by Susan Hood
Fred and I walk down the deck,
trying to decide
whether to join the
lassoing contest,
the drawing contest,
the sing-along,
the game of shuffleboard,
or deck tennis.
“There’s everything you can
think of for a kid,” says Fred.
He’s right.
“Hey, that’s not fair,” I say,
pointing to a tug of war
with big kids on one side
and three little ones on the other.
Fred and I run to the short end,
wrapping our hands round the rope.
“Pull! PULL!”
We lean back with all our might,
but the other side pulls us forward.
Back and forth, back and forth
until. . . . Ah!
Someone slips
and we all topple together, laughing,
a heap on the ground.
Fred and I scoot to the side of the deck
and lay out in the sun,
propping our life jackets
under our heads as pillows.
“Blimey, this is the life,” I say.
Must be what it feels like
to live like society,
sunning yourself on a ship on the sea. . . .
I’ve just closed my eyes
when some other chaps
have a different idea
for those life jackets.
“Pillow fight!” they yell,
thumping us good.
I jump into the fray,
feeling like a kid again.
Smile for the Camera
“Look over here, lads,”
says a slim Scottish lady in a beret
aiming a camera at us
as we swat each other.
She must be one of the paying passengers.
Never seen her before.
“Is that a movie camera?” I ask,
hurrying over to inspect it.
“Yes,” she says, “I’m Miss Grierson.
I’m making a film about you
and your friends going to Canada.”
Girls pass by, in awe.
“She’s wearing trousers!” whispers one.
“And she has the most magnificent
long cigarette holder I’ve ever seen!”
“Don’t mind me. Go on with your games,”
says swanky Miss Grierson, puffing away.
She follows us and I follow her,
asking questions,
always keen to volunteer.
“Have you been to Hollywood?
Can I hold your camera?
Can I try your cigarette?”
The answer is always, “No,”
but she points the camera at me
and I smile.
Just think.
In the New World,
I’ll be safe,
and I’ll be a movie star.
A Jolly Holiday
At meals, we stuff ourselves silly.
Some kids have to rush out at times
to hang their heads over the rail,
and as Father O’Sullivan says,
“pay their respects to the sea.”
But then they go back in,
a bit green round the gills,
but ready to take on more ballast!
Derek says,
“Aboard the Benares,
it’s a Christmas dinner every meal.”
All in all,
it’s a jolly good holiday.
Progress
Wave,
after wave,
mile
after mile
we sail farther
and farther
from where the planes
and the U-boats prowl.
Wave
after wave
I wonder
“Are we safe yet?”
Wave
after wave
I ask officers,
“Spotted any more German bombers?”
Finally, I hear an officer’s answer that makes me smile.
“Here, on this route, the first two days
may contain an element of danger,
but afterwards we should be quite all right.”
MONDAY, 16 SEPTEMBER
Day Three
After our daily lifeboat drills,
I look at the sun
and notice
we’re zigzagging.
“Smart boy,” says a cadet.
“What’s your name?”
“Ken, sir.”
“Mine’s Critchley. Doug Critchley.
We zig
and zag
to throw the enemy off course.
No easy feat
for a convoy three miles across!
But we’re almost clear, Ken.
Once we’re five hundred miles out,
we’ll be safe.”
Secret Stowaways
While the doctors aren’t looking,
sickness sneaks aboard.
It starts with Alan.
“What’s that rash on your arm?” asks Derek.
“It’s ouchy!” says Alan.
“Don’t scratch it!” I say.
Too late.
One bump turns to two,
to twelve,
to twenty.
“Peter, don’t touch Alan!” I say.
Too late.
They both break out in spots—
chicken pox!
“It’s off to the infirmary for you two,”
says Father O’Sullivan
who coughs and sneezes—
ACHOO!
He’s feverish with flu.
But the doctors say, “Don’t worry.
“Everyone will be all right.
And soon we’ll be in Canada.”
Hope is contagious.
TUESDAY, 17 SEPTEMBER
In the Clear?
Day four,
morning rain,
cold and wet.
Once again my insides
pitch and plunge
in time with the waves,
but I’m lucky,
I don’t throw up
like the other kids.
Gale winds are starting to build.
