Courageous

by Yona Zeldis McDonough

  “Not like a prisoner,” says Dad. “We’re doing it for your own good.”

  “Dad! Mum!” Aidan pounds on the door with his fists.

  “We’ll see you tomorrow,” says his mum.

  Tomorrow! By then, most of the boats will have already left for Dunkirk, to start the hard work of bringing the boys back. Not the Margaret though. No, the Margaret will be stuck here, idle and useless, all because Aidan’s locked up tight. He sinks down to the floor and buries his head in his hands. He’s never been so miserable in his whole life.

  Suddenly, he jerks his head up. Sally!

  Aidan rushes to the window. Sally is still there. “They’ve gone and locked me in!” he hisses.

  “Oh no!”

  “Oh yes!”

  “Hello, is anybody there?” calls Aidan’s mother. She must have gone downstairs, because she’s stepped outside the cottage just as Sally dives down behind a bush.

  Silence.

  Aidan waits tensely until his mother goes back inside. Sally can’t let his parents see her. If she does, they’ll send her home. Where is she anyway? The coast is clear now. He waits because he has no other choice. But inside, he’s churning, like the sea when it’s angry and—

  Something shoots past him, sailing in through the open window. He kneels down to retrieve it. It’s a paper airplane. He smiles—he and Sally have spent hours folding and refolding planes until they can fly them where they want them to land. When he unfolds this one, he finds a message inside.

  I’m going to get a rope so you can slide down. I’ll be right back!

  Aidan walks back over to the window. Sure enough, Sally has reappeared, and she’s carrying a long, thick coil of rope. She’s tied one end around something and he peers outside so he can see what it is—a metal hook. She must have taken it from the lighthouse. But why?

  He watches intently while she picks it up and prepares to hurl it. Reaching it high overhead, she lobs the hook toward the window. It goes flying through the air but misses the window and falls down into the shrubbery below.

  It makes enough of a noise to attract his mother’s attention, and he hears her call out again, “Anybody there?” Aidan’s heart is hammering. If his mother goes outside and looks in the bushes, she’ll find Sally, and there goes his plan of escape.

  But minutes pass and there is no more activity below. Aidan’s heart slows. Then he can make out Sally’s form again.

  Once more, she positions herself on the ground below. Then she throws the hook toward the window, which Aidan has now opened as wide as it will go. This time, it works! The hook clatters to the floor and he is able to use it to pull the rope up and into his room. Now he must secure the rope to something so he can shimmy down. But what?

  His glance darts around the familiar space: bed, desk, bureau—they are all too light to withstand his weight. What about the oak armoire in the corner though? It’s very heavy and it rests on a pair of thick, sturdy feet. Yes, the armoire’s the thing. He unfastens the hook and loops the end of the rope around the armoire’s foot, winding it three times before securely tying it in a clove hitch. Then he sends the rope out the window and down the side of the house. He hopes his parents are in the room on the other side of the cottage so they won’t see him coming down.

  Carefully, he hoists one leg over the windowsill, grabs on to the rope, and then swings the other leg over too. Sally is waiting below, looking up anxiously at him as he cautiously begins his descent. He lowers himself slowly. Steady, he tells himself. Slow and steady. Almost there.

  As he nears the ground, he can feel a change in the rope’s tension. Maybe the weight of his body has dragged the armoire across the floor? Just a little more and then he’ll be down and—

  He lets go of the rope and falls the last few feet. “Oof!”

  Sally rushes over. “Are you all right?” she asks.

  Aidan gets up. He’s a little wobbly, but unharmed. “Fine,” he says. “Only, now that I’m down here, I don’t have the faintest idea about what to do.” He gives her a searching look. “Do you?”

  “You could take the boat out yourself,” Sally ventures.

  “I don’t know if I can do it …”

  “Of course you can.” Sally seems so sure. “You’ve been going out in that boat for years. You know all about how to handle it.”

