Real Food
The next day the doctor says
we can eat again.
Real, honest-to-goodness food.
I’ve never had sandwiches so thick—
a tin of salmon between two slices of bread
an inch wide. Gorgeous!
And hot sweet tea to revive us.
Lucky 13
It’s early evening
when HMS Anthony
steams into Princes Pier,
Gourock, Scotland.
We line the ship’s rails,
waving to throngs
of weeping people
and press who have come to greet us.
“Remember the day we shipped out?” asks Derek.
a lifetime ago,
then realize something with a shock.
“It was just thirteen days ago.”
“And here we are,
back on dry land,”
says Derek.
“See, I told you!
Thirteen IS our lucky number!”
Horns blow
and sailors scramble with lines
as the ship slips up to the dock.
On shore people press against the ropes,
cheering and waving.
Flashbulbs pop!
I feel stage fright,
but the sailors behind us
pat our backs
and adjust our caps.
“Smile, boys!” they say.
“Smile for the newsreels!”
I can’t help but grin
in my super-sized
sailor suit and cap.
My friends and I wave and wave
to the crowds,
giving two thumbs-up.
and we get ready to hobble off the ship.
The sailors will have none of it!
They hoist us up,
triumphant survivors
riding piggyback
on Royal Navy shoulders.
So many eyes staring at us,
so many hands pointing,
so many beaming faces.
I feel my cheeks flush,
but it’s thrilling all the same.
So many cheers,
all for us!
A throng of reporters
press in,
but make way when Paul
is carried off the ship
on a stretcher,
swaddled in blankets
up to his chin.
I stare at the pain
on his face,
at his panicky eyes
darting about.
“Paul, you’ll be all right,”
in no time.”
Paul smiles weakly
as they hurry him
into the waiting ambulance
and off to hospital.
A nearby reporter
catches my arm and says,
“Congratulations, young man.
You boys sure are the lucky ones!”
Someone in the crowd shouts
and holds up a newspaper.
“Look! You’re front-page news!”
There it is—our story
in the headlines:
BACK FROM THE DEAD!
THOUSAND-TO-ONE CHANCE
COMES OFF IN MID-ATLANTIC,
says The News of the World.
Thousand-to-one chance,
and yes, I’m a lucky one.
Bombed at Home or Torpedoed at Sea?
Reporters step up
to pepper us with questions.
“How do you feel
about coming home to the war?”
asks one reporter.
It’s our old game:
Bombed at home or torpedoed at sea?
Silly man. The game has changed.
I tell him,
“It doesn’t matter about the bombs falling.
We are no longer COLD.
There’s nothing worse than being
wet and cold and not being able to get warm.”
“What’s the first thing
you’d like for supper on land?”
asks another reporter.
I know for sure.
“Ice cream and fish and chips.”
“There will be plenty of time
for questions later,” says an official,
pushing the press aside.
“What these boys need is supper and a bed!”
We are whisked off to a meal
and beds in a Glasgow hotel.
After supper, I change into
cozy pajamas,
fingers trembling a little
as I button them up.
I climb into a great, still, pillowy bed
and stare at the ceiling for hours.
Who can sleep?
This bed doesn’t rock
and it’s entirely
too warm
too dry
too soft.