Riptide (aka Bluffing Mr. Churchill) by John Lawton

high cheekbones and too-prominent
upper lip. That clinched it, if tiredness had not – the last thing Cal wanted was to while away an evening being Congressman Cormack’s son once more for the benefit of the American
press. He’d rather face a Panzer unit than the barbed tongue of Mrs Luce should it turn out that his father was currently out of favour with America’s other First Lady. He told the
cabbie to drive on and left Reggie lugging his bag, in search of porter, reporter and a stiff drink.

§ 11
    Claridge’s put Cal on the sixth floor – a large, comfortable room – table, chairs and a small sofa at one end, a big bed at the other, and its own bathroom.
And all for four dollars a day. The window gave a good view of the western sky and, if the building opposite had been a tad lower, a better view across Grosvenor Square to Hyde Park. He could see a
barrage balloon floating serenely over the square. Cal dumped his suitcase – in the absence of able-bodied bellhops (there’d been dozens last time, all in little red waistcoats, now all
in khaki, he assumed) he’d lugged his own bags – and threw open a window. It was May 10th – it wasn’t exactly summer, it wasn’t even spring, it was plain chilly, but
he wanted air, fresh and cool. There was a full moon in heaven tonight – he rather thought this was what the English meant by a bomber’s moon. He’d no clear idea of what to expect
in an air raid, but he found out soon enough.
    He’d kicked off his shoes, thrown his jacket across the room and lain back on the bed. He was too tired to sleep, besides, the London air carried a whisper of anticipation on its wings.
Forty-five minutes later he heard the wail of the air-raid sirens. He slipped on his jacket, grabbed his shoes and stepped into the corridor. He’d read about this. Wasn’t this where
everyone headed for the cellar until it was all over? Sang songs and drank sweet tea?
    A maid was dashing along outside his door. He caught her.
    ‘What happens now?’ he said.
    She stared at him. ‘Sorry, sir, I don’t follow . . .’
    ‘I mean do we all get directed to the shelter?’
    ‘Well . . . if you like . . . I can do that . . . but most people don’t bother.’
    ‘What do they do, then?’
    ‘Well, sir, the women mostly put in earplugs and go to bed, and the men use it as an excuse to gather on the ground floor and play pontoon and drink half the night.’
    Cal had no idea what to do now. He hadn’t brought any earplugs and he’d never played pontoon.
    ‘Is it safe up here?’
    ‘God knows, sir. It’s a modern building. Steel ribs an’ all. But if Jerry’s got your name on a bomb, well, goodnight Vienna. Look – you’ll be as safe here as
anywhere. Just don’t use the lifts, eh? Takes an age to get people out of lifts if the electric goes off.’
    She continued her dash and vanished down a rabbit hole. Cal put on his shoes
and looked around for the stairs. It might at least make sense to find the shelter. He pushed open a swing door at the end of the corridor. The wallpaper and the wooden moulding vanished and he
found himself in a shaft of concrete stairs, painted walls and steel railings, looking down the pit. He looked up. A glint of moonlight. There must be a door or a window up there. He climbed the stairs.
    The door to the roof was open. He stepped out. A voice cried, ‘Shut the goddam door! Don’t want the whole goddam world to follow you up here, do you?’
    A short, bald man sat on a folding canvas chair. A US Army greatcoat draped over his shoulders. Striped flannelette pyjamas and slippers peeking out from under it. On his shoulders two stars
glinting in the light of the full moon. It was General Gelbroaster – General William Tecumseh Sherman Gelbroaster. In his mouth was an unlit cigar of a length to make Winston S. Churchill
jealous, and across his knees a rifle of a length to make William F. Cody jealous.
    Gelbroaster scanned the skies.
    ‘You ever shoot