Lifeboat 12
Page 12
“And here we are,
back on dry land,”
says Derek.
“See, I told you!
Thirteen IS our lucky number!”
Horns blow
and sailors scramble with lines
as the ship slips up to the dock.
On shore people press against the ropes,
cheering and waving.
Flashbulbs pop!
I feel stage fright,
but the sailors behind us
pat our backs
and adjust our caps.
“Smile, boys!” they say.
“Smile for the newsreels!”
I can’t help but grin
in my super-sized
sailor suit and cap.
My friends and I wave and wave
to the crowds,
giving two thumbs-up.
The gangplanks are lowered
and we get ready to hobble off the ship.
The sailors will have none of it!
They hoist us up,
triumphant survivors
riding piggyback
on Royal Navy shoulders.
So many eyes staring at us,
so many hands pointing,
so many beaming faces.
I feel my cheeks flush,
but it’s thrilling all the same.
So many cheers,
all for us!
A throng of reporters
press in,
but make way when Paul
is carried off the ship
on a stretcher,
swaddled in blankets
up to his chin.
I stare at the pain
on his face,
at his panicky eyes
darting about.
“Paul, you’ll be all right,”
I shout. “They’ll fix you up
in no time.”
Paul smiles weakly
as they hurry him
into the waiting ambulance
and off to hospital.
A nearby reporter
catches my arm and says,
“Congratulations, young man.
You boys sure are the lucky ones!”
Someone in the crowd shouts
and holds up a newspaper.
“Look! You’re front-page news!”
There it is—our story
in the headlines:
BACK FROM THE DEAD!
THOUSAND-TO-ONE CHANCE
COMES OFF IN MID-ATLANTIC,
says The News of the World.
Thousand-to-one chance,
and yes, I’m a lucky one.
Bombed at Home or Torpedoed at Sea?
Reporters step up
to pepper us with questions.
“How do you feel
about coming home to the war?”
asks one reporter.
It’s our old game:
Bombed at home or torpedoed at sea?
Silly man. The game has changed.
I tell him,
“It doesn’t matter about the bombs falling.
We are no longer COLD.
There’s nothing worse than being
wet and cold and not being able to get warm.”
“What’s the first thing
you’d like for supper on land?”
asks another reporter.
I know for sure.
“Ice cream and fish and chips.”
“There will be plenty of time
for questions later,” says an official,
pushing the press aside.
“What these boys need is supper and a bed!”
A Real Bed
We are whisked off to a meal
and beds in a Glasgow hotel.
After supper, I change into
cozy pajamas,
fingers trembling a little
as I button them up.
I climb into a great, still, pillowy bed
and stare at the ceiling for hours.
Who can sleep?
This bed doesn’t rock
and it’s entirely
too warm
too dry
too soft.
FRIDAY, 27 SEPTEMBER
Fame and a Fortune
First thing,
my friends and I are taken
to a reception in our honor
hosted by the Glasgow Lord Provost.
It goes by in a blur
of speeches and tears
and gifts of coats,
badges, gold brooches,
and keys to the city.
It’s fun being fussed over,
but deep down
I can’t help feeling like an imposter.
It’s not like we did anything special
to deserve all of this.
All we did was hang on.
Survive.
But there’s no stopping
the ceremonies
and the parade of gifts.
Being in Scotland,
they give us kilts.
“Choose any clan you like!” they say.
I choose Hunting Gordon—
darkish green
with a yellowish stripe.
I’ll give it to my sister
when I get home.
It’s not likely I’ll wear it
once I get back to London, is it?
When WILL they let us get home?
And after that, what?
Will we try again,
set off on another ship for Canada?
I can’t think about that now.
The Glasgow Lord Provost
leads us to his library.
“I would like to give each of you a book,”
he says. “Choose whichever one you like.”
Ah! Now there’s a gift I’ll take.
Which book do I choose?
Adventure stories, of course!
In the afternoon,
Mr. Nagorski keeps his promise.
He replaces our pocket money.
And then he doubles it.
We knew he was a millionaire.
Questions
Later, Red Cross workers tend to us
and try to answer our questions.
“What happened after the ship sank?” I ask.
“What happened to the others from the Benares?”
“Oh, you don’t know, do you?” says one.
“A rescue ship—HMS Hurricane—
found them the day after the Benares sank.
They pulled survivors from the water
and brought them home. They’re safe!”
SAFE! They’re safe!
