Lifeboat 12 Read online

lit only by a candle

  stuck in a flowerpot,

  casting eerie shadows on the wall.

  I hold my nose

  fighting the smells

  of sweat, vomit, urine, and fear.

  “We should bring an oil stove inside

  to help us stay warm,” says one neighbor.

  “Don’t be daft!” says another.

  “It would use up the oxygen!”

  Some shelter this is.

  Spooky, stinking, suffocating.

  Sounds of Hate

  My family and I hunker down,

  listen to the

  drone of the planes,

  the ack ack ack

  of the antiaircraft guns,

  then the high-pitched whistle

  and

  BAM!

  of the bombs.

  My stomach

  drops

  with

  each

  one.

  Then there’s silence,

  ghostly and still.

  What has happened?

  What’s to come?

  The A..L..L......C..L..E..A..R sounds—

  one long steady note.

  We breathe out

  a collective sigh,

  and get ready to go home . . .

  till the sirens wail again.

  MONDAY, 9 SEPTEMBER

  Packing

  One more day.

  I’m allowed

  1 small suitcase (26" x 18")

  1 small duffel bag

  and my gas mask, of course.

  I need my ID card,

  my ration card,

  2 pairs of pajamas,

  2 pairs of pants,

  2 pairs of trousers,

  2 shirts,

  1 pair of shoes,

  a hat,

  my new warm overcoat

  and not much more.

  None of my books are permitted,

  just a Bible.

  I’d rather have my Dandy comic books.

  Or my Plane Spotter’s Guide.

  Never mind.

  I’m starting my own story now.

  You Can Always Tell a German Plane

  Planes are my hobby—

  Sunderlands, Spitfires, Hurricanes,

  Blenheims, Messerschmitts, Junkers.

  I know their names,

  I memorized their shapes.

  I pester my teachers

  and parents with questions.

  They shush me,

  saying, “So many questions!

  Such a chatterbox!”

  But I need answers,

  so I’ve pored over books at the library,

  ever since England declared war on Germany

  a year ago.

  I’ve heard English planes roaring

  over the countryside,

  doing drills since last year.

  Now, the third night of bombing,

  I notice German planes

  make a different sound from ours.

  German planes are diesel.

  They throb.

  Ours hum.

  You never know

  when the Germans plan to attack,

  but you can tell

  by the sound

  they’re here.

  Another Sleepless Night

  My head pounds

  with the sounds of the planes.

  I dread another long night

  inside the crowded, smelly shelter,

  another morning

  staggering round the neighborhood,

  blinking in the dust

  to see what’s left,

  who’s alive,

  hurt,

  missing.

  I don’t know much about Canada,

  but I know this.

  They’re at peace.

  There are no bombs,

  no Germans,

  no war in this New World.

  I’m desperate to get away,

  to make the headaches stop.

  “Dad, I leave tomorrow, right?”

  feeling guilty even as I ask.

  How will my family survive

  night

  after night

  after night of this?

  “Yes, Ken,” says Dad, “tomorrow.”

  TUESDAY, 10 SEPTEMBER

  I’m Off

  My dad is at work

  (he got a new job

  as a postman

  and can’t risk losing it),

  so my stepmum

  will see me to

  London’s Euston train station.

  I hug Margaret good-bye

  before we leave,

  but she doesn’t understand

  that I’m going,

  maybe for good.

  “ ’Bye, Kenny,” she says,

  pushing me away

  to go play at the neighbor’s.

  I take one last look around.

  Good-bye, house.

  Good-bye, home.

  At the Station

  Mum and I arrive on the train platform

  under the clock,

  where crowds of families

  mill about,

  all waiting,

  all watching for the same train.

  No crowd of well-wishers for me.

  Some dads squat down

  to comfort crying kids.

  Others hoist sons

  high on their shoulders.

  No playful punches, funny faces,

  or jokes to jolly me along.

  “Kenny, stop biting your nails,” Mum scolds.

  “Stand up straight. Act like a man.”

  I smile as a tiny girl scolds

  her blubbering sister.

  “Stop that immediately!

  Be British!”

  Mums squeeze their eyes shut

  as they hold their little ones close,

  whisper in their ears.

  Loving fingers trace

  silky heads, pudgy cheeks.

  I wish I had a mum

  who would miss me.

  I look up at my stepmum.

  She looks at the clock.

  Wave Me Good-bye

  With a screech of brakes,

  our train arrives around 11:00 am.

  “Well, ’bye, Mum,” I say.

  “Behave yourself, Ken,” she says.

  “Don’t worry. When the war’s over,

  you’ll make your way home.”

