Courageous

by Yona Zeldis McDonough

  “You need it more, mate,” he says, shaking his head. “But I’ll take some of that tea.”

  Aidan unscrews the lid of the thermos and takes a swig. The tea isn’t very warm, but it’s sweet and strong and comforting nonetheless. Then he passes the thermos over to the soldier.

  “My name’s Ralph,” says the soldier after he’s had a drink and passed the thermos back.

  “I’m Aidan.” The words are a bit muffled because his mouth is filled with the sandwich. Has anything ever tasted so good? As he wolfs it down, he sees the boat that’s carrying Sally moving away. He feels a sharp pang.

  “She’ll be all right,” Ralph says, following his gaze.

  “I hope so. She’s been my best friend forever and we always stick together.”

  “Plucky girl, coming out here like this.” He looks Aidan up and down. “You too—how old are you anyway?”

  “Twelve.”

  Ralph nods. “Very brave, both of you. Do your mum and dad know you’re here?”

  “Yes.”

  “And they let you come out here by yourselves?”

  “Not exactly …” Aidan tells Ralph about having to sneak out through the window.

  “You really wanted to do your part!” exclaims Ralph.

  “We both did.” Again, Aidan’s gaze turns in the direction of the boat that is taking Sally farther and farther from him.

  “Well, I say that’s noble,” says Ralph, and exhausted as Aidan feels, pride covers him like a warm cloak. He’s finished with the sandwich and begins rummaging around in the bag again. At the bottom, wrapped in another square of waxed paper, are a half dozen or so round McVitie’s digestive biscuits. They’re cracked but that doesn’t matter a bit. He hands one to Ralph and they pass the thermos back and forth until the tea and the biscuits are gone.

  After the meal is finished, Aidan feels much better and he starts up the engine once more. He decides he’ll bring Ralph to a bigger boat that has just mercifully appeared and then find another soldier to ferry to safety. He has to stay busy, to keep his mind from worrying about George, who is out there somewhere, and Sally. Has she woken up yet?

  He realizes that when he brings Ralph to the next boat, he’s going to be all alone for the first time since he escaped from his bedroom. He’s not sure how he feels about that—scared, for sure. But beneath the fear, there is a glowing little core of confidence too. He’s come this far, hasn’t he? Well, he won’t stop now. He’ll just keep on going until the job is done—because really, what else can he do?

  George hates saying good-bye to Aidan. To think that his little brother and neighbor had found the courage and resolve to take the Margaret and come out here by themselves—the very thought of it makes him choke up with pride.

  But that pride is tempered by concern when he thinks about his parents. Mum and Dad must know that Aidan’s gone by now, and if they know, they must be so worried. They’ve already lost one son to this terrible war. And now their two other boys are out here, facing untold dangers from the enemy that surrounds them. George has a moment of doubt—maybe he should have gone with Aidan and Sally. He could have looked out for them, and maybe kept them safe. But he knows that he had no real choice. This is about more than protecting his family—it’s about protecting everyone: his unit and his town and his country.

  Back on the shore, the jeep has driven off and Rogers is trying to make some kind of order out of the chaos. He’s gotten the fleeing soldiers to line up two by two, so that the procession down to the water and into the boats will feel like an organized plan and not a stampede. For the most part, the men are obeying, but the air is thick with the soldiers’ fear, and George is worried that they’ll panic as soon as the German planes return.

  Prompted by Rogers, George makes sure that the line is moving steadily. But what’s going on over there? A big, burly fellow is trying to push ahead of the others. He elbows his way to the front of the line, and the other men shout at him as he shoves them aside.

  George marches over to investigate. “There’ll be none of that here,” he says. “Go back to the end of the line and wait your turn like the rest of the men.”

  “You can’t make me,” says the big fellow. “You’re not even in charge here.”

  “Yes, I am,” says George, looking around for Rogers, who seems to have disappeared.

