by Susan Hood
WEDNESDAY, 25 SEPTEMBER
1 DAY OF WATER LEFT
Sunrise
We should be happy
on a day like this.
The rising sun
halos the eastern horizon,
reflecting a long yellow path
in the water
that leads back home.
Yes, we should be happy
on a day like this.
But we have one day of water left.
What we need is rain.
Running on Empty
It’s Day 8,
the day we should have reached Ireland,
the day we run out of water.
In a book,
this would be the climax of our story—
the point where all the drama happens,
where all the problems are solved,
where the happy ending begins.
This would be the day we are rescued.
I scan the horizon,
but
there is nothing,
nothing to break
the blues of sea and sky.
Purvis says there are
still stores of food.
But who can swallow it
without water
to wash it down?
He says the tank is low.
There will be
no
water
this lunch.
Silence fills the boat
as we drift,
all of us
blank and staring,
vacant shells
of the people we once were,
still
and empty as our tank.
Islands Alone
I look up
and think of Earth
floating in space.
I think of England,
my island home.
Our lifeboat
is my island now.
And as
it becomes
harder to talk,
each of us
on the boat
becomes
an island
unto ourselves,
each of us alone
in a great sea
of silence.
The Keys
We need our story
more than ever.
“We’ll help you, Mary,”
I say.
“Bulldog and the boys
need to visit the pub,”
says Fred. “The Ship’s Pub . . .”
“To find the keys,” says Paul.
“Mary goes with Bulldog and the boys,
pretending they’re a family,” I say.
Mary wraps her arms
around our shoulders
and shares a weak smile
with Father O’Sullivan.
“We are a family, aren’t we,” she says.
She sits up
struggles to speak,
and goes on . . .
The family went to the pub for lunch. Cage, the owner, came out of the kitchen and asked what they’d like to order.
“Fish and chips,” I say.
“Bangers and mash,” says Fred.
“Chicken,” says Derek.
“Ice cream,” says Billy.
Bulldog asked to use the telephone while the others ordered. He looked around the room. Keys, where would they find a set of keys?
“What kind of keys?”
asks Derek.
“Automobile keys? House keys?
Keys to a safe?”
I look at Mary
and have an idea:
Ken tapped Bulldog on the shoulder
and pointed to the piano in the corner
of the room.
“The piano,” says Mary.
“Ah, brilliant, my boy.
I can just see
my piano at home.”
The thought of her piano
makes her sit up a bit.
She stares at her hands,
taps her fingers,
and begins again.
The keys were piano keys. But which ones? Bulldog nodded to Mary and she walked over to the piano.
“Oi!” yelled Cage. “That piano is broken. Don’t touch it!”
Bulldog held him back as Mary stared down at the keys and thought about the kidnapped pilots. They were being held prisoner somewhere. But where? She glanced at the owner. Ah!
She played the keys C . . . A . . . G . . . E.
Nothing happened.
She thought again of those flying aces and stared at the notes on the keyboard. She played three more notes: A . . . C . . . E.
Nothing happened except Cage lunged to stop her. Bulldog held him in a firm grip.
“You’re on to something, Mary,” said Bulldog. Then his gaze fell on four pictures hanging on the back wall. Inside each was a framed playing card: an ace of hearts, diamonds, clubs, and spades.
“Interesting artwork,” said Bulldog.
“Four aces.
Four ace pilots.
Play that again, Mary. Play A . . . C . . . E. Play it four times.”
And Mary did as Cage thrashed.
This time a secret door in the back wall slid open.
What was inside?
“The four aces!” we all shout.
“Right, you are,” said Mary.
The boys freed the pilots and Bulldog hustled Cage off to the police. Peterson’s plan to sell the codes was foiled and thanks to those pilots, England wins the war. Another Bulldog Drummond case closed, all thanks to those marvelous boys.
The End
“But wait, Mary!” I say.
“What happened to Peterson?
Did he die in the fire?
Did he get away?”
Mary smiles weakly,
closes her eyes,
and says,
“That, my dears,
is a story
for another day.”
The End
The story
that was keeping us alive
is over.
We are all too weak to begin another.
All that’s left is a boundless ocean,
a bottomless thirst. . . .
