Base of History

From London, TIME Correspondent William Walton cabled this impression of pre-invasion Britain:

The dawn of 1944, the Invasion Year, fingering through the Channel mists, lights a new Britain. This is not the Britain of Stratford, of grazing sheep, of humdrum shopkeepers running an empire; not a Britain sorely wounded but unconquered by the Luftwaffe; not a Britain brooding over Tobruk, sighing with relief after El Alamein. This is a Britain in the full tide of action, of imminent victory.

Thunder in the Air. Beyond the tonic news of victories at sea, of burning Berlin, of the advancing Red Army, of U.S. advance in the Pacific, there is much to be read and sensed at home: signs and portents, growing tension, expectancy, an air of great events to come. In the streets, in offices, in pubs, the pace is quicker. Uniforms of all nations throng London streets. Young, tough, confident boys are on leave; a great many of them are Americans whose shoulder patches show that they have but one destination.

British and U.S. troops every day practice assault tactics along Britain's serrated coasts, grimly splashing ashore under live gunfire, simulating actual battle, sometimes dying in the winter waves. Camouflaged trucks rumble endlessly through country lanes. Farmers' fields feel the strange bite of tank treads. By night the R.A.F.'s soft drumming fills the sky. By day people stop still in the streets to watch the silvery bomber formations high overhead: "Blimey, look how tight those Americans keep together."

Dizziness as Usual. Some of the old life goes on. Some people connive to get extra petrol rations. Some patronize the black market. Some evade male military service or female labor service. Drawing-room diehards are still heard worrying about the Beveridge Report and Russia. In one such salon a white-haired, gilt-titled peeress ends a discussion of currency problems with the deathless remark: "For my part, I think there should be only -L-100 notes because they are so much more practical." A successful Bloomsbury poet, looking into his brimming wineglass, observes: "Poverty must be very unpleasant, I think." '

But these do not speak for Britain. Heavy bombers, tanks, guns, warships, workmen hammering out weapons and munitions, A.T.S. girls manning lonely searchlight posts, paratroopers fluttering down in practice maneuvers, tankmen butting machines through timbered obstacles, sentries pacing windswept beaches --these speak for the Britain of 1944.

Tourists in Uniform. Newspapers are full of talk about Anglo-American understanding and friendship (nobody knows TIME, JANUARY 10, 1944 exactly what to do about it). Oxford and Cambridge are open to American soldiers for study on furlough. People give joint Anglo-American parties, organize clubs and canteens, exchange purring speeches. Some inescapable friction remains. The Americans and the British are getting all mixed up together for war; whether their friendship will survive and last, none can tell.

Churches are full to overflowing. At night an occasional German raider streaks over England, spatters a few bombs. Britons and their guests are not disturbed; the important air traffic is going the other way, to the Continent.

A Glasgow police court, convicting a brothel keeper, describes her house as "a miniature League of Nations." In a Soho pub catering to all colors and nationalities, the barrel-bosomed proprietress deals thunderously with her conglomerate customers: "All right, you lovely people, it's eleven o'clock; get the hell out of here."

Soon, as all Britain knows, Big Ben will strike twelve.

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