Little Ships

Dover Harbour - Kent, England - June 4, 1940

I had been watching vessels of all shapes and sizes coming across the Channel for several days, many of them overflowing with men. That's what those of us waiting on the shore wanted to see. If a boat had available space in it - as, unfortunately, some of them did - that meant that some of her desperate passengers didn't survive.

The scene at the coast had been one of mass chaos and confusion for over a week. After just the first couple of days, all of the boats and uniformed men streaming in began to blur together. There had been a directive issued to all the women waiting there: Grab a soldier and take care of him.

That task had been consuming my days. Take a weary soldier's arm and give him some tea and sandwiches. Help an injured soldier to a first-aid station. Feed another soldier. One after another after another. Food. Water. Clothing. These British Expeditionary Force troops had escaped from France with pretty much nothing but the torn clothes on their backs.

All of the welcoming British people cheered for and celebrated these men as heroes. But the demoralized men felt like failures. Although what had been hailed as the "Miracle at Dunkirk" was - and still is - one of the greatest military escapes in history, many also considered it a massive defeat, including our new Prime Minister Winston Churchill himself - who, in a speech to the House of Commons on this day, called it a "colossal military disaster".

But that disheartening phrase was accompanied by more of Churchill's words in what would become one of the most famous and inspiring speeches in history:

"We shall go on to the end. We shall fight in France, we shall fight on the seas and oceans, we shall fight with growing confidence and growing strength in the air, we shall defend our island, whatever the cost may be. We shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills; we shall never surrender…"

After eight days of evacuation from Dunkirk codenamed Operation Dynamo, more than 338,000 British, French, and other Allied troops (far surpassing the initial projection of 45,000) were brought to safety amidst the White Cliffs of Dover by a makeshift fleet of about 850 private vessels. It was not a victory, but in the words of the British press, it was a "disaster turned to triumph". The BEF, under cover from the RAF, had narrowly escaped Hitler's Wermacht and Luftwaffe, and our island nation had survived to fight another day. This "Dunkirk spirit" would carry us through the remaining five years of wartime hardships.

Along with many other women, I tended to these men's immediate needs and put them on trains heading inland. All the while, I searched for one face in particular: Henry, with whom I'd had an intermittent relationship that could be best described as more than casual but less than serious.

I'd received a few letters from Henry during his service in France. The most recent one had arrived just a few days before.

My lovely Marian,

I miss you more than words can say. I long to see you and home again. I thought my first time abroad would be an exciting adventure. But I've had enough excitement to last two lifetimes. They are right, war is hell. My unit is struggling to stay together as we trod along, mile after mile after mile, often having to seek cover from bombing and strafing. We've lost far too many men already. We've had to leave some behind, along with all our heavy equipment. We've been walking down roads clogged with burned tanks and other abandoned vehicles. And there are so many refugees. They're leaving their homes and everything behind. Dead bodies are everywhere. I've become almost numb to it. It almost broke me yesterday when I saw a small girl crying and holding her dead moggy. It breaks my heart to have nothing for these people. I myself haven't eaten in two days. We've been told not to drink the water.

I don't know where we're going exactly or what we'll do when we get there. If we get there. But thoughts of you are keeping my feet moving. I can't wait to have you in my arms and your soft lips against mine. I wish I could write more, but I have very little time to rest. I hope this gets to you quickly and I hear back from you very soon.

Love always,

Henry

For the first time, I was regretting breaking up with him before he shipped out. It wasn't our first breakup - it was closer to our tenth. Maybe it was the tenth. Yet, no matter how many times I pushed him away - literally tossing him overboard once, off my family's boat - he never gave up on me. Why, I don't know. Henry was a very handsome and desirable man, and he definitely had his choice of women.

Seven weeks earlier:

I had just gotten into bed when I heard a rock hit my window. I opened it and saw Henry down below, preparing to throw another rock.

"What are you doing?" I whispered loudly.

"Let's go take a walk," he whispered back.

"Now?"

"Yes, now!"

