Wednesday, September 11, 1940
Ken’s mind registered that he felt stiff and cold. He snapped his eyes open, alarmed at the unfamiliar surroundings. At home he always woke early, usually around five. It was his favourite part of the day. He loved the quiet and the chance to think. He’d lie still, listening to Mollie breathing across the room while his mind woke up. Then he’d pick up his notebook, pen, and torch, and snuggle under the blanket to write and draw.
But now the sound of sleeping boys all around him seemed incredibly loud. He couldn’t imagine that he’d been able to sleep through the night with all of that breathing, snuffling, coughing, and murmuring going on. He realized he’d been dreaming. His hands were twitching on the controls of a Spitfire. He was trying to pull it out of a dive. There was a high-pitched whine as the plane plummeted toward the ground …
He listened to the sound of his own breathing. Instinctively, he reached under his head for his notebook. It was too dark to write, and he had no torch. But holding it felt good, familiar.
He wondered about Mollie. Had her bed already been moved into the tiny box room? Did she like being all alone, or did she miss him? When it’s light, he thought, I’ll write to her.
Little John Snoad was sniffling in the bed beside him. Ken had tried to talk to him last night. He’d tried to tell him a story about Canada and snow, but John had just cried harder. He’d cried so hard that he started coughing, and then he’d coughed so hard that he could barely breathe. Their escort, Reverend King, had taken him for a walk outside, in the dark. When they got back, the reverend was carrying the boy, who was asleep. Now here he was starting to wake up and crying already. It was going to be a long day.
“Hey, Ken. You ’wake?” Terry was on the other side of him. Ken had been surprised to find Terry on the trip. He couldn’t imagine him on a destroyer. He wasn’t the adventurous sort. And Ken wasn’t really happy to have anyone he knew from Wembley here on his adventure. It seemed an amazing coincidence. But Terry was thrilled. The minute he’d seen Ken he’d latched onto him and followed him everywhere. Ken wished he could pretend to still be asleep.
“Ken?”
“Yeah.”
“Wadda you think they’ll give us for breckers? Will there be a bit o’ egg?”
“Dunno. Mebbe.”
“Is that John cryin’ over there?”
“Yeah.”
John’s sobs got louder. Ken saw Reverend King’s tall silhouette tiptoeing around the bodies on the floor as he worked his way to John’s side. The sounds in the room grew as boys all around him began to wake up to the new day.
“Johnny, come back here!” a strained voice cut through the morning air. Johnny and his brother Bobby were in Ken’s group. After yesterday’s tea, they’d all spent a lot of the time hunting for Johnny. He’d eventually been found in the schoolyard, collecting early conkers that had fallen from the chestnut trees. He looked like he was heading out again.
“I don’t want breakfast! I want to go home!” wailed John Snoad.
Ken found his pencil. He started to sketch the Spitfire from his dream. He drew it from the pilot’s point of view, taking great care with the instrument panel, and even drew his own hands on the steering wheel. He let the drawing drown out John’s tears, Terry’s questions, Bobby’s shouts.
Tomorrow, he’d be on the boat. He just had to be patient. The adventure was so close he could almost touch it. Soon.
After a breakfast of bread, powdered egg, and porridge, Ken’s group went to one of the school’s classrooms. Reverend King had a stack of pictures of Canada. Ken had seen most of the pictures already, but he loved looking at the fields of golden wheat and the huge trees coming out of rocks by the side of lakes. There didn’t seem to be any people in Canada.
“I was born in Ontario,” said the reverend in his harsh Canadian accent. “It’s a province in the middle of the country.”
“What’s a province?” asked Terry.
“It’s like a county, only a lot bigger. The whole of England would fit into this little part of the province of Ontario.” Reverend King was pointing to a tiny part on the bottom of the map of Canada.
“That’s impossible,” laughed Bobby.
“Yeah,” said Johnny, “England’s huge! You just don’t know.”
“We’ll be landing here,” continued the reverend, “at the port of Halifax. And then we’ll continue on to Montreal.” He pointed to another dot on the map. “Depending on your final destination, you’ll get off and take a train from either Halifax or Montreal.”
“Will Johnny come with me?” asked Bobby.
“Brothers and sisters will be kept together as much as possible,” said Reverend King. “As long as we don’t lose Johnny before we get there, I’m sure you’ll be together,” he laughed.
The door opened and Ken saw escort Michael Rennie surrounded by his group of boys.
“Enough school work for now, don’t you think, reverend? It’s a beautiful day and these boys need a good football game to stretch their legs after all of that travel yesterday.”
“I’m Eddie,” a little boy peered into Ken’s face. “Are you gonna play? What’s your team gonna be? We’re th’ Bolton Wanderers!”
“The field’s perfect! We’ve already got our positions,” said Louis. Ken saw that he was still carrying his train engine.
“Michael’s got us training,” said Derek. His brother Alan was jumping up and down with excitement.
Michael Rennie was the youngest of the escorts and with his tanned face and white Oxford sweater tied loosely around his neck, Ken thought he looked like a movie star. Clearly, his group idolized him.
“Come on then, boys,” said the reverend. “Let’s show them what you’re made of!”
Wooooooaaaaahhhhh. Woooooooaaaaahhhhhh. Suddenly, the too-familiar scream of an air-raid siren filled Ken’s ears. He felt a brief moment of panic.
“All right, everyone, pick up your gas masks. We can get to the shelter through the back end of the school.” Reverend King took John Snoad’s hand. There was no sound of aircraft. Perhaps it was a false alarm. The corridor quickly filled as everyone calmly headed to the end of the building, to a narrow door surrounded by sandbags.