  It’s true. He has been going out in the Margaret for as long as he can remember, and he knows how to set an anchor and coil a rope. He also knows about the tides and currents, and how to read a map. He even knows to steer clear of Goodwin Sands, the ten-mile sandbank in the middle of the Channel that’s responsible for so many shipwrecks. But he’s never done any of these things by himself. And he’s never crossed the whole English Channel and gone all the way to France, even with his dad.

  “… and if we’re together, it won’t be nearly as scary,” Sally is saying.

  “Together?” he asks.

  “Well, of course! Do you expect me to stay here while you go?”

  “Oh. I guess not,” Aidan says. The thought of Sally at his side kindles his courage, and he feels much better about the idea of sailing to France.

  “So what do you say?” she asks.

  “I say we’d better get out of here now, before my mum and dad realize I’m gone!”

  Taking the back streets and alleys so they won’t be seen, Aidan and Sally hurry along until they are some distance from Aidan’s cottage. Then they stop.

  “We can’t leave now—it’s too dark,” he points out.

  “You’re right,” says Sally. “We can go at dawn. It’ll be safer that way.”

  “So I’ll need a place to spend the night,” Aidan says. “I just hope my mum doesn’t decide to check on me again.”

  “Good idea,” says Sally. “Now, about tonight …”

  In the end, they go back to Sally’s cottage. Aidan hides in the woodshed while Sally manages to slip inside her house. She comes back with a down comforter, a blanket, and a pillow. Then she helps Aidan make a bed in the shed.

  “Will you be all right out here?”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “Good night, then,” she says. “See you in the morning.”

  “Good night.” Aidan settles down in his makeshift bed. It’s not so bad out here. He hears a hooting sound—a barn owl most likely—and then a scurrying sound in the grass nearby. A predator is hunting and its prey is scrambling for safety. Like George, he thinks. Only he’s going to help George, not leave him to fend for himself in his hour of need.

  Aidan is too keyed up to fall asleep right away and when he does, the dream comes again. This time, the monstrous wave is bigger, darker, and more menacing than ever before, and when he wakes, he’s sweating even though the night is cool. Too bad Maude’s not here to purr him back to sleep. Eventually, he dozes off again, and then before he knows it, it’s dawn and Sally’s shaking him awake.

  “Come on, we should go,” she says, handing him a heel of bread she’s pulled from her pocket. “It’s a bit stale but there wasn’t anything else,” she says.

  Aidan munches on it as they make their way down to the dock, hoping not to be stopped along the way. When they get there, they see a scant few of their neighbors getting into their own boats. Aidan thinks again of Mrs. McAllister’s moving words and the rousing response she received. He doesn’t see the Moonlight Sonata but he’s sure that’s because it’s already on its way. What about the others though? Have they all forgotten what they heard and promised last night? But it doesn’t matter because there’s no time to be thinking about all this now. He and Sally are on an urgent mission and they have to hurry.

  Once they’re aboard the Margaret, the first thing they do is haul the wet nets and all the fishing tackle off the boat. They’ll need every inch of room for the men they are going to transport. Sally pulls up the anchor while Aidan turns on the engine, and eases away from the dock. He hopes there’ll be enough fuel to see them there and back—they were in such a rush t
hat he forgot to stop and get an extra can. But his dad always keeps a spare can stowed away. They can use that if they have to.

  When the engine is humming, Aidan consults the map, just to double-check the route. His heart is still hammering and he wants to calm down so he can think straight—he’ll need all his wits about him.

  Suddenly, he hears his name being called. “Aidan!” He turns to see his parents running down the dock, waving their arms frantically. His father’s hair is sticking out wildly from his head, and his mother still wears her nightdress with a raincoat thrown over it. “Come back!” yells his father.

  “You’ll be killed!” his mother cries.

  Aidan is stabbed by guilt when he sees their stricken faces. But he can’t let that change his mind or let himself think of the worst that could happen. He has to forge ahead. “I’ve got to be brave. We all do.” I’m doing this for George, he thinks. George is somewhere out there, and he needs our help. Aidan turns away.