"But I'm in my nightgown, and I've already washed off my makeup, and-"

"Who cares? Just throw something on. It's late. No one will see you but me. And I think you're beautiful no matter what."

I couldn't help smiling. "All right. Just a short walk. I'll be right down."

As we walked on the moonlit beach, Henry stopped and pointed across the Channel. "You and me will be over there someday."

"In France?"

"Of course. We'll honeymoon in Paris."

"Honeymoon?! Aren't you forgetting something?"

"I didn't think you were ready for me to ask."

"You're right, I'm not. But you're just assuming that it's going to happen."

"Why not? I'll never want anyone but you."

"You don't know that. There are other girls you could be happy with. Sarah really likes you."

"Sarah is duller than my old knife that barely cuts through ropes."

"So? There are plenty of other fish in the sea."

"There's no one else like you."

"I'm just not ready to even think about settling down. There's so much else I want to do. You know that."

"I'm willing to wait as long as it takes."

"Then why are we having this conversation now? What's the rush?"

"I'm shipping out in a few days."

"Shipping out? To where."

He pointed across the Channel again. "There."

"But...why?"

"Why do you think?" he said with a laugh. "To fight the war."

"What war? Nothing's happening. It's a phony war."

"Don't be fooled by the false peace. War is coming."

"How do you know?"

"Just trust me on this."

"How long will you be gone?"

"Who knows? But I'll write you all the time."

"Maybe you should keep your mind off of me."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, don't let me be a distraction. You'll need to stay focused."

"Are you joking? Knowing you're here waiting will get me through."

"I don't want to just sit around and wait. I've got a life, too."

"Look, I know you're not ready to commit-"

"I might never be ready. I could just end up hurting you."

"Are you breaking up with me again?"

"Please don't dwell on it. Just focus on surviving, and we can talk more when you get back."

"I'm not giving up on you."

On May 27, a call went out from the Admiralty to local boat owners and boat builders. Small craft, particularly those with shallow draft, were needed. Some people quickly volunteered their vessels, and a few insisted on operating them personally - including two of my neighbors, both fishermen. Others had their boats requisitioned before they could utter a word.

My father phoned me immediately.

"Marian, meet me at the dock as soon as you can!"

"Why? What's wrong?"

"We've got to finish repairs on Thalassa!"

But by the time we got there, Thalassa was already gone.

Ships began gathering at Dover. The majority of this flotilla of Little Ships, as they were called, were manned by Royal Navy personnel.

Despite the secrecy of the operation, everyone quickly felt a sense of dread and knew that our soldiers must be in a dire situation. Thoughts of Henry moved permanently into my head. I feared that he would be lost without knowing that I really did love him.

These fears competed with ones for my brother David, an RAF pilot, also in France. I hadn't heard from him in over a month.

The following day, soldiers began pouring onto the shore. I had never before seen such deep and widespread gratitude to be home.

On the third day, my friend Cynthia put her hand on my shoulder. "I've never been so exhausted!" she cried.

"Same here," I said, wiping my brow.

"I don't know how long I can keep this up. They just keep coming and coming."

"One soldier at a time. One day at a time. That's our motto."

"One soldier at a time. One day at a time. One soldier at a time…"

Cynthia walked away, still repeating the motto.

I tried to keep my eyes focused and differentiate one face from another. But day after day, I saw no one but strangers. On the eighth day, I was dangerously close to a breakdown.

I took off for the only place where I could find respite: home. When I got there, though, I realized I had forgotten my key. I was trying to pick the lock when I heard a familiar voice.

"Need some help, Miss?"

I turned and saw Henry's crooked smile.

The next thing I knew, I was hugging him so tightly that I thought we might meld together. I was so happy to see him that I never wanted to let go.

"Whoa! What have you done with the real Marian?"

"I was so worried about you!"

"I'm here now." He placed his hands on my face and kissed me passionately.

When our lips parted, I began to cry.

"Honey, why are you crying?"

"Because I know you can't stay! You have to rendezvous with your unit, and they're just going to ship you somewhere else!"