The escorts say to stay below.
The day passes quietly,
reading, napping,
and playing cards,
but by dinner,
I go on deck to see
all the colors of a rainbow
arching over our heads.
Smiles and cheers
say by now
we must be in the clear.
“Are we, Officer Cooper?” I ask.
“Are we safe?”
“We’re six hundred miles out,” he says.
“Should be smooth sailing from now on.”
Huzzah!
Relief washes over us all,
kids and grown-ups alike,
like a rain shower
rinsing off the built-up grime
of worry and fear.
How we feast and celebrate,
eating extra ice cream tonight!
At eight o’clock, we head down to bed
turning thoughts
to our new homes
all over Canada
and our shiny new lives ahead.
Safe at Last
“We’re okay now,
aren’t we, Ken?”
ask the little boys
who share my cabin.
“Can we take our life jackets off?
Can we put on our pajamas?”
“Yes! Didn’t the escorts tell you
today in the playroom?
They told us we could.
Hang up your vests.
Take off your life jackets.
We’re safe now.
We’re six hundred miles from England,
six hundred miles from war.
U-boats don’t come out this far.”
Like hermit crabs
shedding their shells,
we strip off our bulky life jackets
and pull on clean, soft pajamas.
I turn out the lights and say,
“Good night, lads.
Sleep tight.
Soon we’ll be in Canada. . . .”
I drift into dreams,
safe at last
safe at last. . . .
BAM!
I jolt awake,
jumping up in the dark.
The floor shudders,
the night split with sounds of
splintering wood,
creaking metal,
clattering glass.
Then . . .
nothing.
The world stands still,
silent and dark.
Was it a bad dream?
Seconds later,
panicked footsteps
outside in the hall,
rushing water.
Bells sound the alarm—
Emergency! Emergency!
Tearful gasps from my cabin mates,
“Ken? KEN! What is it? What’s wrong?”
I’m wet.
Am I bleeding?
I smell smoke,
sulfur,
explosives,
burning wood.
Bile rising,
I swallow it down.
WHAT’S HAPPENING?
Then I know—
we’ve been hit!
Torpedoed.
I can’t see anything,
so I feel my way in the dark,
damaged door
shattered wall.
Blue bulbs cast a ghostly path down the hall.
I tell myself it will be all right.
I say aloud, “Boys, it’s okay.”
No fear.
We trained for this
every day, twice a day.
“Off we go, then!” I say,
keeping my voice chipper.
“Stiff upper lip, boys.”
Life jackets.
Calm, quiet,
walk, don’t run
to the muster station.
Hurried steps echo
down the halls.
We trained for this.
We know what to do.
Cadet Critchley
“Boys, do not wait.
Go to your lifeboats.
You trained for this.
You know what to do.”
“Yes, sir!”
WAIT!
My coat!
I forgot my coat,
the overcoat my stepmum bought me.
“Ken, you must keep an eye on it!” she said.
Blimey, if I go home without that coat,
Mum will kill me.
I nip back to get it.
I have to push my way
against the surge of children
scrambling to the stairs
and wade through floating debris.
Water’s rising
as I step over
busted doors,
splintered furniture,
and a mass of broken glass
littering the halls.
Where is my cabin?
There!
I push open the door
to find the
room flooding,
water spewing
from broken pipes.
Cold, wet,
I wrap my warm wool coat around me,
remembering my family
back home
in trouble too,
braving the Blitz,
braving the bombs.
To the Lifeboats!
I struggle back down the hall,
up the main staircase,
through the dining rooms,
and onto the deck.
The hatches have been blown off,
the emergency lights are on.
Electrical sparks shoot up
from the ironwork.
The noise hurts my head—
steam, sirens, wind, rain.
“Watch it there, boy!” shouts an officer,
grabbing my arm.
I step carefully around a gigantic hole.
Where’s my lifeboat?
Lifeboat 8.
Am I late?
Too late?
I trained for this.
I knew what to do.
I look fore and aft.
Going fast,
I crash into others
wild-eyed, open-mouthed,
racing the other way.
I catch sight of an escort
carrying a girl covered in blood,
hear shouting,
whimpering,
calling,
bawling.
There!
