by Susan Hood
salty blue water
as far as the eye can see,
and only now
does that line
make sense.
Calculations
A rescue ship will come.
We know it will.
BUT
if it doesn’t
in a day,
the officers say
we will sail for Ireland.
Officer Cooper looks at his watch,
studies the sun,
consults the other officers,
calculates the distance to land.
I feel the wind blowing;
today, it feels like a friend.
The officers are hushed,
but catching my eye,
Cooper smiles at me
and gives a thumbs up.
He’s not giving up hope,
so neither will I.
“This southwesterly wind
will keep us moving east,”
Cooper tells us.
Mr. Nagorski works his way
to the stern
to talk with the officers.
He returns to the bow to confirm
we’re about six hundred miles from land,
about eight days’ sail.
It’s far,
but maybe we can make it.
If their guess is right.
Water Rations
What’s the least amount of water
we need to survive each day?
I see Steward Purvis count
the people aboard
and do the calculations.
He announces, “We will each be allowed
two small dippers of water a day,
one at noon,
one at night.
That way we’ll have
enough for about eight days.”
But I wonder,
are we six hundred miles from land?
Is eight days of water enough?
First Lunch
“Time to eat,”
says Steward Purvis,
taking charge of our first meal—
one hard ship’s biscuit the length of my finger,
one slice of corned beef on top,
one dipperful of water.
Each bit of food is passed down
from the stern,
hand by hand,
first to us children,
then to Buxoo’s crewmen,
and finally to the British staff
until all forty-six are served.
The process takes forever,
nearly three-quarters of an hour!
Then Purvis dips the thumb-sized metal cup
into the water tank and
sends it down the line.
No one is allowed to sip slowly.
The little cup must be
passed back right away
so others may drink.
When it’s my turn,
I see the cup holds just a few mouthfuls.
I tip it to my lips
and pass the cup back.
I hold the water
in my mouth for a moment.
I roll it over
my cheeks and tongue—
a cool bath
that douses the fire
of that devil thirst.
Then the water
slides down my throat
and is gone.
“Please! Just one more drink?”
Paul begs, no longer shy.
“It’s nae enough,” says Billy.
“Please, Georgy Porgy!” says Derek
with a twinkle in his eye. “Puddin’ and pie!”
Georgy Porgy flashes a smile of affection
but is firm with our food rations,
unmoved by
pleas, complaints,
glares, or groans.
I’m still hungry.
Still thirsty.
But it will have to be enough
to last eight days.
In eight days we’ll be saved.
If their guess is right.
If Only . . .
If only I could
move a little,
stretch my stiff legs.
“Ooch! Jings!” says Billy,
when I kick his shin by mistake.
“Sorry.”
With forty-six people
there are elbows in your back,
knees in your side,
feet in your face.
There’s no room to move
from your little space.
I shift in my seat
and think of my bike
back home.
How I loved to ride that bike!
Pedals pumping,
coasting—
it felt like freedom.
Dad got it for me
at the allotment field.
One of the wheels had buckled,
so someone chucked it.
Dad said, “Here, you can mend that.”
And I did.
We kids made our own fun
or we didn’t have any.
I made my go-cart
out of old pram wheels.
Terry and I would fly down the street
past the rag-and-bone man.
If only Terry were here. . . .
If only I knew where he was,
whether he was safe. . . .
Do my parents know what’s happened?
Is anyone thinking of me?
I remember Terry’s drawing of me
staring happily out to sea.
Was that really just six days ago?
Barriers
Different languages
and our seating arrangements
form three islands in the boat:
British staff in the stern,
Lascars in the center,
Father O’Sullivan, Mary Cornish, and Mr. Nagorski
sitting with us children
in the bow.
Two men are bridges
between us—
only Gunner Harry Peard
and Ramjam Buxoo
are nimble enough
to move carefully
about the boat,
knowledgeable enough
to translate
the different
languages aboard.
Buxoo and Peard act as ambassadors,
messengers, negotiators.
“Blast!” explodes Peard.
“Hurry that food along, Purvis.
These poor little blighters are half starved!”
Ambassador yes,
but unlike Buxoo,
Peard is no diplomat.
