by Susan Hood
So hungry.
We say grace
before and after our meal.
“Father,” I say,
“the prayer
lasts longer
than the meal itself.”
Questions
After supper,
we face a second long night
aboard Lifeboat 12.
It’s cold, bloomin’ cold.
I shiver under my wet coat
and stare out at the waves,
rocked by the questions
in my head.
Where is the Navy?
Where is our rescue?
They should be here by now.
Have the other lifeboats been rescued?
Are the survivors warm and dry, eating hot soup?
Do my parents know what happened to us?
Does anyone?
God Is Wise
I hear Ramjam Buxoo,
talking with Father O’Sullivan.
“Allah the Compassionate
will save us
if He so wishes.
Or
He will send storms
if He thinks it best.
God is wise.”
Father O’Sullivan closes his eyes
and clasps his hands together.
“Hail Mary, full of Grace. . . .”
And it’s only by the grace of God,
I sleep.
THURSDAY, 19 SEPTEMBER
7 DAYS OF WATER LEFT
Routine, Ritual, and Risk
Daylight brings stretching,
prayers,
no breakfast,
a quick wash.
I dry my face with
Mr. Nagorski’s newspaper
and borrow Cadet Critchley’s comb.
I help the sailors stand watch,
hoping to spot a plane,
a ship on the horizon.
I notice most Indian sailors rinse their mouths
along with their faces.
“Why do they do that?” I ask Father O’Sullivan.
“It’s a religious ritual they perform
before they pray,” says Father.
“Aren’t they afraid they’ll swallow the seawater?”
“Yes, they have to be careful.”
But as I watch, I see one man
who doesn’t spit the water out.
I see him swallow. . . .
Time Stretches Out
Officer Cooper
and Father O’Sullivan
synchronize their wristwatches—
the only two on board.
Time stretches
ahead of us,
hours of floating
to the distant horizon
with not much to do,
hours and hours
of endless time
until we remember
we have only
seven days of water left.
Time is running out.
Pushing On
“Right!” says Cooper.
“Time for a new plan.
We are going to make for Ireland.”
“What about waiting
for the rescue ship?”
asks Mr. Nagorski.
“It must have missed us somehow,”
says Cooper.
Auntie Mary looks alarmed
and Howard starts to cry.
“How shall we get home?”
he asks.
“Chins up,” says Cooper.
“The current
has been pushing us east,
pushing us to shore
all this time.
Now we’ll help it along.
Buxoo, have your crew
man the Fleming gear!”
I look at Cooper’s face,
steady with determination.
If we aren’t going
to be picked up one way
we are going to get to Ireland.
Nobody has the slightest intention
of ever giving up hope. No.
It’s up to us to save ourselves.
We’re going to row home.
Maximum speed?
Two to three knots.
But with Fleming gear
anyone can row,
You just
push, pull
push, pull
push, pull.
Wind
With flattening seas,
this stiff westerly wind
could whisk us along.
“Too rough before,” says Cooper,
“but now we can sail.”
Purvis frees the canvas,
rolled up under the floorboards.
Cooper hoists it high.
I’ve never been on a sailboat before.
It’s lovely the way
the wind allows
my friends and me to sit back,
breathe out,
and watch the sail
billow and fill,
blowing us home.
The Hole
“Did you see the hole
the torpedo blew
in the ship?” I ask.
“Did you see the hole
by the playroom?”
“Without a lie,
you could have put
two double-decker buses
in it!” says Fred.
Derek and Billy,
holes in their hearts,
ask again
about their little brothers.
“I shared a bunk bed
with Alan at home,” says Derek.
“I’d read to him
and he would read back to me.
He could tie his shoelaces
and he’s only five.”
“Peter’s just a wee bairn
and he’s aye gettin’ lost,”
says Billy.
“I promised Maw. . . .”
Father O’Sullivan
puts his arms
around their shoulders
and whispers a prayer.
Billy stares at the floorboards
and starts to choke.
I reach over to pat his back.
Where are their brothers?
No one,
not even Father O’Sullivan,
has any answers.
Afternoon Routine
Lunch at noon,
Peard swimming when the sea is calm,
sailors plotting our course,
manning the Fleming gear when the wind dies,
standing watch.
Dinner at six.
But for us boys,
there is nothing to do.
