sopping up every drop of sauce
with his bread.
We look at each other.
I can tell we’re both wondering
if we dare ask for seconds.
We may never get this chance again.
I ask, “Please, may I have some more?”
“Of course you may!”
We eat seconds.
Paul asks for thirds!
Then there’s dessert!
Eight courses
are capped with
peaches,
melon,
pineapple—
fruits we haven’t seen
for months and months.
There’s peach melba
with a star of clotted cream
piped on top.
And OH! ICE CREAM!
Ice cream of every
flavor and color—
rainbow hues of
strawberry,
apricot,
chocolate,
coffee,
peach,
coconut
pistachio. . . .
After the wartime food,
there aren’t words to describe it.
We’ve never eaten so much in our lives.
Alarm Bells
Just when I lean back,
feeling fat and happy,
alarm bells go off.
I jump up
knocking my plate to the floor.
Paul sputters
and Fred claps him on the back
to keep him from choking.
Billy grips my arm
and everyone stops to listen,
on edge, on alert.
“What now? What’s wrong?”
“Are they bombing us again?”
“Keep calm.
Nothing to worry about, children,”
says an officer who strides into the room
as the alarm bells stop.
“I am Chief Officer Hetherington.
Lunch is over and it is time for lifeboat drills.
Come along now. Follow me.”
It’s officer’s orders,
so we all stand and fall in line,
but not before
Paul swallows a last spoonful of ice cream
and Fred crams a roll in his pocket for later.
Hetherington leads us
to our muster station—
the children’s playroom.
“If you hear that alarm bell,
you will meet here,” he says,
“and await an officer’s orders.
We will practice everything
so you will know what to do.”
I move a little closer
to Hetherington to hear better.
He hands each of us
a navy blue kapok
waistcoat life jacket.
I put mine on
and tighten the straps.
It’s so bulky
I can barely move.
“How does it go?” asks Terry.
“Here, like this,” I say.
“You’re to wear these
at all times,” Hetherington says,
“even in bed,
over your clothes.”
“No pajamas?”
asks one little chap.
“No pajamas.”
I don’t mind sleeping in my clothes,
but how are we going to sleep
in these things?
Next, Hetherington hands us each
a smaller white canvas life jacket.
“Carry this with you
at all times.
When you go to bed,
hang it on
the end of your bunk
beside your shoes and coats.”
“Two life jackets?” I ask, incredulous.
But Hetherington isn’t looking for debate.
“Yes, young man. TWO!”
To the Lifeboats
“Now, everyone on deck!”
Once there,
Officer Hetherington assigns
each of us
to a lifeboat.
I get Lifeboat 8.
Hetherington has one boat
lowered down and climbs inside.
“Here, you boy,” he says,
pointing to me. “Climb aboard.
Show the others how.”
I’m happy he chose me.
Hetherington reaches down
and opens the metal lockers.
“You’ll see each boat has
provisions stowed aboard.
Over here is the Fleming gear.”
“The what?” I ask.
“The Fleming gear,”
says a girl I don’t know.
“You grab that handle
and push and pull it
back and forth
to row the boat.”
“How do you know?”
“I was on the Volendam,” she says.
“The Volendam!
The ship that was torpedoed?”
“Whoa!”
“What?”
“Torpedoed?”
A murmur of astonished voices
circles the deck.
“That was the ship with hundreds
of children onboard,” says Terry.
“Three-hundred and twenty-one,” says the girl,
“including me.”
“And me!” says a boy standing next to her.
“It’s okay, the Royal Navy saved us all.”
“But my house had been bombed,” the boy
continues. “My family was living in a shelter.”
“Mine too,” says the girl. “So me and Michael
were squeezed onto this next trip.”
“The Navy saved you?”
asks little Alan, eyes wide.
“What’s your name?” asks Derek.
“Patricia. Patricia Allen.
And yes, they saved us
because we did lifeboat drills
and we knew what to do.”
“Right! Thank you, Patricia and Michael,”
says Hetherington. “Glad to have you aboard.
Now let’s get back to our drill.”
“Sir?” I ask. “Sir, what if we get torpedoed?”
“Not likely, young man,” says Hetherington.
“We’re to sail in a convoy of eighteen ships
escorted by a destroyer and two corvettes.