Understanding
I notice one of the younger Lascars,
with the start of a mustache I envy,
sitting just on the other side
of Miss Cornish.
He talks and talks to his mates,
but I can’t understand
what he’s saying.
He notices me, looking at him.
I notice he looks thirsty, tired, and cold.
I smile at him. It means, “Me, too.”
He smiles back.
We can’t talk to each other,
but we both understand.
Already Heroes
Up in the bow,
we tell stories to pass the time.
“I was trapped in my cabin
after the torpedo hit,”
says Father O’Sullivan.
“Derek and Billy pulled me out.
You boys are already heroes!”
But Derek and Billy
hardly smile.
All they talk about
are their little brothers.
“Did anyone see Peter?”
asks Billy.
“Or Alan?” asks Derek.
“They were in the infirmary
when the torpedo hit.
We don’t know
what happened to them.”
“I’m sure they’re all
right,” says Father.
“The nurses probably got them
into another lifeboat,” I say.
“We promised our parents
we would look after ’em,”
says Billy, swiping his eye
with the back of his hand.
Everyone says Derek and Billy
are heroes for saving Father O’Sullivan.
But they don’t think so.
Heroes don’t lose their little brothers.
Bail, Matey, Bail!
No matter what we do,
we’re sitting in water most of the time.
“Bail with your hands, like this,” I say.
“Cup ’em and toss the water overboard.”
“Oo, it’s so cold,” says Derek,
clamping his hands under his arms.
“May we have the bucket?” I ask.
“Chaps, everyone lean to this side.”
The grown-ups join in.
We tilt the boat a bit,
and pool the water
into the bucket,
and toss it overboard.
There!
It’s working!
We’ve almost got it all.
Then a big wave slops over the side—
WHOOSH!—
and drenched to the bone,
we have to start again.
Our Poor Feet
The salt water eats at our feet.
Derek, Billy, and I are
lucky to have shoes.
Paul’s in sandals;
Fred and Howard are barefoot.
My feet are cramped with cold,
but theirs turn white,
then red,
then blue.
They shrivel as they do
with too much time
in the bath.
“Look at these boys!”
yells Gunner Peard,
picking his way down the boat.
“Poor little rotters!”
Shouting and cursing
about women who don’t know about children
and men who pray too much,
Peard wraps a blanket
around Paul’s, Fred’s, and Howard’s feet.
They gaze up at him, astonished.
Peard is bad-mannered and bossy,
but he gets the job done.
Passing the Time
“Did you want to go?”
Paul asks.
“I jolly well did!” says Howard, a proper London lad.
“My parents warned me about torpedoes,
but I wanted to see a ship
and meet real Navy men.”
Huh. No one warned me about torpedoes.
“I was over the moon to go,” says Fred.
“I couldn’t wait to ship out
but my mum kept hanging on to me.
It was like trying to get away
from an octopus.
Even my Dad
had a few tears in his eyes.
But I couldn’t wait. . . .”
No octopus hugs for me.
“My mum said we had to go
because we are part Jewish,”
says Derek.
“One of my great-grandmothers
ran off with a Jewish sailor, I think.
The Germans hate anyone
with a Jewish connection, you know.
Don’t know why.
Mum cried
when we said good-bye. . . .”
No tears from mine. . . .
“My parents made me go,” I say.
“My stepmum finally figured out
a way to get rid of me. . . .”
The boys look up, startled,
searching for something to say.
I change the subject.
“What about you, Paul?
Did you want to go?”
“I begged my parents
to go to Canada,” he says,
“to get away from
the bullies at school.
I got the application myself
and had my sister
talk my mother into it.
My brother was going to go, too,
but he chickened out.
I say, why stop in Canada?
Why not sail the world?”
“You want to live on a ship?” I ask.
“I don’t think so!” says Fred.
“Remember when
we were seasick on the ship?
Remember when
the torpedo hit, Paul?
I had to wake you up!
He sleeps through anything.”
Paul looks down and studies the cut on his foot.
A Tender Touch
I look up at the sky
and wonder
if my mum who died
is there in heaven
watching over us.
My hands and legs
start to tingle with pain,
numb from cramped quarters
and the cold.
“Oi, it prickles and burns!”