“Where’s my friend Terry?” I ask. “Terrence Holmes.
Is he back home now? I can’t wait to see him!”
“And where’s my little brother, Alan?” asks Derek.
“An’ mine?” asks Billy. “His name is Peter.”
“Let’s see,” they say. “We can look them up.”
The Red Cross workers consult their paperwork,
running their fingers
down the ship’s list of names.
“Terrence Holmes? Here.
Ah, let’s look up Alan Capel.
And how about Peter Short?”
They exchange glances.
“What? What is it?” I say.
They sit us down to give us answers
we don’t want to hear.
Not one of them survived.
Not Terry. Not Alan. Not Peter.
Billy and Derek start to cry,
but I can barely hear
with the noise in my head.
Pictures rewind
of Terry pulling me into shelters,
picking up shrapnel,
drawing his ships,
laughing at my jokes,
kicking a football,
racing go-carts.
“Ken!” he calls.
“Ken Sparks! Canada, here we come!�
�
Terry will never see Canada.
And I will never see my friend
again.
Only thirteen children
from our original ninety
are still alive.
Thirteen.
Writing Home
Telegrams go out
to our parents:
DELIGHTED CONFIRM OFFICIALLY THAT YOUR BOY IS SAFE AND WELL LANDED GLASGOW. IF YOU WISH TO FETCH HIM, THIRD CLASS RETURN FARE WILL BE PAID. IF NOT, HE WILL BE ESCORTED BACK TO YOU AS SOON AS POSSIBLE. PLEASE WIRE OR TELEPHONE YOUR INTENTION. REJOICE AT SURVIVAL OF YOUR GALLANT SON.
While we wait for our parents to fetch us,
Auntie Mary suggests we write letters home.
“Ken,” says Mary,
reading over my shoulder.
“You didn’t tell them that
YOU
were the one
who spotted that plane.
You are our hero.”
I smile and feel my face flush,
but I don’t say anything.
Mary touches my arm.
“They’re going to be very proud of you,
my boy.”
Reunited
Billy’s parents arrive first
and swoop him up in their arms.
Billy wraps his arms round his mum’s neck
and hides his face in her shoulder
while his dad’s arms encircle them both.
“Mummy,” Billy says, choking.
“Mummy.”
“Yes, Billy, I’ve got you.”
“Mummy . . .”
“What is it, sweetheart?”
Billy takes a big hiccupping gulp.
“Mummy, I havenae got Peter for you.”
“Billy, my Billy,” she says,
tears streaming down her cheeks
as she wipes his away
and whispers in his ear.
“Oh, my darling, darling boy,
I still have you!”
Other parents appear soon after
and the tender scene plays over
and over again.
I stand to the side
watching the family reunions,
full of smiling tears
and talk of miracles.
“I had never given up hope,”
Fred’s mum tells the others.
“Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday
I dreamed that I saw him safe in a boat.”
Howard’s dad tells of three wardens at his door.
“I thought . . . we were being evacuated but
they said, ‘We have good news.’
I answered, “You’re going to tell me my boy
is alive,” and they said, ‘Yes!’ ”
Mrs. Shearing says,
“I can hardly believe the good news.
A miracle has happened.”
Derek’s mum gives her a hug.
“We thought we had lost both boys.
It’s a miracle that Derek has been snatched
back from the grave.”
A miracle, yes.
Found sons, joyful parents.
But where are mine?
SATURDAY, 28 SEPTEMBER
They’re Not Coming
This morning
I receive a telegram:
KINDLY ESCORT HOME KENNETH SPARKS. IMPOSSIBLE TO COME = SPARKS
I’m to make my way home
on my own.
I slump to the floor
and think of all I’ve been through.
Now I’m home,
but home hasn’t changed.
Money is still tight.
My father can’t leave work.
My stepmum feels the same.
“Ken, mate, come with us!”
says Howard.
“We can get you
down to Euston Station.”
Home hasn’t changed.
BUT
I have.
The sea may have knocked me down
and left me for dead,
but this odd mix of kind people
thrown together on Lifeboat 12—
people who were once strangers—
started my heart again.
They nursed me back to myself,
stronger than ever.
I smile at my new friend Howard,
who gives me a hand up.
“Thanks, mate! That would be grand.”
Good-byes
Soon it’s time
for us all to say good-bye,
but no one has the words.
Head down,
hands in pockets,
I stand on one leg,
then the other.