At least Robinson Crusoe
had a shelter to build,
food to hunt,
clothes to sew,
sheep to raise,
paper and ink to write.
For us,
there’s nothing to occupy our time,
nothing to see but the sea—
an ocean of gray,
melting into mist
that rises to the steely sky.
There’s nothing to break
the horizon
or the rows of relentless waves
marching us to the ends of the earth.
Man Our Stations!
One look at our faces
and Critchley says,
“Right! You boys, we need your help!
You can man the Fleming gear.”
“I know how,” I say.
I show the others
and we take turns
pushing and pulling.
At least the exercise keeps us warm.
We help bail the boat
and stand on watch just like proper sailors.
I scan the horizon,
search the seas and skies
for a ship
or a seaplane I recognize
from my plane spotter’s guide.
I sketch a warship
in the drops of salt water
dotting the deck.
Terry would draw it
better than I do.
We would make a good team,
Terry and I,
here on watch.
Which Would You Rather Be?
“Bombed at home,
or torpedoed at sea?”
I ask Auntie Mary,
then turn it into a game
we play
for something to do,
something to say.
I ask each boy in turn.
“Not bombed at home!” says Derek.
“Torpedoed at sea!” says Billy.
“Torpedoed at sea,” we all agree.
Just wait till we tell the lads at home.
What a story this will be!
Pain
Paul is silent,
staring,
suffering.
“How is your foot, Paul?” I ask.
He cut his heel
on broken glass in his cabin
when the torpedo hit.
“It hurts so much,” he says.
“The salt water stings.”
He takes his sandals off.
“They’re just too tight,” he says.
I see his feet have swollen
and leak stinking pus from open sores.
I cover my nose and turn away.
“Trench foot,” whispers Father O’Sullivan
to Auntie Mary.
My shoes feel tight now.
I loosen the laces
and see my feet are swelling.
Will I get trench foot?
I shudder.
Too much water on our feet,
not enough down our throats. . . .
Remember?
“Remember the water
in our cabins?” asks Derek.
“The water in a carafe,
changed every day?
I remember trying the water
and it was so good,
nice chilled water.”
Water.
A whole carafe
of clear . . . fresh . . . clean . . . water.
“I’d trade my bike
for just one glass of water,” I say.
“I’d trade my shrapnel collection,” says Derek.
“I’d give me go-cart,” says Billy.
“Boys, boys,” says Auntie Mary,
quickly placing a hand
on Billy’s arm.
“How about a game?”
I Spy
“You know that game, don’t you?”
says Mary. “Derek, you go first.”
“I spy something white,” he says.
“The sail?”
“The cloud?”
“The crew’s tunics?”
“Your buttons!”
“Right, Fred. Now you go.”
“I spy . . . um . . . I spy. . . .”
Fred looks all around
and suddenly stops.
He whispers, “I spy someone crying. . . .”
It’s Paul.
He looks up and winces.
“My feet. They hurt so much.”
“Let me help you,”
says Mary, moving over to
put her arm around Paul.
“You boys keep playing.
Ken, you take a turn.”
I spy cold, wet boys,
Father O’Sullivan feverish, seasick,
praying crewmen,
worried looks between officers.
I don’t want to play anymore.
Throats dry,
glassy-eyed,
we slump to the floorboards and stare
unseeing. . . .
We May Die
Auntie Mary looks from face to face
and stops at mine.
“Ken, are you all right?” she asks.
I look up into her warm brown eyes.
Auntie Mary sees what I see.
She realizes we may die—
not of hunger
not of thirst
not of exhaustion—
not yet anyway.
It sounds odd to say
but it’s true,
we may die of the doldrums
as the days drift by.
“How about a story?” she says.
“It’s called . . .
The Case of the Kidnapped Pilots
Six boys were riding their bikes in the English countryside when a British plane roared over the coast with a Luftwaffe fighter plane on its tail. The aircraft swooped and dove while the sound of machine gunfire filled the air high above the boys’ heads.
Rat-a-tat, tat, tat! Then BOOM!
The Brit was hit! A parachute floated down as the plane spiraled to the ground. CRASH!
The boys raced down the road, following the trail of smoke.
“Look!” said Ken. “There’s the pilot. He’s still alive.”