“Ken dear, let me rub your hands and feet,”
says Miss Cornish with a kind smile.
“It will help get
your circulation going.”
I stiffen and blush with awkwardness
at her touch,
this lady I barely know,
but she’s so gentle,
and her hands so warm.
I soon feel better.
She moves on to the next boy.
Her eyes look tired,
but she keeps working
to make sure we’re all okay.
Miss Cornish doesn’t have any children,
but she would make a good mother.
Chins Up, Everyone!
Harry Peard
has seen enough of
sadness and hurt.
He picks his way
to the bow,
belting out naughty sea chanteys
to make us laugh.
Miss Cornish scowls
in disapproval,
but Peard gives us a grin.
“No use sulking, boys!” he shouts,
standing up,
stripping down to his shorts.
Miss Cornish turns away.
With a stretch and a leap,
he’s over the side!
He’s down, he’s gone!
With a gasp,
we grasp the rails
and lean over,
looking for him.
“Where’d he go?” I shout.
His head pops up,
sputtering, laughing.
He’s gone for a swim!
“Why are you going swimming, mister?”
asks Howard.
“To keep in practice,
in case we get torpedoed again,”
says Peard with a wink.
“He’s a proper screwball, he is!”
says Fred with delight.
“Come on in, lads,” he calls.
“I love swimming!” I say.
“Ignore the man,” says Miss Cornish.
I can tell the adults
think Peard is mad.
He climbs aboard, laughing,
rocking the boat.
I think he’s grand,
simply grand.
Tension
Mary Cornish frowns
at Harry Peard,
dripping water in the boat.
He glances at us and scowls back at her.
“I hear you’re just a piano teacher,” he says.
“Now my wife,
she’s got a way with kids, she has.
Keeps ’em fit as fleas,
and stands no nonsense neither.”
I look at Miss Cornish.
Uh-oh. I see her pull herself up,
but Peard won’t stop.
“What do you know about kids?
Got none of your own,
nor likely to have either.”
“You’r
e right on both counts,” says Miss Cornish,
staring back with her wise brown eyes,
tucking her dark hair back
with her slender white hands.
“And what of it?”
They stare at each other
for a few seconds.
“No offense, of course,”
says Peard, finding his way
back to his seat.
We boys look at each other,
surprised to hear adults having a row,
allowing children to hear.
Harry mutters about Miss Cornish,
but she rubs our cold feet,
asks us questions,
suggests a song. . . .
“There’ll Always Be an England,” says Derek.
And we sing that there will be.
“Pack Up Your Troubles in Your Old Kit Bag,” I say.
It does us all good singing
to pass the time.
“What’s the use of worrying,
it never was worthwhile.
So pack up your troubles in your old kit bag,
and smile, smile, smile.”
Yes, Peard calls Mary “spinster”
under his breath,
with scorn in his voice,
but we boys call her Auntie Mary
because she takes care of us.
The Loo
What do you do
when there is no loo?
No privacy
and nothing to do
but pee over the side.
I learn the shipboard wisdom
of not pissing into the wind.
And there is a bucket
passed down from hand to hand.
“Who needs it now?”
ask the sailors,
busy with bailing.
“Memsahib!” say the crewmen.
We boys circle Auntie Mary,
facing away,
when it is her turn.
She takes care of us
and we take care of her.
Raise a Flag
“We need a flag,” Cooper says,
“in case we see a ship or a plane.
We need something to wave,
to send a signal,
to save us all.”
There is no flag.
Auntie Mary turns,
slips inside her jacket
and thin silk blouse,
and pulls out her chemise.
“Use this,” she says.
The boys and I stifle snorts
and the men turn as pink
as our new flag,
but Signalman Mayhew
shinnies up the mast
and ties it to the top.
Rally round the flag, boys!
Our small pink flag!
Harry Peard’s open mouth closes.
“Well, I’ll be . . . ,” he says.
Sardines?
At six o’clock,
our first supper
of our long day one
comes down the line—
another ship’s biscuit,
a sardine,
another dipperful of water,
a tin of condensed milk
shared by six.
The milk is sweet,
but it makes us thirstier.
And I hate sardines.
Yech!
But I’m hungry.
