians alike rose to a simmering tide. The record scratched to a stop and Clint stood to get a better view of the ruckus when he heard the dull vibrations shaking the city.

One after another, the throbbing pulses drilled up Clint's heels and into the buildings of London. Window panes rattled at the sound of the eerie march, and as the pounding neared the circle drive erupted in hysterics.

"It's the Krauts! They've come to kill us all!" a young girl screamed from the doorway, and everyone in the bar leaped to their feet in a scramble for the doorway. Tears erupted from the eyes of both soldier and civilian, and Clint was caught up in the swarm to flee the premises. Disentangling himself from the horde, he pushed back to the table where the Limey soldiers and his friends stood, too shocked to move from their seats.

Owen was the first to react, thumping his hat against Farley's head and shoulders with a vengeance. "Damn you, Farley, you've gone and jinxed it!"

"I didn't, I didn't!" Farley cried, looking near tears as he pulled himself away from Owen's barrage.

Mirrored expressions of horror started back at Clint as he observed his small band. The British soldiers watched with mouths agape as the first trails of smoke began to rise over their city, and the screech of airplane engines shredded through any calm that had settled over the pub minutes earlier. Tony and the girl at the bar stood clutched in each other's arms; it was hard to tell who was holding the other tighter.

"God, we're gonna die," Farley whimpered, pulling his arms around himself and rocking back and forth in his seat.

"We're not gonna die. Listen up! We need to get to shelter – a basement or something. Don't you have air raid shelters for this sort of thing?" Clint directed the latter comment towards the soldiers, who were startled out of their shock and began to rise from their seats.

"Yeah, yeah... There's one just around the corner. Let's go!" Like a proper regiment they jumped from their seats and double-timed towards the door in an orderly line, shaking hands clenched at their sides. Tony, Steve and Owen quickly followed, but Farley stayed glued to seat. The kid refused to budge when Clint urged him to the door.

The floorboards of the pub trembled as a shell punched into the grounds of London, sending a trickle of dust from the ceiling to Clint's collar. He brushed it away and tugged on Farley's arm, but the sailor would not budge. "C'mon, Farley, we gotta go."

The boy's eyes filled with tears and he grasped Clint's forearm painfully tight, his fingers whitening as he tugged him closer. "Seaman Barton, sir, if I'm gonna die I gotta tell you something. I ain't eighteen, sir!" A soft sob escaped his throat and he dragged a hand through his hair, shaking from head to toe. "I shouldn't even be in the Navy! Now I'm gonna die... I ain't even been kissed, sir!"

"I'm afraid I can't help you with that, Farley. But I can make sure you don't die in this pub, if you'll get your ass out of that chair!"

The words tore free from his mouth in the imitation of the LC's barking commands. Clint's tone was enough to force Farley to his feet, and he tugged the kid along by his shirtsleeve as they ran out the pub's door and into the streets.

"Come on! O'er here!" the telling strains of a British accent directed Clint to the corner, and he started to sprint towards the cluster of sailors and soldiers waiting for him there. He ducked his head as the German planes wheeled around for another assault, their engines whining in a continuous roar as they carved the sky above London into white-trailed puzzle pieces. Vibrations shook the sidewalk and Farley stumbled to keep his footing behind Clint as they barreled through the crowds of terrified Londoners, shoving their way to the corner of the street.

Suddenly Tony and Steve began to wave their arms back and forth above their heads, gesturing frantically. Clint turned back to Farley and pointed to their position.

"What are they saying?" he shouted over the din of the passersby and the airplanes, and Farley released a shout of shock before the shell drilled into the pub they had just exited.

Clint was thrown from his feet against a nearby taxi, a sharp ringing overtaking his senses as he was blinded by the smoke. Sweltering heat rose from the skeleton of the pub as flames overtook its rafters, and billowing smoke formed another pillar up to the wheeling Kraut planes observing their handiwork from a safe distance. Pulling himself to hands and knees, Clint brushed the glass and cement dust from his now-stained uniform and shielded his face from the rapidly spreading smoke. Farley lay sprawled behind him, looking more surprised than injured, and Clint grabbed his sleeve once again and dragged him to his feet.

"You were right! Oh, Christ, we've gotta get out of here!" Any semblance of the terror that had paralyzed Farley was gone. His near brush with death was enough to light his tail end on fire and send him sprinting for all he was worth to the corner.

"Okay?" Steve shouted in Clint's ear, barely audible from the incessant ringing from the concussion bomb.

"Just peachy. Where's that shelter?"

The big soldier pointed halfway down the street, where the British soldiers were escorting civilians down a short set of steps into the basement of a quaint, whitewashed building. The peace of the London evening had been shattered, the instincts of the soldiers kicking into gear as they kept the civilians in orderly lines into safety. Clutching his tattered hat to his head, Farley fell into line behind Owen, who embraced him quickly before promptly socking him hard on the jaw.

"What was that for?" Farley grimaced, wiping a smear of crimson across his chin.

"That's for almost dying, you idiot! Next time Barton tells you to do something, you goddamn do it!"

Streams of Londoners poured from the houses and streets towards their respective air raid shelters, rushing during the breaks in the bombing to reach safety. Facilitated by the many soldiers around the streets, the process seemed to run smoothly. Clint noticed a few odd details in the clockwork motions of the civilians – a child sitting in the middle of the street sobbing for her missing mother, a shell-shocked women clutching her head and staggering to and fro across the street, and a trigger-happy coot firing his pistol into the air before soldiers convened on him.

Clint found a place in line beside Tony, who was comforting the girl from the bar as she cried on his shoulder. A low doorway rose above his head as he descended the stairs into a stuffy, foul-smelling basement already crammed with people. Lighting was practically nonexistent, save the small circles of cigarettes that hadn't been snuffed out yet, and Clint was pushed back against the Reuben James boys as more and more people were wedged into the space. The small sliver of light from the doorway ground shut as the British soldiers closed the door, sealing off any contact with the outside world.

"Real cheery," Owen grumbled, and Clint realized he was standing on the sailor's toes.

"Wait a minute," a tap on his shoulder indicated that Tony was trying to draw his attention. "We're missing someone. Where's Steve?"

The Battle of Britain: Military campaign when the RAF (Royal Air Force) defended Britain from attacks by the Luftwaffe (German Air Force)

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