  There are no tears

  from my stepmum,

  no clinging,

  no hugs,

  no lingering last looks.

  “I’ve got to get back now,” she says.

  “Be good and make us proud.

  And whatever you do, don’t lose that coat!”

  She waves me good-bye,

  and that’s it.

  I raise a hand to wave,

  but stop

  when I see

  she isn’t looking.

  “ ’Bye, Mum,” I whisper,

  as she hurries away.

  A Shout

  Our escorts

  check us in

  as we board the train.

  When I step into the carriage,

  I hear my name.

  “Ken!

  Ken Sparks!”

  I glance up

  and see a friend.

  “Terry? TERRY!”

  It’s Terry Holmes,

  my best neighborhood friend

  and football chum

  from just up the road.

  He’s only ten,

  but he’s a good lad

  and a talented artist.

  I’ve always wished

  I could draw like him.

  “Terry! You’re going, too?”

  “I couldn’t tell you,” he says.

  “You know—we had to keep it a secret.

  I begged to go, though.

  I don’t know anything

  about Canada, but Ken!

  We get to sail on a shi
p

  on the Atlantic Ocean.”

  Terry’s excitement lifts my spirits.

  “Oi, this will be an adventure, all right,” I say.

  “Did you bring your sketch pad?”

  Terry loves to draw ships

  more than anything.

  “I did. Don’t tell!

  I sneaked it in my suitcase.”

  I laugh and give him a shove.

  He shoves me back.

  The engines gasp and rumble

  and in a cloud of steam

  and a scream of whistles

  we’re off.

  Good-bye, London!

  I lean my forehead against the window

  and watch the houses rush by

  to the beat of the wheels rolling the rails.

  City melts into suburb,

  suburb into country.

  I’m leaving

  everything behind.

  Memories

  slide through my head—

  my house,

  my school,

  the girl with braids

  who just started to smile at me,

  my bike,

  my go-cart,

  my apple tree.

  I’ll miss Margaret.

  I’ll miss my dad.

  But I’ll see them again

  when the war is over.

  But what if . . .

  never mind.

  I can’t think of what-ifs now.

  Good riddance to air raids,

  sirens,

  nights under the table,

  in shelters,

  in the Underground.

  Good-bye to bombs!

  Good riddance to being yelled at.

  Terry and I

  are on our way,

  leaving today,

  for a new life

  in the New World.

  Good-bye!

  We Are Wrong About the Bombs

  I settle back in my seat

  and close my eyes . . .

  SCREEEEEEECH!

  What’s happening?

  Why are we stopping?

  “Outside, children!”

  yell the escorts.

  “Leave your things. Run!”

  Terry and I scramble outside.

  Wailing sirens fill the air.

  “Now they’re not even waiting till nighttime!”

  I shout.

  I run faster,

  but trip and

  scrape my knee.

  Terry pulls me up

  and hauls me inside the shelter.

  “Thanks, Terry,” I say.

  We huddle together,

  hearts pounding,

  cold sweat

  drip-

  drip-

  dripping

  down

  our

  backs.

  Minutes go by,

  a half hour,

  an hour.

  Finally

  the all-clear sounds.

  We climb wearily

  back aboard the train

  and lurch along—

  starting,

  stopping,

  running,

  hiding,

  starting,

  over and over again.

  I feel like a thief,

  stealing away,

  making off with my life.

  We’ve been tracked, hunted down,

  our cover about to be blown.

  We slink along, mile upon mile,

  to a secret port

  who knows where. . . .

  The Orphanage

  I’m sound asleep

  when the train pulls in.

  “Ken, Ken,” whispers Terry.

  “Wake up. We’re here.”

  I open my eyes to see

  black tree branches

  reaching gnarled fingers up

  to the staring moon.

  “Where are we?” I ask an escort

  as I climb down onto the platform.

  “Liverpool,” he says.

  “On the Mersey, near the coast.

  Just a little farther now.”

  A short bus ride later we enter

  a great spiked gate.

  What did that sign say?

  They’re taking us . . . where?

  To an orphanage?

  Gaping,

  we’re led off the bus.

  “All right, children, line up,”

  instructs a woman escort.

  “My name is Miss Day,” she says,

  and then introduces us to the

  nine other adults who will be

  escorting us on our trip.

  One places a hand

  on my shoulder,

  “No need to chew

  your nails, lad.

  It will be all right.”

  I’m not scared.

  It’s just a bad habit.

  We’re led

  to two grim brick buildings

  with long black windows

  straight out of Dickens—

  boys in one,

  girls in the other.

  Our escorts shepherd us into a

  long school assembly hall.

  “Come, lads,” says a lanky priest.

