Henry The Navigator

London

September, 1939.

The morning skies filled with the wailing cries of the lost, and Henry knew he would never find home again.

Henry hated not knowing where he was. In his neighborhood he knew every street and every alley, but here he could barely tell up from down. He scrunched closer to the only navigation point he had, gripping his Ma’s elbow tight. He tried to focus on the map spread over her best dress. Ma’s shaking finger pointed where the station was, and where he was going, but the squiggly lines on the paper were no match for the violent monsters breathing thick oily smoke next to him.

Loud crashes thundered from them as the huge bright eye of the metal beast stared, unblinking. Children like himself in thick woolen jackets, scurried frantically on the platform, scuffling in constant motion like the kittens he once rescued, tied in a burlap bag from the river. Once he stepped on the train, would someone rescue him? His mom talked about escaping to safety, but he knew the truth, he would never see his family again.

Henry put his hands over his ears, and then closed his eyes at the windstorm as another iron beast squealed into the station. He had seen trains, but never had been this close, never felt the power of the giant dragons as they roared, the headlights growing into bright suns, and then the noise, a screaming angry whine.

A cold wind blew in, sharp and cutting, turning his face and his imagination bright with color. It pushed Henry into the other children around him, dressed like him in their best Sunday clothes, each with a scrap of paper pinned to their jacket.

Broiling on this hot summer day in his dead brother's coat, he moved from one foot to the other, trying to not think about the pain of his too small shoes, even tighter today as he wore two pairs of socks so the holes in one covered the holes in the other. He put his hands in his pockets to make sure his utility tools were still there; a bit of rope, a box of matches and his most prized possession, a Sheffield jackknife.

He wished his sister Anne could see this. At 16 years old she got to stay in London with his Ma, while he had to leave, away from the bombs falling on London to go to the country. He knew he could help just as much as her. He could fight off the Jerry’s. He gripped his knife, ready.

A sharp tug on his arm pulled his attention back to the map. “-See, you’re going here,” His Ma’s narrow finger pointed to a green part of the map. ”and we’re here.” He recognized the word ‘London’, but he couldn’t focus on the rest of the paper, a blue swirl in the middle of curving lines and tight small letters. “You’ll get to play in the field with the horses.”

Henry’s heart jumped. He loved horses though he wasn’t allowed to get close to the giant shires pulling carts in London.

Three fat tears fell on the paper map. Ma’s mouth smiled, but her eyes didn’t. “When the war is over, you can come back and tell me all about it. “

Henry swiped his sleeve across his eyes to stop his own tears. He couldn’t cry! Another train roared into the station, right next to him this time, pushing a cold future toward him, so fast, so huge, he almost pissed his pants, grabbing himself at the last moment.

The map ripped out of his Ma’s hand and flew, carried on a gust, up into the air. The Blitz they called the bombs raining down, and Henry was going to miss it. Was the steam around him poison gas? A sharp whistle rang out, was that Jerry’s call to battle?

Henry leapt out and saved the map, then folded it tight into his pocket.

He knew this was the end. Once he stepped on the train he would be lost forever, and never see his Ma or Anne again. No matter how many maps he had. “I don’t want to go.”

“Henry, you have to listen to me.” Ma said. “You’ll be safe. Once you get to the country, have the family write to me. I’ll send you letters every week. Including,” She squeezed his chin to hold his face steady, her brown eyes each as big as the moon, “a present for your birthday next month. You’ll be 8! You have to act like a man. No crying.” She thumbed the tears off Henry’s face. “This is.” She squeezed her eyes closed. “This is your train. Don’t be scared. Show these other kids the way to be brave.” She hugged him, quick, and then pushed him away.

Henry clenched his teeth, his mouth quivering and nodded. He stepped over to a queue of other boys and adjusted his bag, heavy on his shoulder. He stomped his foot like his Uncle did when he had to wait at the Market.

“I’m on the look out for Jerry.” The boy in front of him turned back to whisper. “I bet he’s here now trying to blow up the train. They’re doing that all over London.” His chin quivered.

The boy was tiny, thin shouldered like a girl. His name tag read ‘Ronnie, to Northampton.’ Ronnie’s clothes had more holes than Henry’s and knots of rope barely kept his bag together.

“That’s the dumbest thing I ever heard. There are no Jerrys here.” Henry stomped again, mad at himself for not being on guard, and then narrowed his eyes to look down the platform for any suspicious characters.

