Torpedoed: Chapters 21–29

And with Hitler’s anti-Jewish rhetoric, they knew that if the Nazis took over England, Jewish people would be in even more danger.

How Ken had loved the meals. So terrific compared with what he’d been having at home, where the meals were modest. He especially loved the desserts. So many, as many as he liked!

She also was wretchedly seasick from the choppy waters, the boat going up and down, up and down, rocking on the waves.

He had asked George Purvis to assess how much food and water they had, and instructed him to plan ahead.

Purvis would have to be detailed, methodical, and conservative about it, rationing the food and water so that each person would have enough.

Father Rory O’Sullivan was still terribly sick, but he rallied enough to lead the boys in the Lord’s Prayer. “Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name; thy kingdom come; thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven.”

Some of the boys were still seasick, the boat rocking on the high waves, up and down, their stomachs churning.

But after all the talk, the rehashing, the would you rathers, boredom set in quickly.

Drummond was home from the First World War, and he was bored. He put an advertisement in the paper: “Demobilised officer, finding peace incredibly tedious, would welcome diversion. Legitimate, if possible; but crime, if of a comparatively humorous description, no objection. Excitement essential.”

He put an advertisement in the paper: “Demobilised officer, finding peace incredibly tedious, would welcome diversion. Legitimate, if possible; but crime, if of a comparatively humorous description, no objection. Excitement essential.”

Captain Drummond got mixed up in solving crimes, in a rather bumbling sort of way, usually with his life very much in danger.

Mary had Bulldog Drummond get deeply embroiled with a gang of Nazi spies.

The Thirty-Nine Steps also had a hero, an upper-crust Englishman, Richard Hannay, who got entangled with spies and murderers. Mary used what she remembered from Hannay’s exploits, too.

And so began a routine. Prayers in the morning led by Father Rory, and stories from Mary. She’d give them an installment after the midday meal and then another one before they settled down for the night after some sweetened condensed milk.

Mary Cornish was a hero in her own story, and like any good hero, she had obstacles to overcome: the open sea, the threat of more storms, the cold and wind, the lack of water. Like any hero, she had adversaries.

Peard was small and wiry—five feet four inches tall, athletic and agile.

He seemed to have a knack for showing up in her part of the boat at just the wrong moment—when one of the boys had kicked his legs clear of his bit of blanket or when another had just woken up to complain of the cold.

You look neat, talk about a treat,
you look dapper from your napper to your feet.
Dress’d in style, brand new tile,
and your father’s old green tie on

Critchley lived in Liverpool and was an avid sailor back home.

Here, on the lifeboat, Father Rory admired his expertise at the tiller.

Sometimes the boys talked about how thirsty they were. It was unbearable, truly. Their mouths were so dry, their lips parched and cracked. Their tongues sore and swollen.

And with the boys heavyhearted, weary, yearning for home, Mary brought out some stiff upper lip: British heroes don’t snivel, she told them.

Very soon they would be safe, their ordeal over. Mary exulted.

The boys were not deterred. Tears turned to determination, and with hope in their hearts once again, they made it through that dark and stormy night.

“Mary had friends everywhere and she gave her kindness and her friendship so lavishly,” wrote another.

“She was...large-hearted, stalwart, and I loved her beautiful face and good laughter.”

In newspapers, lists of names were printed. The children and the escorts, including Mary Cornish, with her age incorrectly stated as twenty-one. That error gave some of her friends a smidgen of hope: perhaps this was a case of mistaken identity.

By the time the Second World War was over, more than sixty million people would die. Would these six boys and the others be among them? Sixty million, a number as incomprehensible as the expanse of the ocean.

The boys were getting weaker by the minute. They would drift into the other world, slowly but inevitably, if rescue did not come.

Navy signalman Johnny Mayhew answered with semaphore signs, using some of the Indians’ turbans as flags: We are from the City of Benares.

In the parcel was food. Beans in tomato sauce, more canned salmon and peaches.

They followed the instructions on the cards, and pasted crisscrosses of “stout” paper on the windows as a precaution against flying glass.

It is impossible to know if any of those who died on the ship would have been killed in a bombing raid, but in retrospect, it seemed that they might have been safer at home.

If only Captain Nicoll had prevailed and the Benares had sailed on ahead, faster.

Don’t worry we arrived safely. We are in a lovely hostel.