  “My name is Father O’Sullivan.

  We’re going to check you in.”

  We all wear identity discs

  on a string round our necks.

  As I slip mine out of my shirt,

  I can’t help feeling sorry

  for the small boy blubbering

  in front of me.

  “John?” says Father O’Sullivan,

  reading his tag. “John Snoad, what’s wrong?”

  John collapses in tears

  and another escort picks him up

  and takes him out of line.

  “Poor little chap. All tired out,”

  says Father. “All right, next.

  Kenneth Sparks,” he reads.

  “You’re all right, aren’t you, boy?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Grand. Now see those white mats

  down there? Pick one and stuff it with straw.”

  “What is it for, sir?” I ask.

  “It’s your bed, darling boy.

  Here’s a blanket.

  Use your pack for a pillow.

  Next boy in line.”

  I look back to see dozens

  of boys, tiny and tall,

  yawning, scowling, weeping.

  I walk over to the mats

  and squat down to stuff one.

  “We’re like seeds in a pod,”

  the boy next to me mutters.

  A rat scutters across the floor.

  I’m not so sure

  about leaving home. . . .

  Crying in the Night

  I wake to weeping.

  It’s John Snoad,

  on the mat beside me.

  “What’s wrong?” I whisper.

  “I . . . want . . . to . . . go . . . home,” says John,

  hiccupping between sobs.

  “But John, we’re on an adventure!

  Just think. We’ll be real sailors on a ship

  with the Royal Navy!”

  I pat his arm, try to tell him a bedtime story,

  but John only weeps louder.

  “Shhh!” say the others. “Pipe down!”

  “What’s wrong with him?”

  whispers Terry on my other side.

  “He misses his mum,” I say.

  Not me.

  WEDNESDAY, 11 SEPTEMBER

  Making Friends

  In the morning,

  Terry and I venture outside

  to join the boys racing round

  the orphanage schoolyard.

  One bloke with wavy brown hair whips by,

  trying to catch a little blond lad

  who looks just like him.

  The little one runs up and hides

  behind me, hugging my knees.

  “Hey, mate,” I say
.

  “Is that your brother you’re hiding from?”

  He giggles and crawls through my legs.

  “Alan, come here, you worm,”

  says the other boy.

  “Derek, you can’t catch me!” he calls.

  “But I can!” I say, scooping Alan up

  and flipping him upside down.

  “Help! Help!” giggles Alan.

  “Thanks, ah . . . ,” says Derek.

  “Ken. And this is my friend

  from home, Terry.

  How old is this little chap?”

  “Five,” says Derek.

  “I’m twelve, so Mum said

  I have to be the grown-up

  and look after him.”

  “Maw said th’ same to me,” says a boy

  with a thick Scottish brogue

  and a younger brother in tow.

  “I’m Billy Short,

  Peter’s five too.

  I kin barely keep ahold o’him.”

  Derek and I exchange glances.

  “How old are you, Billy?” asks Derek.

  “Nine,” he says.

  “Nine? Well, old man, we’ll help you out,“ I say,

  thinking we’ll have to look after Billy, too.

  Alan starts to tickle Peter

  and they roll in the grass

  like puppies.

  They make me grin.

  “You chaps are lucky,” I say.

  “I always wanted a brother.”

  “Careful what you wish for!”

  says Derek. “Oi! There they go again!”

  “Peter, come back!” yells Billy.

  Shrapnel

  “Oi, look at this, Alan,” says Derek,

  grabbing his brother by the hand.

  “Shrapnel!”

  We stop and scoop up

  the gray metal bits—

  pieces of exploded bombs

  and guns—

  to add to our collections.

  “I found some back home,” I say.

  “Traded the biggest pieces

  for marbles.”

  No marbles here.

  It’s just something we do—

  pick up the pieces of this war,

  wrap our hands round the danger,

  try to contain it.

  Derek finds the largest lump

  and hands it to Alan.

  “It’s for luck,” says Derek.

  “For luck!” crows Alan.

  The Shy Kid

  A skinny, fair-haired boy

  with curls

  slumps against a wall, watching us.

  I ask Terry, “Who’s that?”

  “I think his name is Paul,” says Terry.

  “He doesn’t talk much.”

  I shout, “Hey Paul,

  come help us!”

  He looks startled,

  but then he takes his hands

  out of his pockets

  and walks over slowly.

  “What are you doing?” he asks.

  “Collecting shrapnel,” I say.

  “It’s pieces of the bombs!” says Alan.

  “Want some?”

  “You’re playing with bombs?”

  “Sure,” I say. “They’re smashing good fun.”

  The other boys laugh,

  but Paul just stares.