Don’t worry. Just make sure
you pay attention
to our lifeboat drills.”
I listen hard so,
like Patricia and Michael,
I’ll know what to do.
Mischief
After our drills,
we have free time
to lark about and run the decks.
Terry and I go exploring,
peeking in secret places
we aren’t meant to be.
A heavy hand claps me on the shoulder.
“Caught you!” says a gruff voice.
We turn, knowing we’re in trouble.
“Scared you, didn’t I?” laughs Fred,
the funny kid we met on the docks
with the missing tooth.
“Yes!” says Terry.
“Whatcha doin’?” says Fred
with a mischievous smile.
“Playing spies?”
“No!” I say, getting an idea.
“Let’s be stowaways.
Quick! Before they nab us,
back to the lifeboats
where we can hide!”
We dash down the deck.
Glancing round to make sure
we’re not being watched,
we climb the davits
and jump into a lifeboat.
Ducking down, we can hear
the conversations of people
passing by.
“Sweetheart, of course I love you!
But don’t kiss me here!
It’
s not proper!”
“Oi!” says Terry, his eyes bugging out.
He laughs and starts to make kissy faces at us.
He’s ten, but so immature about girls.
“Shhh!” I say. “We don’t want to get caught.”
Too late.
We hear a harsh voice say,
“Signalman Mayhew,
those kids are
in a restricted area.
Strictly off limits!
See to it immediately.”
“Aye, aye, sir!”
A sailor climbs up and
peers down at us.
We’re in for it now.
“At ease, boys,”
says Mayhew, helping us down from the boat.
“Steady, now.
I see you’re getting your sea legs.”
“I’m from a whole family of sailors, sir!”
says Fred. “Got the sea in my blood!”
“Is that so? I . . .”
But he’s interrupted by a senior officer
calling the passengers to assemble on deck.
“Attention!” the officer says.
“Attention, all passengers.”
We hurry over to hear
what he has to say.
“We have reports that
the Luftwaffe dropped mines
at the mouth of the Mersey last night.
Our departure will be delayed
until tomorrow.”
Groans echo around the deck.
Fun’s over.
No Safe Harbor
That night
bombs rain down
round the ship,
now moored
in the middle of the river.
There’s nowhere to run,
no place to take cover.
We’re more trapped than ever,
like fish in a barrel.
Will we survive this night?
FRIDAY, 13 SEPTEMBER
Bad Luck
A nasty day dawns with wet weather.
Derek, Alan, and I go on deck,
rain splattering our faces.
We crawl under a stairway
and peer out at the black clouds,
ominous with a growl of thunder.
CRASH!
“I don’t like it!” cries Alan,
covering his ears.
“It’s okay, we’ll go back inside,” says Derek.
“Coming, Ken?”
“No, I’ll stay here a bit.”
There’s no wind.
The flags sag
by their posts.
I stare out at the water—
my way out of this war.
I hope.
A group of sailors stop nearby,
not noticing me
under the stairs.
“We won’t sail today,” says one.
“It’s Friday the 13th!
Every sailor knows that’s bad luck.”
“No choice, chap,” says another.
“Our destroyer has to meet
an incoming convoy
from Canada in five days.
It’s carrying war supplies
and the war won’t wait.”
Bad luck?
They sound worried.
A lone foghorn warns of danger.
Chief Officer Hetherington
comes through the door
and the sailors straighten up and salute.
“Captain Nicoll advises
the mines have been cleared
from the channel,” says Hetherington.
“We leave today.”
It’s Time
At last, at long last!
I feel like a wind-up toy
whose key has been
twisted and tightened
for too long,
and now they’re finally letting go!
It’s 6:15 pm on Friday the 13th
when the City of Benares
and Convoy OB 213
steam out in the steady rain.
“I think it’s a jolly good sign,” says Derek.
“Thirteen is my lucky number!”
“Mine, too!” says little Alan.
Despite the darkening skies,
despite the rain turning to sleet,
I’m lit up with relief to get away,
eager for all that’s to come.
I close my eyes
and the fresh breeze
blows all my troubles behind me
like the black smoke
billowing back from the stacks.
The ship picks up speed,
slicing a path through the water,
leaving my sorry past in our wake.