  Sally looks at him for a moment. “You all right?” she asks.

  “I think so,” he says. “There’s nothing they can do from the dock anyway.”

  The voices of his parents grow fainter and fainter until he can’t hear them at all. He looks out over the choppy water. Although Operation Dynamo has already begun, Aidan prays they can still catch up with the flotilla of boats making their way across the Channel—if they hurry. But the water is rough and it won’t be easy. Still, they’ve gotten this far and there’s no way he’s going to back down now.

  “How long do you think it will take to cross the Channel?” Sally asks.

  “I’ve never actually done it,” he says. “But I’m guessing between two and three hours, depending on the tide and the wind. We’ll just follow the others and we should be all right.”

  “Look at that.” Sally points toward another vessel, a pleasure boat from the sleek look of her. The man on board is hoisting a Union Jack on a pole; the flag snaps and flutters in the stiff breeze.

  “I think we’ve got a flag on board somewhere,” he says to Sally. “Want to see if you can find it?”

  Sally rummages around and comes up with a small, rather wrinkled flag. “It’s better than nothing,” she says.

  Aidan watches her attach the familiar flag to the railing of the Margaret. He feels a swell of pride. “No,” he says, “it’s not just better than nothing. It’s absolutely grand.”

  Far away, across the Channel in France, George and his mates are on their way to Dunkirk. Some of the men say they’re going to meet a hospital ship, and the idea of that ship is like a shining mirage in George’s mind: It promises sleep and a hot meal. George has had about two hours of sleep in the last twenty-four and is hungry enough to eat the sole of his combat boot, so he cannot wait to get there.

  The men started off on foot but they were picked up by a group of trucks, and as they rattle along the dirt road in the convoy, George keeps his eyes on the sky. German planes circle ominously above, targeting hamlets to be dive-bombed later. But the planes above leave them alone—at least for now.

  They drive up one lane, down the next, along rutted old cart tracks—anywhere but on the main roads, where bomb craters gape open like hideous mouths. The side roads are clogged with troops and other convoys and it’s slow going. And then the vehicle stops altogether.

  “What’s going on?” calls out the corporal.

  “It’s an ambulance,” comes the reply. “Ran into a ditch.”

  George cranes his neck out the window to look. Sure enough, there’s the ambulance, blocking the road ahead. He hears patients calling out for water, and others wailing in pain.

  Meanwhile, Jerry is dropping their parachute flares all over the countryside. They begin as little bursts of light, but as they come down, they grow larger and more menacing. By the time they land, they are full-blown fires, devastating whatever they touch.

  George grows more and more anxious. Ignoring strict instructions against it, the driver is flashing his lights, and George is sure Jerry will spot their vehicles. But all he can do is wait here with the others. Finally, the ambulance is dragged aside and the trucks start up again.

  Overcome by fatigue, George closes his weary eyes. Just a few minutes, he thinks. Just a few …

  Suddenly, there’s a loud noise—some kind of explosion. George’s eyes fly open and his arms reflexively shoot out, so that he hits Neville, who is sitting next to him on the convoy.

  “Watch it,” Neville grumbles.

  “Sorry, mate,” he says.

  They’ve come to the town and are speeding along a road that runs parallel to the canal. The sky is brilliant with shell bursts, and gunfire explodes all around them.

  “Hey, I thought we were headed to a safe haven,” Neville says, his irritation instantly forgotten.

  George stares at the dense gray cloud hanging low over the town, the furiously churning sea, and the smoke from the huge oil storage drums—they must have just been bombed. This is no haven. This is his worst nightmare.

  The wind is picking up. The Margaret’s engine is old and not all that powerful, and it seems to Aidan as if they are staying in place instead of making any forward progress. Despite the brisk sea air, he’s warm and even sweating. He thinks of his brother and of the hundreds of other boys, stranded and in urgent need of their help. If he and Sally are ever going to reach them, they have to go faster. He strains to see ahead of them, hoping to catch sight of anything that means they’re nearly there, and—look, there in the far distance is one of the boats from the flotilla! It’s tiny but the sight propels him. He’s going to reach it, he knows he can—

  Kaboom!