I stare at the floor,
hardly believing
I won’t be seeing these chaps
tonight,
tomorrow,
and all the days
for the rest of my life.
They feel like family.
“We must be going,” says one parent.
“Five more minutes.”
I swallow and look up
at the others.
“I’ve always wanted . . . ,” I say.
“What?” asks Derek.
I try again.
“I’ve always wanted a brother.
Now I have you lot.”
“Come here, boys,”
says Auntie Mary,
and folds us in,
arm over arm.
“You’ll see each other again,”
she says.
“You can write to each other.
And to me.”
“We will,” I say.
Parents gently pull their sons away.
Mrs. Claytor reaches for Howard and me.
“Just one more minute,” I say.
“All right, dear,” she says.
We’ll wait for you in the hall.”
I put out my hand to Father O’Sullivan.
“Good-bye, Father,” I say.
“Thanks for taking care of us.
I’ll . . . I’ll try to pray more.”
“Good-bye, Ken.
I’ll pray that you do!”
He laughs, clasping my hand in both of his.
“And we’ll be in touch.
Don’t you worry!”
Lastly, I turn to Mary.
“Good-bye, Auntie Mary.”
“Ken, dear heart,
I’m so proud of you.
You were very brave,”
she says, cupping my cheek
in her hand.
“I’ll always remember your stories,
Auntie Mary.”
“And I’ll always remember you.”
Then she gives me a kiss.
I turn to go.
“Make your way,” my parents say.
And yes, I can do it now.
I can make my way.
TUESDAY, 1 OCTOBER
Back in London
The train chugs into Euston Station.
I glance eagerly down the platform,
hoping for a familiar face.
No one.
No one has come to meet me.
It’s okay.
I know my way home.
Then
I hear my name.
“KEN!”
It’s my dad,
MY DAD!
I hobble as fast as I can
into his outstretched arms.
He hugs me hard
and try as I might,
I can’t stop the blasted tears.
Harry Peard would be disgusted.
“What a lot of rot,” he would say.
Dad laughs, wipes his own eyes and nose,
stares hard into my eyes,
and says, “I thought I’d lost you.”
“I’m safe, Dad. I’m safe.”
Arm in arm,
leaning on each other,
we make our way home.
Together.
Homecoming
Back in Wembley,
I turn the corner
to Lancelot Crescent,
where a crowd lines the street!
The rest of my family
stands at the gate to our house,
flanked by people on either side
clapping and cheering
beneath Union Jack flags
hung from every window.
My little sister gives me a kiss.
“You’ve made us proud,” says Mum.
The neighbors crowd in around us.
The mayor of Wembley
steps up. “Ken,” he says,
“we took up a collection
to buy you a welcome home gift.”
He hands me a small box.
“Open it.”
I look at the smiling faces
and lift the lid.
Inside is a silver watch.
“There’s an inscription,”
says the mayor.
“Read it.”
I turn the watch over and read aloud:
PRESENTED TO KENNETH SPARKS
BY HIS NEIGHBORS IN ADMIRATION
OF HIS DAUNTLESS COURAGE
WHEN TORPEDOED IN
SS CITY OF BENARES
SEPTEMBER 17, 1940
Dad says to my stepmum,
“He’s really home.”
“Now we can look at his bike
without crying,” she whispers.
Crying?
I look up at her in surprise
and, maybe for the first time,
notice how weary she looks.
I turn to see two houses across the street
have been bombed
and the sidewalks are full of rubble.
They’ve had a tough time of it here, too.
I turn back to hear what
my mum is saying.
“When we first heard
that the ship had gone down,”
she tells our neighbor,
“we read that boys
in one boat were heard singing
‘Roll Out the Barrel.’
It’s Kenny’s favorite song,
and I knew he was in that boat.
I could see him standing up
and singing in his new grey overcoat.
Every time I thought about the singing,
it made me go on hoping.”
Hoping? What?
She wipes a tear,
an honest-to-God tear.
For me.
I try to cheer her up.
“Look, Mum,” I say.
“I still have my coat.
I went back to get it.
That’s how I missed Lifeboat 8.”
“Missed it for a coat? Oh, Ken!”
she says.
“Newspapers say Lifeboat 8
had no survivors,”
our neighbor says softly.
“I went back to get my coat,” I say.
“That’s how I ended up in Lifeboat 12.”
“Oh!” Mum cries, covering her mouth.
Slowly she reaches a hand to me.
I reach right back.
EPILOGUE
THREE YEARS LATER
How to Survive