Bad Luck
A nasty day dawns with wet weather.
Derek, Alan, and I go on deck,
rain splattering our faces.
We crawl under a stairway
and peer out at the black clouds,
ominous with a growl of thunder.
CRASH!
“I don’t like it!” cries Alan,
covering his ears.
“It’s okay, we’ll go back inside,” says Derek.
“Coming, Ken?”
“No, I’ll stay here a bit.”
There’s no wind.
The flags sag
by their posts.
I stare out at the water—
my way out of this war.
I hope.
A group of sailors stop nearby,
not noticing me
under the stairs.
“We won’t sail today,” says one.
“It’s Friday the 13th!
Every sailor knows that’s bad luck.”
“No choice, chap,” says another.
“Our destroyer has to meet
an incoming convoy
from Canada in five days.
It’s carrying war supplies
and the war won’t wait.”
Bad luck?
They sound worried.
A lone foghorn warns of danger.
Chief Officer Hetherington
comes through the door
and the sailors straighten up and salute.
“Captain Nicoll advises
the mines have been cleared
from the channel,” says Hetherington.
“We leave today.”
It’s Time
At last, at long last!
I feel like a wind-up toy
twisted and tightened
for too long,
and now they’re finally letting go!
It’s 6:15 pm on Friday the 13th
when the City of Benares
and Convoy OB 213
steam out in the steady rain.
“I think it’s a jolly good sign,” says Derek.
“Thirteen is my lucky number!”
“Mine, too!” says little Alan.
Despite the darkening skies,
despite the rain turning to sleet,
I’m lit up with relief to get away,
eager for all that’s to come.
I close my eyes
and the fresh breeze
blows all my troubles behind me
like the black smoke
billowing back from the stacks.
The ship picks up speed,
slicing a path through the water,
leaving my sorry past in our wake.
I wonder what’s ahead. . . .
Terry, by my side,
leans out over the rail
and shouts to the sailors
waving ashore.
“Good-bye! Good-bye!”
I clap him on the back
and he grins.
Someone starts singing
and we all join in:
“Wish me luck
as you wave me good-bye. . . .”
Faces beam as the wind picks up,
the port flags
snap to attention,
and the horns bellow farewell.
Liverpool disappears
in a mist of fog
as we leave the war behind
and head west toward the sun.
Reinforcements
We lean over the rail to watch
our Royal Navy convoy
assemble round us.
I count eighteen ships
sailing in formation—
nine columns, two ships in each,
surging west.
taking our place
as the flagship.
In the distance, miles ahead,
I can see our destroyer
and two corvettes
leading the way,
the arrowhead of
our defense—
with a seaplane
keeping watch from above.
“That’s a Sunderland,”
I yell to my friends,
pointing up at the plane.
“They call it a flying boat.”
“How do you know?” asks Derek.
“Planes were my hobby back home.
I know all of them.”
“He does, too,” says Terry.
“And I know all the ships.”
Terry gets out his sketch pad,
drawing the liners, freighters,
tankers, and smaller boats
that stretch as far as the eye can see.
giving the ships line,
shadow,
substance.
I wish I could do that,
make something from nothing.
I look out to the horizon.
What can I do?
What’s to become of me?
When I look back,
Terry has drawn me—
a boy at the rail,
surrounded by strong ships,
leading the way
to a new life.
This is really happening!
The engines throb
as we make our way
through the dark.
Our First Night
Down to bed at 8 pm,
but no one can sleep.
My stomach rolls
to the pitch of the sea
and after all that food—oof!
I crawl into bed
but one of the little boys calls out.
“Ken, will you tuck me in?”
“Me too.”
“I miss my mummy,” says another.
I stand up to try to comfort them
but the ship tilts
and wham!
I slam into the bedpost.
Oww!
I hear coughing
as someone gets sick
over the side of the bed.
I gag at the smell.
Turning on the light for a minute,
I try to clean up the mess
as best I can.
“Close your eyes now
and I’ll tell you a story,” I say.
“Once there was a brave boy
named Wart who met a wizard
named Merlyn. . . .”
We’re all in need of a little magic right now.