  Suddenly, a streak of what seems like fire shoots down toward the water, landing in a shower of fiery sparks just a few meters from the dory. Although the dory wasn’t hit, the water around it churns violently and the little boat shudders from the impact.

  “What in the world—” cries Sally.

  Before Aidan can answer, there is another loud blast from the sky. This one explodes in an angry shower of red sparks right in front of the dory. An acrid, burning smell fills Aidan’s nostrils, but even worse are the coils of gray, dense smoke that plume overhead. Aidan begins to cough and he hears Sally coughing too. His eyes water and he swipes at them furiously.

  As the smoke begins to drift away, Aidan cautiously looks up. To his horror, he sees a plane positioned virtually right above them! Those missiles or bombs or whatever are coming from that plane—it must be part of the German Luftwaffe.

  “Sally …” he croaks. “Sally, can you see what’s up there?”

  “See it? It’s practically on top of us!” She’s right; the German plane is directly overhead now. “We’d better duck or we’re going to get slammed!”

  George and his unit start across the wide, flat beach with its hard-packed sand. Behind them are a hotel, a café, and a restaurant, all shut up tight as drums. Ahead lies the ocean, where he can see downed planes and the wreckage of sunken ships, ominous reminders of the enemy’s brutal strength. In between are the hordes of men, pushed to water’s edge and waiting for rescue. When, how, and if it will come is anyone’s guess.

  The noise is deafening. Frantic and in search of cover, George scrambles toward a pile of sandbags and crouches down behind them, his eyes nervously darting here and there, trying to take in the whole scene. The chaos he saw from the window of the convoy is nothing compared to what is happening now. Jerry is blitzing Dunkirk in a full-scale attack. Along the canal bank, soldiers are shuffling and stumbling toward the docks. They are filthy and worn-out, many just limping along. With mounting terror, George realizes that they aren’t withdrawing in a strategic way. They are fleeing a brutal enemy that is coming at them from all sides.

  A senior officer strides up and stops the mass of soldiers from advancing. George gets up from his hiding place and hurries to join them; he wants to hear the officer, who is now barking orders.

  “… you’re being sent to a quay
farther down the beach, one convoy at a time, in three-minute intervals,” he says. “You’ll be given air protection when you get there.”

  George and the others nervously await their turn. Sand is everywhere—in his shoes, under his uniform, in his mouth, and in his eyes. The explosions continue, and each one slaps into the ground and makes George’s rib cage shake. Finally, the men pile into the third truck in the convoy. George is flung backward as the big vehicle lurches into gear.

  He rights himself and peers outside. And gasps. The town, which had seemed quiet but intact just a little while ago, has been destroyed. Roads are pocked with craters and strewn with debris from the bombs—bricks, girders, massive chunks of buildings. George sees a dead horse, and then another. But worse are the dead people—men, women, and even children—lying still where they have fallen.

  When they finally reach the quay, George sees that bombs have torn away huge sections of the concrete. The embankment has been blown up in one place, and water is gushing out, flooding the fields. It’s a sight as horrifying as it is terrifying—an image of destruction that will make escaping even harder.

  The driver turns off the motor and they wait. After about twenty minutes, a formation of planes appears in the sky above. Thank goodness, thinks George. Our flyboys are here—finally. But relief turns to despair when he realizes, no, those aren’t English planes, not at all. They’re German planes, and they are swooping down, intent on destroying everyone and everything below. Where are our boys? Why has the RAF abandoned us to be slaughtered on these beaches, covered in sand, sweat, and raw terror?

  There is a stampede for shelter as the men, not willing to be sitting ducks, fight and push their way out of the truck. But there are only two remaining sandbagged dugouts on the quay and they can’t hold very many men. There’s no room for George, so he runs across the wooden planks over the dugout and jumps onto the deck of a barge. He twists his ankle in the fall but barely registers the pain.