I wonder what’s ahead. . . .
Terry, by my side,
leans out over the rail
and shouts to the sailors
and dockside workers
waving ashore.
“Good-bye! Good-bye!”
I clap him on the back
and he grins.
Someone starts singing
and we all join in:
“Wish me luck
as you wave me good-bye. . . .”
Faces beam as the wind picks up,
the port flags
snap to attention,
and the horns bellow farewell.
Liverpool disappears
in a mist of fog
as we leave the war behind
and head west toward the sun.
Reinforcements
We lean over the rail to watch
our Royal Navy convoy
assemble round us.
I count eighteen ships
sailing in formation—
nine columns, two ships in each,
surging west.
We steam up the center,
taking our place
as the flagship.
In the distance, miles ahead,
I can see our destroyer
and two corvettes
leading the way,
the arrowhead of
our defense—
with a seaplane
keeping watch from above.
“That’s a Sunderland,”
I yell to my friends,
pointing up at the plane.
“They call it a flying boat.”
“How do you know?” asks Derek.
“Planes were my hobby back home.
I know all of them.”
“He does, too,” says Terry.
“And I know all the ships.”
Terry gets out his sketch pad,
drawing the liners, freighters,
tankers, and smaller boats
that stretch as far as the eye can see.
He draws quickly,
giving the ships line,
substance.
I wish I could do that,
make something from nothing.
I look out to the horizon.
What can I do?
What’s to become of me?
When I look back,
Terry has drawn me—
a boy at the rail,
surrounded by strong ships,
leading the way
to a new life.
This is really happening!
The engines throb
as we make our way
through the dark.
Our First Night
Down to bed at 8 pm,
but no one can sleep.
My stomach rolls
to the pitch of the sea
and after all that food—oof!
I crawl into bed
in the pitch black,
but one of the little boys calls out.
“Ken, will you tuck me in?”
“Me too.”
“I miss my mummy,” says another.
I stand up to try to comfort them
but the ship tilts
and wham!
I slam into the bedp
ost.
Oww!
I hear coughing
as someone gets sick
over the side of the bed.
I gag at the smell.
Turning on the light for a minute,
I try to clean up the mess
as best I can.
“Close your eyes now
and I’ll tell you a story,” I say.
“Once there was a brave boy
named Wart who met a wizard
named Merlyn. . . .”
We’re all in need of a little magic right now.
SATURDAY, 14 SEPTEMBER
Storms
Come morning
I stagger to the porthole
to see if our luck has changed.
High swells and more sleet
batter the boat.
The boys in my cabin
wake up whimpering—
seasick,
homesick.
“I’ll go get help,”
I say. “I’ll be right back.”
I knock on Father O’Sullivan’s door.
A weak voice answers, “Come in.”
Father’s in bed, pale and coughing.
“I’m not feeling well,” he says.
“Don’t come too close.”
“The boys are all seasick and
I don’t know what to do.”
“Go ask the galley for a
bit of barley sugar water,” he says.
“It will help.”
I retrieve the sugar water
and head back.
The ship rolls
and I’m thrown
against an officer on deck.
“Whoa, boy!” he says.
“Where are you going?
What’s your name?”
“Ken, sir,” I say. “Ken Sparks.”
“Steady there,” he says.
“I’m Fourth Officer Cooper.
Ronnie Cooper.
Let’s get you back below.
A German bomber
has been sighted.
Best to take cover.”
“Yes, sir. Yes, Officer Cooper.”
Even here at sea,
we’re not out of the woods.
SUNDAY, 15 SEPTEMBER
Steady as She Goes
Even before I open my eyes
Sunday morning
I feel something has changed.
Heat and light pour into the cabin
through the porthole.
The incessant rolling
has stopped.
“Lads, get up!” I say.
The sun is out!”
At the top of the stairs,
I stop short,
squinting,
as blinding sparkles dimple the sea,
sky and water
reflecting blue on blue.
Fresh salt air
makes me breathe deeply
and as the escorts gather
us for prayers,
the sun warms my face,
like a blessing,
a congratulation.
Calmness and peace
lap like little waves.
A Different War, A Different Fight
Soon the decks echo
with shouting—
the good kind—
the sounds of kids having fun.