I’ve thought of Charles often these past five months. Early on, while visiting the likes of Buckingham Palace, Kensington Gardens, and the Tower of London, I imagined the wisecracks he would make—about Rapunzel being handy or King Henry needing more hobbies, topped off with “royal” puns—and I’d miss the friendship we once had.

I do wonder how he’s faring. Most often, I envision him up on a stage, wowing audiences with our reliable acts, maybe a couple fresh ones, all aided by some peppy new assistant.

And yes, I’ve questioned my choice to part ways: first, during my ship voyage arranged by Hutton, which required zigzagging the Atlantic to avoid German U-boats; and later while hunkered down in myriad air-raid shelters—during which explosions from anti-aircraft shells and the Luftwaffe’s incendiaries, thankfully, have been infrequent.

Cellars will never earn my fondness. Nor will crowded stairwells, like those descending into the Underground railway stations all around London, providing safe havens—and practical transportation—when needed. Nonetheless, from repetition and necessity, I’ve learned to endure them. Conditioned by the blare of air-raid alerts, my brain has come to accept that survival relies on going belowground, not staying above.

It does help that, throughout the sirens, Britons largely stay calm and orderly when filing into those shelters. And despite their tired faces and daily drab attire, many bring along the cheer of games, books, and biscuits. Even tea, naturally. Proof that any circumstance can quickly become one’s norm.

Further evidence abounds now as I ride a red double-decker bus through the city, past Hyde Park toward headquarters. A pair of schoolgirls with peppermint sticks settle into their seats; not all children have been sent off to the safety of the countryside. One totes her books, the other a brown box for a gas mask. Across the aisle, a wizened man holds a sack from the market, a routine activity that lies in sharp contrast to the black band on his upper sleeve signifying mourning.

I turn to my window. Past the mesh—protection against blasts—amorous couples at a theater leave a Casablanca showing, just next door to buildings reduced to rubble. Beside sandbags near Woolworths, a cluster of ladies yammer the Monday afternoon away, distracted but briefly by a telegram delivery boy zipping past on a motorcycle, no doubt carrying another dreaded notice.

After four years of war, to these people, the sound of that motor is as usual as the screaming and whistling of bombs, the sirens of fire trucks racing toward flames. It’s all a way of life, including endless queues and ration books and always doing one’s part. Should you forget that last bit for a second, a plethora of posters will be swift to remind you. They’re as ubiquitous as servicemen, same as back home, with outfits that sound like high-fashion ensembles: Austin Reed uniforms, Sam Browne belts, Wellington boots.