Hope of rescue is a small buoy left behind
as each wave
pushes us toward our unhappy end.
I Wonder
Lying back,
I stare
up to the blue. . . .
We saved the pilots,
but where is Peterson?
Is evil alive
in a U-boat?
In a bomber?
Our water is almost gone.
I stare
up to the cloudless sky,
up to heaven.
My mum is there,
the one I never knew,
my mum who died
when I was just a baby.
I wonder
what is it like up there,
to float up there,
to stay up there forever
with my mum. . . .
Out of the Blue
I blink.
There’s a speck in my eye.
NO!
It’s a speck in the sky
growing
bigger,
blacker,
brighter.
I sit up,
stand up,
and point.
“Look, an airplane!” I shout.
“It’s a plane,
a plane,
a PLANE!”
Everyone stares at me
and looks where I’m pointing.
They don’t believe me.
“It can’t be.”
“It’s just a seagull.”
“It’s just a cloud.”
“It’s just a mirage.”
We’ve seen gulls and clouds and smoke and ships before.
They all vanished,
wisps in the wind.
But this time I know!
“NO, I t
ell you! It’s a plane.”
I pull off my pajama top and use it
to wave and wave and wave.
IT’S A PLANE!!!
A German Plane?
“Ken’s right,” cries Cooper. “It’s a plane!”
“Everyone down!”
WHAT? What is he doing?
“It could be a German plane. We don’t know.”
“I know!”
I’ve read about it
a million times.
I traced its shape
and memorized its name
and the sound of its engines.
“It’s a Sunderland—
a Flying Boat.”
On Our Feet
Now they believe me.
Everyone is standing,
calling, waving,
flashing our milk tins
in the sun.
But will it see us?
“Boys, we must pray,” says Father O’Sullivan.
“We must pray harder than ever.”
The sailors continue to shout and wave,
but I pray like I’ve never prayed before.
“We pray that the plane will come
close enough to see us, and bring us help.”
It is almost too much to hope.
But we saved the pilots with Bulldog,
remember?
And now this pilot will save us.
“Please, God, hear our prayer.
Please, God, let that pilot see us. . . .”
And He Does
The plane drops down.
We hear its drone.
We spot the British roundels
as the wings pass overhead.
It IS a Sunderland!
The pilot zooms down,
swoops around,
and WAVES!
Oh, heaven,
he’s seen us!
“HE’S COMING!” I shout.
“He is, my boy, he is,” says Cooper.
The officers whoop and
the crewmen point and shout at the sky.
Signalman Mayhew
says, “We need flags!”
Buxoo shouts to some of his men,
who quickly unwind their turbans.
Mayhew stands,
holding his makeshift flags,
out,
down,
right,
up,
overhead,
left.
It’s a code.
I learned the signals
in the Army Cadets
last year when I was twelve—
each stance spells
a letter of the alphabet:
C
I
T
Y
Slowly the words come together:
C-I-T-Y
O-F
B-E-N-A-R-E-S.
The plane circles two, three times.
Its Aldis lamp
flashes a code.
“Lower the sail,” says Cooper.
Mary looks up and asks,
“Am I dreaming?”
“It’s no dream, Auntie Mary!”
I say. “We are saved!”
Clang! Clang! Clang!
We boys grab our milk tins,
banging them together
noisemakers,
merrymakers.
We’re giddy
with hilarity and hugs.
“Oh boy,” cries Howard.
“We’re going to fly home!”
“Thanks be to God,”
says Father, who reaches up to heaven
and then lays a hand on
each of our heads,
blessing us all.
Too Rough to Land
The pilot’s lamp
winks and blinks a message:
low on fuel,
radioing for help,
dropping food.
Splash!
There it is!
But the bag of food
falls too far from us
and is swept away.
The plane soars off,
growing smaller
and smaller
as it flies east.
Then it’s gone.
“WAIT!” Derek shouts.
“Come back!” yells Fred.
“It’s all right!” I say.
“He’s getting help.”
I have a question,
but I keep it to myself.
How will they ever find us again?
Limbo
The minutes tick by
as we continue
to search the sky.
Five minutes,
ten,
fifteen,
but there! Listen!
A hum thrums above.
A second plane
appears to cheers!