  “Prove it,” says the big fellow, who folds his arms across his chest and plants his enormous feet on the shore. His massive legs are like twin tree trunks and his muscles bulge under the sleeves of his uniform.

  George doesn’t know what to do. Rogers gave him orders and it’s his duty to carry them out. He looks up at the man who is so defiant and uncooperative. What kind of soldier acts this way, ignoring the common good to put himself first? They are all working together toward the same goal—why can’t the fellow see that?

  Nervously, George looks around, hoping to gain support from the other soldiers. But they seem to be edging away from the brewing conflict. George doesn’t want to fight the other man, who is taller and at least three stone heavier than he is, only he doesn’t know what other choice he has.

  But as George looks out across the water, scanning for his CO, he realizes that there is another even more pressing problem. There are only three boats out there—for what must be thirty-five or forty soldiers here, waiting to be carried back across the Channel. George can just make out the dory his father owns, the one with Aidan and Sally in it. But that’s only big enough for a few men. The other two boats appear to be a bit larger, though not nearly large enough for the long line of men on the beach. No wonder that soldier tried to push ahead: He’s frightened for his life and wants to be rescued. Pushing in front of the others is hardly a noble thing to do. Yet it’s perfectly understandable too. When George thinks of it that way, he manages to forgive the soldier.

  But why is he wasting time thinking about this? If there aren’t enough boats, none of these men will be saved, and they’ll all perish—George included. The soldiers are getting restless now. They must see that there are too many of them and too few boats. George is going to have to do something, and do it quickly.

  “Now, look here, mate—” he starts to say, when a series of deafening booms drowns out all words. Blimey, it’s Jerry and he’s on the attack again! Almost from out of nowhere, bombs are raining down all around them, bright flashes that land in fiery plumes along the shore or in the water.

  All pandemonium breaks loose and the men who were lined up for the places in the boats suddenly begin to scatter like rabbits, desperate to find places to hide. The man who tried to push ahead in line is leading the pack and in seconds, all the men have disappeared.

  The boats have a harder time and George sees a boat directly in front of him take a terrible hit, the prow demolished in a blaze of flames. Amazingly enough, the Margaret is unscathed—at least for the moment.

  The hideous sounds of screaming and blasts, the overpowering, acrid stench, the sky darkening from the thick coils of smoke rising slowly—George processes all this information in a matter of seconds. Yet he feels that time has frozen. Then his survival instinct kicks in. Like all those other men, he has to find a place to hide—now.

  He begins running up the beach, but it’s hard to breathe—the thick smoke clogging the air is making him gag and choke. Random fires have erupted everywhere and the shoreline is filled with debris of all kinds—George sees a couple of men lying on the ground—Wounded? Dead?—before he forces himself to stop looking altogether and to keep his gaze straight ahead, intent on finding shelter.

  He runs up the beach, away from the shoreline and toward a cluster of small brick buildings that are set back behind some shrubs. As he nears them, he spies a pair of red cellar doors, their battered silver handles gleaming like a beacon. A cellar is a good place to be during an air strike. A relatively safe place.

  Wheezing with exertion, he rushes for the doors. He’s almost there, reaching for the handle, when a bomb explod
es somewhere close behind him. He doesn’t see it, but he can feel the powerful impact, the heat, and then the horrible pain that comes when a piece of shrapnel, red-hot and burning, flies from the blast and lodges deeply in his thigh. Clutching the wound, he crumples to the ground before everything goes mercifully black.

  Aidan is still alone in the dory when the bombs start raining down again. He is frightened, more frightened than he’s ever been in his entire life, and he can feel his body trembling each time a bomb hits the water. A boat right next to him is destroyed, right before his eyes. He is frozen in shock and horror, so he is scarcely aware of the other boats in the water.

  “Get in!” calls a woman. “Now!”

  Her voice breaks the trance and Aidan looks up to see that another boat has pulled in close beside the Margaret. He scrambles aboard and takes cover with the woman and the man who is with her.