As Ken went underground, he eyed the wooden boards that held back the earth. Were they strong enough to withstand a hit? There were more sandbags here, and rough benches along the sides of the walls. He followed the reverend into one of the back rooms. More and more children crowded in. Ken felt his panic rising when suddenly the distant sound of the sirens was overpowered by a rich tenor voice.
On the farm, every Friday
On the farm, it’s rabbit-pie day.
So, every Friday that ever comes along,
I get up early and sing this little song.
Michael Rennie smiled broadly as he sang. Soon everyone joined in.
Run Adolf—run Adolf—Run! Run! Run!
Run Adolf—run Adolf—Run! Run! Run!
Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!
Goes the soldier’s gun.
Run, Adolf, run, Adolf, run.
Run Adolf—run Adolf—Run! Run! Run!
Ken sang at the top of his lungs, working to push his fear down. He sang so hard that he almost drove away the recurring image of the boards above him shattering and the earth covering his mouth and nose.
When the all-clear sounded, Ken headed out to the playing field with the rest of the boys as though nothing had happened. He couldn’t help looking up at the sky for bombers, but it was a clear blue day. A false alarm this time. Or perhaps someone else was hit, in some other town, somewhere close by.
Ken had just fallen asleep. It had been a fun day of football, with time to draw and write a letter to Mollie. They’d all been given medical exams and he’d been declared fit to travel. He’d gone to sleep happily tired.
Wooooooaaaaahhhhh. Woooooooaaaaahhhhhh. The sound smashed into his brain.
“Everybody up! They’re close! Grab your masks. Leave your shoes! Run!” Reverend King was herding the boys out of the cottage toward the air-raid shelter. He was half carrying, half dragging John who was screaming and coughing. Ken began to run across the damp night grass, crouching low as he’d been taught. The dark sky was lit by flashes of tracer fire from anti-aircraft guns. Fighter planes crisscrossed the sky. In the distance he could see flames bright against the moonlit night.
Moonlight. They’d be easy to spot as they ran; ninety ragged children and ten adults, running across the open sports field. He ran faster. It had been bad in Wembley, but never this bad. He’d never had to run across an open field, with bombers directly overhead. He dove through the open door of the shelter, tripping over a tiny girl who was sitting in the doorway crying.
“Winchell! Did you bring Winchell? Where’s Winchell?”
Miss Cornish, one of the other escorts, picked the girl up.
“It’s all right, Joyce, your teddy will be fine. But we have to get into the shelter. Way in the back,” she said, guiding Joyce in, away from the noise and the chaos.
Ken’s brain was filled with the sound of the sirens, the heavy drone of plane engines, distant crashes as bombs hit their targets, and crying of children. The ground shook and a shower of dirt fell onto Ken’s head. He fought the urge to scream. He couldn’t make out any faces in the dark of the shelter, but he was aware of the crush of bodies. He heard others crying out around him, brothers and sisters trying to find each other, escorts looking for lost little ones.
“Ken! Is ’at you?” Terry’s face swam into focus. “It’s close, ain’it? Didja see the anti-aircraft fire?”
Ken nodded. He’d avoided Terry most of the day, but now he was glad for this friendly face, glad that Terry needed him. His heart was racing but his body felt calmer.
“Yeah,” he said, “it was shooting at a Heinkel He11. Did you see the way the gunners on the German plane shot back? With machine guns at the back and front?” The plane’s image was burned into Ken’s brain. The more he talked, the calmer he felt. “That’s how you know it was a Heinkel. Because of where the gunners were sitting. Also because of the way the nose is made. It looks like a greenhouse. It was probably heading for the port.”
Then he had a sudden, horrifying thought. What if their ship got bombed in the port? The evacuation would be cancelled. He’d never get to sea, never get to Canada …
Thursday, September 12, 1940
After the terror of the night raid, Ken woke to bright sunshine and the thrill of adventure. Today was the day! They were finally packing up to leave the Children’s Homes in Fazakerley and head to the docks. Ken wanted to make a good impression on the crewmen, so he slicked down his thick black hair and made sure that his coat buttons were shiny. He wished he could wear long trousers instead of his short school pants. He hated the way his skinny legs stuck out of the bottom of the long coat.
“All right,” said Reverend King, “gather up your gas masks and your cases. There’s a bus waiting to take us to the dock.”
Ken started for the door, but slowed down when he saw little John sit down on his palliasse.
“Come on then, John. Today’s the day!” For the first time since they’d arrived, John seemed happy. He finally wasn’t crying.
“Bye then, Ken. Have a good time.”
Ken stopped in his tracks.
“What?” said Ken. “Whadda you mean? Are you not coming to Canada, John?”
John’s voice came out in a wheezy rasp.
“Nope. Nurse says I’ve got assmaticcold. They said they can’t take anyone who’s sick.” Now he had a big smile on his face. “They’re putting me back on the train this afternoon.” He held up a paper bag. “And they’ve given me a sardine sandwich! Won’t my mum be surprised when I walk in the door.”
The sun shone brightly as they rode the bus down to the Mersey Estuary at the mouth of Liverpool Bay. Nothing had prepared Ken for how large and beautiful their ship was. It towered above them all, gleaming in the sunlight. He knew at a glance that it was not a destroyer. It was a luxury liner painted in camouflage colours. He wondered where it had sailed before the war, before all ships were taken over for the war effort.
“Holy moly!” said Terry beside him. “Who knew that war was going to be so much fun?”