IV - Choosing a Fall-Out Room
So the best thing is to make arrangements now to shelter with someone close by.
At 4.30 am on the 18th February, the unthinkable happened as the Warsaw Pact began an offensive that stretched from Narvik to the Adriatic. Across the 'Central Area', seemingly endless columns of tanks forced their way through the Allied lines. Although far from unexpected, the sheer ferocity of the bombardment that preceded the attack still managed to catch the combined NATO armies off-guard. Well trained and disciplined, these forces mostly succeeded in falling back from pre-planned defence to pre-planned defence, although some such attempts were undermined across the front; not only were huge columns of refugees now clogging the roads (leading, infamously, to a French armoured unit simply ploughing through a road full of fleeing civilians, crushing many in their cars) - crack Spetznaz saboteurs, disguised as British, Americans, even civilians - were doing their level best to harry the retreating forces.
For three days, the Third World War plays out more or less as expected - Communist numbers slowly overwhelm capitalist technology and training. Across land, sea and air, fighting is brutal.
In the UK, panic buying is now rife. Within hours of hostilities commencing, there is barely a single edible item left on supermarket shelves. Unglamorous foodstuffs such as pie filling or cake mix are now quite literally worth their weight in gold - by now, however, few accept the handfuls of jewellery presented to them in exchange for a couple of tins of Spam. More than once, policemen (as yet unarmed) posted to protect supermarket stocks are simply trampled to death by stampedes of panic-buyers. Mercifully, the emergency food depots remain almost totally unmolested - the sheer weight of soldiers now surrounding them make any attempts at seizing foodstuffs particularly unattractive.
The Number One Single this week was Nena's '99 Red Balloons' - or rather, it would have been, had the Official Charts Company not been disbanded as the BBC scaled down to skeleton public information broadcasting (the shooting having started, many of the key staff and much equipment is now moving to Wood Norton anyway)
Absenteeism has now reached 90% in some areas. Although the threat of war has been looming for some time now, most have not prepared until war has definitely come (as occurred during the Cuban Missile Crisis of 1962). Simply put, few were willing to tear doors down and dig up back gardens without, as this author's own father put it 'a bloody good reason'. Soviet armour was now pouring across the Fulda Gap, smashing aside determined NATO opposition. This was a bloody good reason to build oneself a shelter.
A timber yard foreman in Luton is shot dead. The property is stripped bare before anyone thinks to call an ambulance.
At around lunchtime on the 21st, confused reports reach newsrooms that an atomic blast has been reported in West Germany. An American commander on the ground, having found his forces surrounded west of Kassel, mistakenly believes that the use of tactical nuclear weapons has been authorised (to this day, it is unknown quite how he came to this conclusion, although one can only guess at the stress and confusion the man must have been facing).
A battlefield nuclear weapon is airburst near Kassel. Soviet casualties are enormous.
Two hours later, a similar weapon obliterates the American commander's pocket to the west.
The front goes quiet.
*
The Constable, unlike most these days, still turned up to work. He felt no dramatic, swelling sense of duty at a time of dire national emergency - simply a continued desire to survive. Besides, the canteen was one of the few places you could be guaranteed a hot meal now that the silly buggers had started shooting at each other. All day, he and his colleague had been driving from minor disturbance to little scuffle - now that the shelves were bare, there was little to fight about. People kept their doors locked though. And they stayed behind them. Though it was just about midday, almost every street remained completely deserted, disturbed only by an urgent looking green convoy or a couple of screaming police cars. Those that did stay out were acting a little 'off' to say the least, thought the Constable. Fights erupted over nothing, between the meekest of people. Others simply groped and fucked a mere token distance from the main roads. The Constable broke up the fights, but simply ignored the 'lovers' - be the last fun the poor bastard's'll have in a long time, he mused. It was as if the whole town had been drinking all day. As he passed the Civic Centre, he saw a sweet looking old man and his equally kindly looking wife arguing with a couple of less picturesque looking soldiers sitting atop a machine-gun post. He would have thought it a strange scene, was he not immediately distracted by the News at Twelve. 'They've done fucking what?', thought the Constable.
*
'Please, Sergeant' repeated the Old Man, 'you have to let me in - I'm the Health Officer for heaven's sake!'. The soldier seemed less concerned about minding his mouth, again telling the elderly gentleman to show him his 'effing' papers or 'eff off'. 'For the tenth time, man, I've left them at home...yes, yes, my wife will be allowed in, just let me speak to the controller!'. Before the soldier could think up an even less polite way to say 'no', a bundle of ill-fitting green clothes came running from the direction of the local Grammar School. 'They've done it', panted the cadet, who couldn't have been a day past sixteen - 'in Germany - radio doesn't know if it's ours or theirs yet...'. The Old Man's Wife started crying. 'For Christ's sake...' thought the soldier, before grabbing both the Old Man and his Wife and near frogmarching them down into the makeshift bunker. At the door they met a policeman, who dutifully went and found the County Controller.
'What the bloody hell is it, can't you see I'm busy?' snapped the County Controller as he emerged from the bunker entrance. His face lit up as he saw the Old Man - 'Ah, Nigel, thank God you're here!'. His face lit back down as he saw that the Old Man had brought his wife - 'Oh...err...hallo Edith. Nigel, can I have a word with you outside?'.
The County Controller wants nothing less than to let the Wife in - he went to school with her husband, and he knew her since university, for heaven's sake. But he couldn't - this killed him. Space was already at a premium inside the bunker, and food stocks had been very carefully provisioned. Besides, it wouldn't be fair on those who had left their families behind - if I let one in, thought the Controller, I'll have to let them all in. This he explained to the Old Man.
'I'm so, so sorry'.
The County Controller could have stopped the Old Man as he walked upstairs with his wife. Indeed, the soldier made a move so as to grab this 'health officer', and force him into his post. One glance from the County Controller and the soldier stopped. There was in fact a deputy health officer present, but this made no difference either way - this was the Controller's final favour.
*
The Old Man and his Wife didn't mind so much. After all, what mattered is that they were together when they went - just like the old tune. In his heart of hearts, the Old Man knew that his Wife wouldn't get into the bunker. She knew too. They walked hand in hand down the once-thriving Northumberland Street towards Grey's Monument. The dead centre of the town. There were some there already, alone or in pairs, a couple of little groups. They were silent, mostly, swaddled in blankets and huddling for warmth.
The Old Man threw a picnic blanket on the stones and wrapped his wife up warm. He then saw to himself. Proper cheese and nice crackers. He popped a bottle of champagne (of a truly obscene vintage), pouring it into two crystal glasses. This was the rainy day they'd been saving for. They wanted to be right underneath it.
*
Attack Warning Red.
