Room

By Rebecca Morgan

Operation Dynamo. More than 338,000 British and other Allied troops waited on the beaches of France. Surrounded by the Germans, the only way out was on the sea that trapped them.

But the beaches were too shallow for destroyers to reach. So, the British Admiralty sent out the call for small vessels to ferry the men to safety. They wanted my ship. I said I’d be darned if someone other than myself sailed her.

***

Day is breaking. Cold air cuts through my sweater, biting my bones.

Roger, my oldest, looks at me, holding a load of life vests. “Richard’s going to be okay.” He was always optimistic.

“Less talk, more work, Roger.” We’re preparing Sundowner for launch, removing everything that made it a luxury cruiser—plates, books, and the frilly décor my wife insisted on.

We set sail, the Union Jack snapping in the breeze. Hundreds of ships fill the waters around me—fishing boats, ferries, and pleasure yachts. The RAF flies overhead, protection for what lies at Dunkirk. Richard. Trapped over there with the British Expeditionary Force.

The pillars of smoke stand stark against the sky, even from across the channel. They guide our way, just as they directed the Israelite children of old.

Only ours isn’t guiding us to any promised land.

As we reach Dunkirk, the RAF pulls away from the miasma of smoke covering the beach. The air reeks of fumes. Of death. I cough and my heart rattles in my chest.

Hundreds stand on a makeshift pier of lorries. Thousands more crowd the beaches littered with debris.

Dear God, how can we save them all? I strain my eyes for a glimpse of Richard. For a sign that he still lives.

“Father, what do you–”

Roger cuts off. A distant rumbling like thunder becomes louder and louder until the roar consumes everything in its path. The mass of people tries to run. To move. Ducks with hands over heads. But there is no place to go.

The scream of a bomb pierces my ears. Impact. Thump, thump, thump. The sound is muted as it hits the sand. Shouts are cut short. The air smells of rust.

Another bomb falls, shriller than the last. Explosions. Metal grinding. Cries for mothers and wives and sisters. Then all goes still as the threat fades away; a short reprieve before the taunting begins again.

There are empty gaps where men once stood. Red mixed with sand. Roger vomits over the side. Where is Richard?

A badly damaged destroyer, HMS Worchester, leans dangerously, oil gushing like blood from her wounded side.

Roger and I come alongside the damaged ship. The waves boil and froth as men jump into the water or cling precariously to the rails. Screams come from those trapped below where no hand but God’s can save them.

What sin could I have committed that I must witness this twice?

We pull men from the water, slick with oil, white as ghosts. On a ship built for twenty-one souls I cram as many lives as I can. We put them everywhere. In the cabin. Topside. Belowdecks. Men this time. Maybe I can redeem myself for the lives lost on the Titanic. Forget memories of the cold Atlantic and half-filled boats of only women and children.

“Father,” Roger whispers, as I snatch another soldier from the channel’s clutches. “We don’t have room for any more.” He nods to where the boat hangs low in the water, waves lapping over her sides.

“There’s room for more,” I snap, pulling another man aboard. Another man who isn’t Richard. The tension is thick as a London fog as we begin our journey back to Ramsgate, scanning the skies for death from above.

The dull roar of an airplane sounds again, cutting through the air. A Luftwaffe soars overhead, diving in for a kill. The men around me pray and curse.

“Roger,” I call, straining to be heard. “Keep going as you are!”

The men stare at me in horror. If only I could close my eyes against them. Instead, I keep them open and focus on the plane.

It’s closer.

Hands tighten into fists.

Closer.

People curse the name of Lightoller, but I’m used to it.

I exhale.

The Luftwaffe is here. Sights surely locked in on us. Death impending.

“Roger, to port!”

With a jerk, Roger turns the ship. The air is rent with bullets that riddle Sundowner with holes. Splinters of wood fly, embed in people’s skin. It comes around again, and again I wait until death’s hands stretch out before ordering Roger to turn. Bullets zing, the boys around me duck. Others in the boats around us aren’t as fortunate. Their dead weight is tossed overboard.

Our guardians return, the hum of their engines a promise. The RAF turn in a circle, guns rattling, the knocking sound echoing through the skies.

More bullets puncture the ship. Breaths hang heavy. The RAF closes in, firing again. Explosion. A tail of smoke stretches behind the Luftwaffe as it crashes into the channel.

***

Night embraces us with her curtained protection as we arrive at Ramsgate. Ships wait in the harbor to unload their precious cargo as hundreds more people stand on the docks. I groan as my feet hit the wooden planks, worn and weary.

“Father!” A voice I know, one that is a part of me, carries through the sober night.

I say his name in my heart, afraid to utter it aloud as I embrace him. He reeks of war. Blood and fluids. Bomb fumes. His uniform is caked with sand and God knows what else. A cut extends from forehead to jaw.

“Richie!” Roger calls pushing people aside. As he embraces his brother, thankfulness eases the weariness in my bones.

“My god, Father!” Richard says, pulling back from Roger as the men disembark from the ship. “Where did you put them all?”

“Anywhere,” I say simply. “Anywhere.”

Where there was room, even if there wasn’t.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Rebecca Morgan began her writing journey by scribbling on a page—and being incredibly proud of her “stories.” Years later, she has had several works of short fiction published. You can find her work in Havok’s World Tour and Legendary anthologies. Rebecca aims to write stories that show healing through the power of story and help the brokenhearted. Besides writing, Rebecca loves the works of J.R.R. Tolkien, cooking, blue oceans, salsa, and all things apothecary.

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