  “Out here all by yourself, are you?” she asks. She wears a checked kerchief over her graying hair, and her brown eyes are kind.

  “I wasn’t alone when I came,” Aidan says. “I was here with my friend Sally and I found my brother George too, only—” His words are swallowed up in another screaming blast from the sky above.

  Instinctively, Aidan drops to his knees and tucks his chin close to his chest. The woman puts an arm around his shoulders and even though she’s a perfect stranger, he feels enormously comforted by the small gesture.

  “There, there,” she says when the noise has passed. “Put this on, why don’t you?” Aidan sees she has handed him a life vest. She and the man, who must be her husband, are both wearing them.

  “All right.” He slips his arms through the holes. It’s a bit big but there’s a belt at the waist and he cinches it as tightly as he can.

  The water is quiet for the moment, though there are still planes in the sky, hovering ominously above them. Following the direction of Aidan’s gaze, the woman looks upward. “Let’s all go belowdecks until Jerry gets tired of dropping things on us,” she says.

  Aidan follows her and her husband belowdecks, where they remain for a while. The sound of the bombs is muffled down here and because Aidan’s so very exhausted, the gentle rocking of the boat almost lulls him to sleep. He closes his eyes. Just for a minute, he thinks. Just for one little minute.

  His mind drifts and for a few amazing seconds, he actually sleeps, even in the midst of the terror surrounding him. But with sleep comes the dream—the wall of water, black and terrifying, rising above him and blotting out the sun and the sky.

  The dream wave breaks just as another bomb crashes down. His eyes fly open and he gasps as he plunges into the icy gray water. This bomb must have hit the deck directly, because suddenly there is no boat, no woman, and no husband either, just the charred wreckage bobbing around him.

  Flailing around in the churning sea, Aidan feels the cold water invade his nose, mouth, and lungs. Just as in the dream, he’s going to drown, even though it’s the wake of a bomb and not a tidal wave that’s going to deliver the fatal blow. But then something in him, some instinctive fighting spirit, takes hold and he kicks frantically to the surface. Once his head has emerged, he coughs, sputters, sending the water out and allowing him to take in the air again.

  He won’t go down without a struggle—he won’t. He tries to remain calm, to think of his father’s face, his father’s voice. And he remembers the things his father said when they went out fishing together. “The important thing about going overboard is not to panic,” his father said. “Panic wastes energy, and you need every single bit of it.”

  Aidan takes a deep breath and tries to do what his father said. He stops struggling and instead uses his energy to tread water, careful to keep his head clear of the choppy waves. He doesn’t see the woman and man who rescued him, but he can see the dory, empty now, some distance away. He’s trying to figure out whether he can swim to it, when a piece of the destroyed boat floats past him and he reaches out to grab it with both hands.

  Once Aidan’s got something to cling to, it’s easier to relax. Between the piece of wood, which is large enough to hold on to, and the life vest, he can afford to ease up on the constant motion of treading water and catch his breath.

  Only, now that he’s not moving, he’s keenly aware of how cold the water feels. Even though it’s May, the sea has hardly warmed up at all. His teeth begin to chatter and his legs start to cramp up from the chill. Maybe he should start treading water again, even if not so desperately—the constant motion will keep him from feeling the cold.

  But when he starts to move his arms and legs, a strong wave comes along and bats the piece of the boat right out of his hands. He actually utters a little cry when he sees it carried swiftly away, out of reach and soon out of sight.

  Aidan’s spirits are at their lowest ever. Yes, he still has the life vest, but it’s no protection against the dropping temperature. And though he’s long since lost track of the time, he can see the sun dipping lower in the sky. Soon it will be pitch-black, and he’ll be out here alone. He thinks of his parents, frantically calling him back as he and Sally sped away. Where are they now? And what’s become of Sally and George? He’ll never know, just like they’ll never know what happened to him. They’ll only know that he met his end during this terrible day, but not when, where, or how.