The pilot was bleeding badly. Howard tore off his shirt, ripped it into pieces, and tied tourniquets above the man’s wounds. The pilot muttered, “The pouch, get the pouch. . . .”
Paul found it in the folds of the parachute.
“Take care of him,” said Ken. “I’ll go get help.” He strapped the pouch across his chest and scrambled onto his bike. Ken had a friend who lived nearby, a piano teacher named Mary. “She’ll know what to do,” he thought.
One look at the courier pouch and Mary picked up the phone. “This,” she said, “is a job for Bulldog Drummond!”
“BULLDOG?” I say.
We all know about Bulldog—
the hero of dozens of British books and films
who always beats the scoundrels.
Auntie Mary smiles, folds her hands,
and says, “That’s all for today.”
“Come on, don’t stop,” I say.
“Mary, please?” says Paul.
But Mary means what she says
and can’t be persuaded otherwise.
I see a small smile on her lips.
Thanks to her,
I see we now have something
to think about,
something besides
hunger,
thirst,
and cold.
As the misty air clears
and the red sun sets,
a double rainbow arcs over us.
All the colors of the world
lighten and
brighten
our day.
Just as Bulldog has.
Chills
Cold, so cold,
we shiver together,
wrapped in two blankets
for the six of us.
The temperature has plunged
since yesterday.
Chunks of ice
the sailors call growlers
float by.
It grows dark,
but it’s hard to sleep
crumpled in
the bottom of the boat
with the thwarts
in your back.
I close my eyes
and just as I start to doze off—
whoosh!
A wall of ice-cold water
washes over the side,
soaking us all.
I sit up choking,
spluttering,
wiping the salt
from my eyes.
The blanket is soaked,
stone cold.
I can’t stop shaking.
In the dark,
someone whimpers.
I can’t see who it is,
but I hear Auntie Mary whisper,
“Don’t you realize
that you’re the heroes
of a real adventure story?”
“There isn’t a boy in England
who wouldn’t give his eyes
to be in your shoes!”
“Did you ever hear of a hero who sniveled?”
Right she is.
Bulldog Drummond would never snivel.
And just like that
the snivelin
g stops.
The stars whirl in the sky
and I sleep.
FRIDAY, 20 SEPTEMBER
6 DAYS OF WATER LEFT
The Millionaire
We wake to
shimmering sun.
“Hey, mister, what are you doing?”
I ask Mr. Nagorski,
who sits just behind us with the escorts.
The businessman smiles at me
as he pulls out his money,
pound note upon note,
laying them on the floorboards.
“Drying things out!” he says.
“You must be rich, huh?”
“I think he’s a count,” whispers Paul.
“I think he’s a diplomat,” whispers Fred.
“I work in shipping,” he says.
“My wife and daughters are waiting
for me in Canada.”
He seems a kind lot,
this tall gentleman
with kid gloves,
a homburg hat,
and a fur coat he shares with us
to keep our feet warm.
I watch his bills curl in the sun.
Hey, that reminds me!
What happened to my money?
I gave it to our escorts
on the ship—
we all did—
and now?
“Where’s OUR money, Mary?”
The awful realization hits me.
“Now it’s at the bottom of the sea, isn’t it?”
“I’m afraid so,” admits Mary.
“What!”
“Oh, Mary, I had thirteen bob!
More than half a pound!”
“My parents can never replace that money!”
“Crikey, it was all I had!”
The kind gentleman
in the homburg hat says,
“Listen, lads, I will replace your money
when we get home.”
Could he mean it?
I think he does.
I thank him,
stunned by his generosity.
From then on,
we call him The Millionaire.
Thanks to him,
we’ll have a story to tell
and all our money
when we get home.
Hard to Swallow
Three days in the lifeboat
and my throat
is so dry
I can no longer swallow
the hard ship’s biscuit
that comes with our
sardine or salmon at lunchtime.
I have no saliva
to wash it down.
“These biscuits are so hard,”
says Fred. “I reckon you could
mend the boat with them if you got holed.”
He tosses his overboard.
I can’t eat,
so I give my biscuit
to Auntie Mary
to hold for me.
But oh, how we eye
the water ration!
All of us boys sit up
and lick our lips
as the little cup
comes down the line.
Lord help the fool
who spills a drop!
When it’s my turn,
I even lick the string
attached to the cup