It was that way!
I dash down the decks,
wind whipping my hair,
rain stinging my face.
My lifeboat is gone.
Lost
I rush down
the starboard deck,
but all the lifeboats
have been launched.
I run over to port.
The winds howl,
I hear children crying.
Is anyone left
to save me?
Lifeboat 12
“Here, boy!
Here’s one with room,”
says Officer Cooper,
stationed at Lifeboat 12,
the rear boat on the port side.
Cooper picks me up
and tosses me down
to someone else I recognize—
Ramjam Buxoo,
the young Lascar
who greeted us
when we first boarded the ship.
“Ken!”
I turn and see my friends
Paul, Fred, Billy, and Derek at the far end.
There’s a new boy nearest me.
“Sit down! Sit by Howard,” shouts Derek.
“Derek, Billy, where are your brothers?”
I yell. “Where’s Terry?”
But screams drown out
my questions as
the ship starts to roll.
The crewmen on deck
brace themselves and struggle
to hold the ropes on pulleys
that keep the lifeboat level.
A lady on deck—
the escort
who told us stories under the tree—
wants to wait,
won’t let us leave.
“My girls!” she cries,
“I don’t see the girls in my care!”
“Mary! Mary Cornish!”
calls another escort. “They’re safe.
They’re in another boat
with Mrs. Towns.”
“Prepare to abandon ship!”
yells Cooper.
And still Miss Cornish hesitates.
The ship lurches farther to port.
Lady, c’mon! I think. We’ve got to go!
Cooper says, “Miss, Steward Purvis
checked the playroom and the cabins.
No one else is coming, Miss,”
he adds in his gentle Scottish accent.
“It’s time to go.”
Miss Cornish catches her breath.
Cooper looks in her eyes,
then with a small nod of his head
gestures at me
and my friends.
She nods
and steps aboard.
She settles in the midst of us boys
and tries to reassure us,
discounting the danger.
“It’s all right,” she says,
rubbing our shoulders.
“It’s only a torpedo.”
Only!
Is she mad?
Abandon Ship!
“Steady, men!” yells Cooper.
“She’s slipping in the ster
n
and rolling to port.”
The crew
desperately tries
to level the lifeboat
swinging from the davits.
“Clear away the boat,
man the falls and reels,” orders Cooper.
“Stand by for lowering.
Lower away!
Handsomely now!”
I see Lifeboat 12 is one of the last to go.
It falls quickly,
my stomach dropping,
everyone screaming,
hands clutching the rails
like monkeys.
Down to the Sea
D
O
W
N
we drop,
falling,
frantic,
on a fiendish ride
bound
where?
To drown
in a watery grave?
But no,
we don’t tip
or flip
like so many lifeboats
seesawing down
the side of the ship,
flinging men,
women,
children,
officers,
crewmen and cooks,
screaming
forty feet down
to the sea,
to the roiling sea.
We hit with a thud,
but we don’t swamp
or flood
like so many lifeboats we see
with passengers
sitting waist deep in water.
Purvis and four Lascars
who had lowered the boat
from the deck
now scramble down a rope ladder
to join us in the lifeboat.
Last to come is Cooper.
“Pull away from the ship,”
he orders.
But wait!
Four more Lascars
scramble down the ropes.
“Back!” says Cooper. “Pick them up.”
They jump into the boat.
“Now lay off, get clear!”
Rescue Will Come
In the hail and gale,
our boat surfs up
and sleds down the swells,
each wave high as a house.
Water slops in
and the crew bails with buckets,
hands, shoes, and hats.
I tell myself it will be all right.
The Royal Navy will come
as they did for the Volendam
where all were saved but one.
Our convoy will be here soon.
The other boys and I
clutch the gunwales,
white-knuckled,
open-mouthed,
and yes,
half enjoying
the thrill ride
of slamming up and down
the waves—
better than
any ride at the fairground.
Paul huddles in the bow
with Miss Cornish,
watching us shout.
Soaked to the bone,
stoked with suspense,
I tell myself this is IT!
This is the story
I’ll tell my friends
if I don’t die first.
A ship will come
to rescue us.
Just hold on, hold on, you’ve got to hold on.
Horror