  This thought is so painful that Aidan wants to yell out loud, a heartfelt scream to let loose all that he’s feeling. Well, why not? Who’ll hear him anyway? He utters a low, guttural sound at first, and then his voice grows louder, and louder still. The bombs have stopped now, and he can hear his own anguished cry rising above the waves.

  Then, to his astonishment, he hears a sound in reply. Or does he? Maybe he’s just dreaming, imagining a rescue that will never come. He lets out another resounding scream. This time, the response is clear and definite.

  “Ahoy!” calls a man’s voice. “Is anyone there?”

  “Yes, I’m here! Over here!” Aidan shoots a hand up and waves it frantically, trying to peer in the direction of the voice. It’s coming from a boat, a small blue-and-white craft with oars—it reminds him of Mr. Potts’s boat from his village. And when he looks again, he sees another boat and then another and another—a whole fleet! Where are they coming from?

  Aidan swims in the direction of the blue-and-white boat—it’s the closest—and when he reaches the side, a strong pair of arms reaches down to pull him from the water’s embrace and onto the safety of the deck. He remains there for a few seconds, still shivering and panting hard, before he looks up to see the face of his rescuer. When he does, he is dumbstruck. The man looking down at him with such concern and love is none other than his father.

  When George opens his eyes he doesn’t know where he is, or how he got there. He barely even knows who he is—all he knows is pain, and his entire consciousness is focused on that. The pain in his leg has somehow radiated out, enveloping his whole body. He’s never experienced anything like it before.

  “Hey, I think he’s coming round,” says a voice somewhere above him.

  “Water,” says another voice. “Get him some water and be quick about it.”

  There is some movement and then a tin cup of water is lifted to George’s lips. He doesn’t realize how cracked and dry they are until he runs his tongue across them, nor how parched he’s feeling until the water slides down his throat.

  “Thank you,” he says. Or tries to say. His voice is the merest whisper, and even uttering those faint words feels like a huge accomplishment.

  There’s something hovering above his face and he squints in concentration, trying to make sense of it. It’s a face—and not just any face. Miraculously enough, it’s the face of his CO.

  “Hey, mate, glad you’re still with us,” says Rogers. “It was touch and go for a while.”

  “Where am I?” he manages to croak out before he has to close his eyes again.

  “Down here in the cellar. You were trying to reach it when you were hit.”

&n
bsp; Hit. Yes, so that was what happened. George remembers the frantic scramble up the beach, and the pair of red doors that he was seeking before the pain came and obliterated everything else.

  “We heard you out there and came to get you. Good thing too—another bomb hit just after they brought you down. If you’d still been out there, you’d have been a goner for sure.”

  Eyes still closed, George nods, and soon he drifts back into a light sleep. The pain is still with him, setting off sparks that sizzle and burn in his leg, points of heat that radiate throughout his body. When he wakes, he sees another face hovering close. This one is unfamiliar.

  “Now, this may hurt,” says the man who is above him.

  This may hurt? If he had the energy, George would laugh. Everything hurts. Why doesn’t this fool know that?

  The man is doing something to his leg. Something that hurts.

  “Got it!” The man, who turns out to be a medic, raises a jagged piece of metal in the air with what appears to be a giant pair of tweezers. “Now let me bandage you up.”

  Water, ointment, gauze … and then George’s head is gently lifted from the floor and a large pill is placed under his tongue. The tin cup reappears.

  “Swallow it down,” says the medic. “It’ll help with the pain.”

  George does as he’s told and to his vast relief, he drifts off into sleep again. His dreams are busy and chaotic but the thread of them remains the same—he’s looking for his brother Aidan. If only he could find him …

  “Dad!” exclaims Aidan. “What’s going on? How did you get here?”

  “You’re all right, thank God you’re all right!”

  Aidan turns to see that his mother has appeared right beside his father.

  “I don’t understand,” he says as his mother wraps her arms around him in a fierce hug. “But maybe it doesn’t matter—I’m just so glad you’re here!”