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Stratford Evening Post, Volume XXVIII, Issue 54, 2 November 1915, Page 6

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LONDON ATTACKED. NIGHT—AND A ZEPPELIN. (The British censor passed for publication the following “personal experience” story of the latest Zepeplin raid over London by William G. Shepherd. It is the first story which gives a complete insight into the British public's»behaviour “under lire” (says the “Chicago Tribune”). It confirms the announcement that Wednesday night’s (September S) air raid was over the heart of London, although Shepherd is not permitted to state what theatre he attended nor to identify the section of the city where he was). London, September 11. It is Wednesday night, September Sth. Above the din of the orchestra there sweeps over the theatre a cavernous, bass “boom.” “Zeppelin!” whispers a pretty girl sitting next to a Scotch officer. “No,” you hear him whisper; “it’s a door hanging.” He’s lying, and knows it. “Zeppelin !”—“Zeppelin !” The whisper runs through the audience. i If yon knew what was transpiring in the street you’d lie out there instead of waiting for the last act to end. Such a scene is being enacted out there as the old town of London, in all its rich, thousand-year history, never before beheld. The curtain goes down. Aon file out of the theatre into a crowded street. Traffic is at a standstill. A million quiet cries make a subdued roar. Seven million people ol the biggest city in the world stand gazing into the sky from the darkened

streets. Here is the climax to the 20th century, ■s k vt ’X* % Among the autumn stars floats a long, gaunt Zeppelin. It is dull yellow—the color of the harvest moon. The long fingers of searchlights, reaching up from the roofs ol the city, are touching all sides of the death messenger with their white tips. Gieat booming-sounds shake the city, they are Zeppelin bombs —falling killing—burning. Lesser noises—of shooting—ate nearer at hand, the noise of aerial o-uns sending, shrapnel into the sky , ” “For God’s sake! Don’t do that!’ says one man to another,, who has just struck a match to light a cigar-

ette,.! ' ~ •Whispers, low voices, run alt through, the streets. , “There’s a red light in the sky over there; onr house may bo burning, exclaims a woman, clutching at a man’s coat. “There are a million houses m London; why ours particularly ” he responds. Suddenly realise that the biggest citv in tiie world has become the night battlefield on which 7.000,,000, harmless men, women, and children hieMourners to-night will leave the side of their dead to look into the sky fearfully. . . “ . ((V Little children who hfvve said, ■'"« T lay me down—” and have gone t(f sleep will he awakened’and rushed into collars to same them from death. There are more cries. “Good God! It’s 'staggering!” as a shrapnel flash breaks, apparently near the great airship. But the Zeppelin moves on steadily. X -X -X ■* What a roar of joy would go up from the millions ol this great city h thev could suddenly see the yellow object transformed into the flash of one gigantic gas explosion. Little white-gloved hands clap their approval at the Zeppelins’ near approach to death; white teeth sparkle in smiles; men roar with .delight. These men and women, flowers ol 20th century culture, have become elemental. Dirty, bloody, hattle-mad soldiers feel this same way in battle. Killing has been put into the hearts of these crowds.

If the men up there in the sky think they are terrifying London they are wrong. They are only making England white-hot mad.. The redness of a burning building fills the sky. The dome of historic St. Paul’s Cathedral looms up against the redness. Aon pass the old church in a side street. At the gateway stands the old verger, half-dressed. It lias been his duty for the last .10 years to guard the .church against thieves and fires, as other sextons have guarded it for centuries past. But he’s got a bigger job on his hands than any of them ever had before. The verger’s white-haired wife ■stands beside him. They are talking with three girls such as never come into the lives of church sextons except on nights like this. They are pointing out to tlie* aged couple, with cheaply jewelled lingers, the slowly fading yellow form of the Zeppelin.

AVe are all brothers and sisters in the streets of London to-night —neither man nor woman, neither good nor had—just humans, outraged, mad. unwilling to die. It is a miracle the great gas hag in the air brings about. On the plinth of “Chinese” Cordon’s monument sit a -soldier and a girl. She is tracing invisible figures on "the stone pavement. His arm is about her; her face is bent to his. Maybe they’ve seen this Zeppelin tonight. hut just now she’s listening to the other story that will he new when the hook's telling the story of tonight’s Zeppelin raid have crumbled into dust, They typify London and England—•,

unchanged one iota by this Zeppelin raid that only ended in the loss ol 2U ha mil OSS li\ r os. The next day recruiting tripled.