It drops a parachute bag
attached to a life preserver
to keep it afloat.
This time,
it lands a few feet away.
Inside are flares
and a feast of canned peaches and pears,
soups, fish, and beans.
Still no water,
but we open the cans
and suck down the fruit juices
and other liquids inside.
Best of all,
there’s a handwritten note:
“Rescue vessel
40 miles away.”
A ship—
A SHIP—
is coming!
At Last
At 4:30 pm
on Wednesday, September 25,
Day 8—
the day our water would run out—
the Royal Navy has come for us.
At last.
Mayhew fires off the flares
the plane dropped
as the ship pulls into view.
We wave and wave and wave
and toast each other
with the last of our water.
As the ship approaches,
I grin at my Indian friend
and yell, “Huzzah!”
He looks at me quizzically
and repeats, “Huzzah?”
I point to the ship. “Huzzah!”
He looks and says, “Ah, Hurrē!”
“Hurrē!” I shout.
Then, in the dazzling sun,
the A-class destroyer
HMS Anthony—
Anthony,
the name of the patron saint
of the lost—
pulls up by our side.
We are safe.
Safe at last.
RESCUE
Salvation
We work the Fleming gear
to row the short distance
to the ship.
“Ahoy, young mates!”
say the grinning sailors.
They toss nets
over the side of the ship
and say, “Right! Up you come.”
I can’t move!
My muscles and joints
are too weak.
The sailors scramble down
and hoist us boys up
above their shoulders.
Others lean down to pull us
onto the destroyer.
Sick Bay
On deck,
I hobble,
just like the others,
suffering
from trench foot
and frostbite.
Paul can’t walk at all,
his legs are really gone.
It’s a little terrifying
to realize I can’t walk,
let alone run as I used to.
Still a boy of thirteen,
I limp like an old man,
an ancient mariner. . . .
The sailors speak in hushed tones
as they usher us
into the sick bay.
I hear one doctor say
none have suffered more
than the crew:
“Fingers and
toes came off
in the dressings.”
Still, we are alive.
Doctor’s Orders
“You’ll be all right, boys,”
says the doctor,
examining me with the others.
“Just give it a little time.”
“When can we eat, sir?” asks Fred.
“No solid food for now,” he says.
“Liquids are what you need.”
He gives us water
and a little thin gruel.
“Come with us, chaps,” say the sailors.
They help us below deck
to take warm baths
and towel ourselves dry.
One picks up my wet,
salt-encrusted pajamas.
“Out with these!” he says.
“Don’t throw out my overcoat!
I promised my mum
I’d take care of it.”
The sailor shakes his head and smiles.
“Very well, but put these on,” he says,
offering me one of his uniforms instead.
It’s much too big.
I laugh when I see my friends again—
we’re a funny lot,
in saggy, baggy sailor suits
with the legs and sleeves rolled up.
“Hats off to you, boys!” says one sailor,
giving me his cap.
His friends hoist us up
on their shoulders,
jolly us up
on piggyback rides
all around the ship,
to the engine room,
the gun deck,
up, down, and everywhere.
They make us feel like royalty.
There is nothing they don’t do for us.
“To the mess hall!” shouts one,
and we parade inside
where we disobey doctor’s orders.
“Here, Ken, try this,” says one,
feeding me soft fruit—
lush spoonfuls of
peaches, pears, and apricots,
all covered in cream,
sweet, silky mouthfuls.
I can’t get enough.
But it’s too much.
“Where is the loo?” I ask in a hurry.
“I’ve got to go too!” says Derek.
We’re nipping off
to the toilets again,
right as rain.
THURSDAY, 26 SEPTEMBER
Real Food
The next day the doctor says
we can eat again.
Real, honest-to-goodness food.
I’ve never had sandwiches so thick—
a tin of salmon between two slices of bread
an inch wide. Gorgeous!
And hot sweet tea to revive us.
Lucky 13
It’s early evening
when HMS Anthony
steams into Princes Pier,
Gourock, Scotland.
We line the ship’s rails,
waving to throngs
of weeping people
and press who have come to greet us.
“Remember the day we shipped out?” asks Derek.
I think of leaving Liverpool
a lifetime ago,
then realize something with a shock.
“It was just thirteen days ago.”
