Big Ben was practically a must-see for every tourist who came to London. Pomona unconsciously followed them for a while, only to realize she had arrived near the Metropolitan Police.
She looked around and saw another monument standing on the bank of the River Thames. It had been erected in honor of the Royal Air Force, and farther ahead stood the Battle of Britain Memorial.
These were peaceful times now. Naturally, there were no air-raid sirens once deafening across London's skies, no roar of aircraft, no gunfire, artillery, or explosions. The buildings were intact, and the mothers jogging with prams really did have babies inside them, rather than whatever usable items they had salvaged from the ruins during a lull in the bombing.
Compared with World War II, London's air defenses during World War I had been even worse. The Zeppelin was still a new weapon then, and because British anti-aircraft guns lacked the range to reach them, they sometimes paid a "visit" even in broad daylight, scattering countless leaflets from the airships.
Airplanes had only just been invented, and the technology was far from mature. Even if they could barely get airborne, they had no combat capability. Airships were different; they could carry huge quantities of bombs.
No bunkers had been built beneath Whitehall. During the war, many departments had moved into the Underground. Back then, Henry Potter had accused the Ministry of Magic: its headquarters lay beneath Whitehall, and although destruction to the buildings above would not affect the underground, were they really supposed to swallow their anger and let the enemy run wild over their heads?
A gust of wind blew in from the river, carrying a small slip of paper to Pomona's feet. She lowered her head, looked at it, and picked it up.
It was