In spite of the whisky and the long journey, Hopkins found sleep difficult that night. He had been shocked by the ear- splitting cacophony of guns, bombs, and sirens during the raid. News reports from London all talked of civilian deaths, the destruction of homes, the plight of the homeless, food shortages, rationing, queues, but none mentioned the deafen- ing nightly thunder of the Blitz. He wondered how anyone got any sleep. The next morning, as his car drove down Park Lane to 10 Downing Street, he realized that sleep was probably a dimly remembered luxury for most Londoners. Despite the cold, he wound the window down and caught the acrid smell of smoke and burning. He saw pale faces pinched with cold waiting patiently at bus stops, trying to get to work. People stamped their feet and rubbed gloved hands against the cold, craning around the queue hoping to see their bus. Others gave up the wait and trudged past still-burning buildings, heads down, hands clasping handbags or briefcases, all wondering on that freezing morning whether there would be transport home that night. They looked exhausted, hollowed out, half people. Red double-decker buses lumbered over still-smoldering rubble strewn across the roads, weaving past piles of shat- tered brick and occasional geysers of water as they went from bus stop to bus stop scooping up passengers from long, or- derly queues. As they passed Hyde Park Hopkins saw the antiaircraft crews cleaning and servicing the guns for the night ahead. Piles of expended shell cases were stacked neatly in brass pyramids under the plane trees. Elderly men and women walked dogs around the gun emplacements as if it were normal to find bat- teries of long-barreled 3.7-inch antiaircraft guns in the middle of a city park. That’s the point, Hopkins realized. This is normal. The Blitz had been going on for four months. Twenty-eight thousand people had been killed in London alone and forty thousand homes destroyed, leaving almost half a million people displaced. And yet here on the streets on a bitter January morning people were queuing for the bus and trudging to work over the debris from the latest raid. The charge´ d’affaires had been right. No one in Washington had any idea of what was happening in London.