Henry knew about Jerry. Jerry had already taken a land called Po-land, full of po-tato’s of course and his invasion of London was about to happen, if it hadn’t already. They would come to London and then invade all of Great Britain. The adults spoke of nothing else. Henry knew just what to look for. Posters hung in the Market, and were plastered on every brick wall. Jerry sometimes looked like a werewolf, with fur, red eyes and long white teeth, or other times, more like a man, with dark long hair, and thick claws. He always wore the nazi red squiggle. Henry scanned the station, he knew Jerry would come after them because Jerry especially wanted to kill all the kids.

Henry’s breath caught in his throat. A real English soldier! Tall and lean, the uniformed man stood nearby on the platform, a cigarette in his lips. Henry couldn’t keep his eyes off the long rifle, glinting from the lights off the train. Henry often imagined himself as a soldier, using an old broom handle to blow away Jerry with the other boys from the neighborhood.

He examined the kids lined up around him. Were any of them ready to be soldiers? He knew no one. There were all different ages, boys and girls, some barely walking, and one tall girl looked almost as old as Anne.

They twisted their hands on old carpet bags, or had arms folded around themselves for comfort. Were they all going to the same farm, and were there horses for everybody?

Three, or maybe four boys could fit on one horse, if they were small, Henry had just decided when he saw the suspicious man. At the far end of the platform, in a greasy dark uniform, the man’s long black hair lay on his shoulders just like in the nazi poster, and crucially without the white arm band of the volunteer marshals.

Standing in the mounds of luggage, a light glinted off something metal in his hand. Henry’s jaw dropped open. He looked back at the English soldier, did he see this? But the soldier was talking to the tall girl, his arm around her shoulder .

Henry, elbowed Ronnie and pointed. “Do ya think?”

“A Jerry!” Ronnie’s voice cracked. He froze in place, his body stiff as a rail tie. “He’s going to blow us all up!”

His suspicions confirmed, Henry knew what he had to do. “Not if we stop him. Let’s go!”

Henry dropped his bag and then pulled on Ronnie to follow. They sprinted down the platform.

“Are you sure?” Ronnie huffed, out of breath.

At a break between two trains Henry bent down and climbed under the metal coupling. He moved easily through the tight spaces as he did so often through the alleys and narrow tenements of East London. The smell of hot metal and burned grease met him as he stood up in the in-between space of the towering idle trains. Legs and voices from the platform flickered by as he ran down the long train to the end. Crunching into the gravel, he bent down to peek under the caboose. His knife was in his hand, ready for battle. But the man had vanished! Ronnie called out, “I’m coming!” His thin arms moving up and down like a well pump.

Henry turned back to find two scuffed black boots in front of him. Jerry scowled, one hand on his hips, a black iron bar in the other. Henry almost pissed his pants again, as the nazi lifted up his black weapon to kill him dead.

“Whatchu doing ‘ere laddie? Goin’t get yerself kilt. Go on, you’ll miss yer train. Git!“

Henry scrambled off the loose stones, only falling once as he took off, grabbing Ronnie’s arm on the way to sprint full tilt away from Jerry.

“You left your wee blade!” Jerry called out.

On the train, Ronnie curled into his seat, his face tucked into his chest, his shoulders shaking. Henry dug into both pockets but his talisman, his faithful knife, was gone. Henry won’t cry. He couldn’t. He had to be brave.

Three other children, each no more than six years old, huddled together on a seat nearby. They had cried for so long they could now only stare blankly, their tears had streaked long lines down their dusty cheeks. He had a sudden thought.

“Do you want to know where we’re going? Henry pulled out the crumpled map, flattening it on his legs. “I like to always know where I am.” The children turned to him. “This is London,” his finger pressed. “And we’re going here. This is where the horses are.”

“Cows too?” A girl asked.

Henry nodded. “The cows are over here.” He pointed to a green patch.

“Will we be safe from the bombs?” A small boy said.

“You’ll be safe." Henry nodded his head. "We almost caught Jerry. Right Ronnie?"

More children joined in a circle around Henry. Ronnie leaned forward, a smile on his face. “He was going to bomb the train, until we stopped him. And his gun was this big!”

Throughout the long train ride, nobody cried on Henry's carriage.

Not even Henry.