"Come with me to London for a few days."

"Really?"

"Absolutely. We've got to make the most of this time."

This was one of the few times in my life that I didn't hesitate for a second. Cynthia also wanted to get away, and she arranged for the two of us to stay with her aunt in London's West End.

Two days later, I was back with Henry, and he and I spent as much time together as we possibly could until he was sent to North Africa.

Cynthia and I stayed in London. She began working as a nurse, and I joined the Auxiliary Territorial Service and trained as a lorry driver. I was proud to serve alongside many distinguished young women that included Mary Churchill and Princess Elizabeth.

I was hoping to settle into a comfortable routine, but the war hit way too close to home when the London Blitz began. It was eight months of absolute terror, with bombs raining down every night.

One night, Cynthia and I heard the telltale sound of a buzz bomb and hurried to an underground shelter. We huddled there, wishing the terrifying sounds would stop. One bomb hit, and then a second one came. We prayed there wouldn't be a third, but less than a minute later, there was. We heard six explosions before silence finally resumed.

"At least they're not those horrible V-2s that hit with no warning at all," Cynthia said.

That didn't make either of us feel much better.

Cynthia was tragically killed when bombing resulted in the Second Great Fire of London in December 1940.

With the loss of my best friend, the separation from Henry, and fears for his and David's safety, I thought my heart couldn't hurt any more. But I was wrong.

I didn't know how much my heart could hurt until I got the dreaded telegram that no one wants. Henry, KIA at the Siege of Tobruk.

I poured myself into my duties. It was the only way I could keep going.

My days became even busier and more hectic when American GIs arrived in 1942. They were, as many Brits called them, "overpaid, oversexed, and over here".

Many of them were arrogant bullies who thought they could just take whatever they wanted.

"Hey, baby!" one of them called out to me late one evening as I was walking back to my quarters, wearing my dress uniform.

"Get lost!" I shouted.

"C'mon, dollbody," another one slurred. "We know what you want, and you know what we want. Let's just have a good time together!"

A third American stepped in front of them. "Cut it out, jackasses! She's made it clear that she doesn't want you."

"What're ya gonna do about it?" the first GI said.

"I'm gonna pull rank on you. Get out of here, and go sober up. That's an order."

The two GIs stumbled away, grumbling.

"Hey, you know it's really not a good idea for you to walk through here alone," the young lieutenant said to me.

"Thank you, but I'll be fine."

"I'll walk with you."

"No, that's alright."

"Please, let me walk you home. I'll keep my hands behind my back. Promise."

I could see he wasn't going to let up. "All right."

"I'm Mark."

"Marian."

"Nice to meet you."

Over the next couple of years, the unexpected happened. My damaged heart was able to love again, and I fell head over heels for Mark. I missed him desperately every time we had to part and loved him passionately whenever we were together.

On one of the very few nights we were able to have a proper date, we shared our pain and grief over lost loves. He'd had a girlfriend who was captured and killed while serving as a Navy nurse in the Philippines.

"You think somethings going to last forever," he said. "But you end up just being ships passing in the night."

"I won't lose you if I can help it. My heart can't take any more pain." I started to cry, and he gently wiped the tear away. "I wish this goddamn war would just stop. I wish we could find a peaceful oasis somewhere, far away from any fighting."

"We'll get there someday."

"Promise?"

"I promise."

In June 1944, I requested an assignment that allowed me be where I could see, from afar, the preparations for the D-Day invasion. Mark was one of the many troops that would soon head across the Channel, this time not as escapees but as liberators.

After multiple delays due to bad weather that made the waters too dangerous, the mission was finally a go. I could see the outlines of the ships moving away, taking my heart with them.

Nearly a year later, I celebrated V-E Day along with many others in New York's Times Square.

"It's finally over!" I gleefully exclaimed as I embraced Mark.

By the end of that year, we were married and living in his hometown of Boston. He bought and fixed up an old boat and told me I could name it. Only one name came to mind: Henry.