Titanic to Dunkirk

He was crazy. He must have been crazy. They knew they were submerged in the boiler room, and out of the creeping, freezing water came Charlie; second officer of the Titanic who drew a breath the moment his face hit oxygen. He was underwater nearly a minute. A high officer, third in command of the ship; was out to save the trapped, snot-nosed coal-workers.

“Let’s get the hell out of here!” Charles Lightoller waded fast in the arched, half-submerged room. He didn’t care that all of the men in the room were huddled as far from the brink as they could; shivering, praying, and weeping. They didn’t even move when he thrust a fist into them and grabbed a shirt. “Hold your breath a minute and you’re free!” Pointing to the exit below chilled the best of men, and they were motionless with the groan of the steaming boiler behind them. In a second he thrust a warm body to the exit, and with no encouragement save that the officer just came from the same place; they all plunged in. One after another they disappeared below. The foot of the man in front struck the face of the man behind. Panic gave them energy against the cold, and they swam and crawled on the bulkhead below to freedom on the other side.

Time was running out. Lightoller knew the room would explode when the cold water hit the right place in the furnace. Five men gone; ten. “Go! Hurry up!” He shoved them mercilessly and they gulped air before hitting water. Groaning. Bending. Hell was about to be opened. He finally grabbed the last man and felt resistance. With an insane glare, Charlie screamed at the fifteen year old, shaking boy. No thought entered the small mind as he screamed back, “Sir! I can’t swim!”

There was no time, and the boy fought the officer in a frenzy. He was scared to death. Tried as he could, the boy appeared to have no mirth left; even to save himself. A deathly grind echoed all around them, and for the first time, in spite of the chaos, they just stood there. No more cursing. No more yelling. “On your own then!” Lightoller threw up his hand and left him. The boy returned to the farthest place from the water, and curled into a ball. The officer plunged and did not look back.

The boy was alone. Silence for the first time in hours. He cried and shook. He couldn’t even pray. He couldn’t think. Nothing. He rocked next to the warm furnace, and the water drew nearer. The warmth brought him to that old rocking chair in Ireland. It was with mother when he was sick with the pox. That warm breast when he was five. Yes. He was back home. The fire, the hot potato soup, and playing with daddy on the grass afterward. No, he was not alone. He was never alone.

Something changed the officer’s mind. It wasn’t duty, necessarily, but gaining the other side where the air was most welcome, Charlie ran right past a coiled rope on the bulkhead. He stopped gasping; and hesitated. It was long enough. No. Maybe. “No!” He fought himself back and forth for too long. Way too long. The water would not wait. The deck was right up the stairs. The boy chose it. It was his fault. Yes. No! Damn it! “Oh, screw you old man!” The hero doubled back; seized the coil tied to the rail and plunged in. The water almost killed him hauling the hemp and swimming at the same time. By the time his head broke water, his eyes went black. The huge chest filled with air mixed with some water, and he coughed violently on the other side.

The boy was in a trace as the officer scrambled to him. The eyes were glazed and he gave the boy a slap. “Wake up!” The eyes focused and came back. “Tie this around you! I am going to swim back and pull you to the other side!” This time the boy came along mindlessly, and as he tied the rope about the tiny waist, Charlie saw it. His eyes bulged. The furnace was red hot. The gauge in front was off the chart, and all seemed to quiver. The air, like God, was drawing a great breath.

“When I pull, hold your breath and climb toward me!” The officer dove below. In the freezing of a thousand knives, the water was the worst of it. This time he had a rope attached to the other side. No bubbles from the mouth, no near-fainting, and pulling was much easier. Popping out, he gave the rope a healthy yank. The boy, frozen, near panicked as he was pulled underneath. There was no choice now. Cold. Dead cold. It completely woke him up. No dreaming, no closing of the eyes. The salt burned as he thrust off the iron hallway, this way and that by a strong lifeline. He had to get out of there, and climbing ferociously was his only option. Out popped the youth and they ran, half-frozen to the deck.

The thirty-six year old officer saw an outright panic. Half of the ship was under and the frothing mass of people was hell, and utter chaos. The boy took off. There was a canvas boat on the roof and he made for it. Too late. It had fallen into the water just below and people were fighting for it. On the very top he saw it all. The deck was gone and soon the entire ship would sink. Not a single other boat was nearby, and the cries of a thousand passengers screamed to heaven. Every man for himself. It was a twenty foot dive; so he jumped.

The thousand knives hit again. Dead cold. He passed under the kicking legs and remembered the old voice that told him once: “Get away from a sinking ship or it will pull you under.” He popped up and swam away as fast as he could; the people he exhorted did not listen. Farther and farther until his body became numb. All the passengers crowded on and toward the ship, and only he and a few bodies were over fifty feet from the Titanic. It would not be long now. He was so numb. The whole scene faded and his limbs grew heavy. It would not be long now.

Then he was under; towed below like the rope he wrapped around the tiny waist. The life vest did nothing and caught around his neck. Fast, and so easily he was ten, twenty feet under until he slammed against the hull of the ship. She was killing him. It was then he decided not to fight. It was no use. Warmth flashed in his mind. The warmth of the fireside at home, and the warmth of the sun when he found his first gold nugget in Canada. All of it. The first kiss. The finest day he ever had when all was simple; perfect.

It was then he felt the thump. A tremendous pocket of hot air billowed up from below and took him. Hot. Hot as a furnace and his body rejoiced. Was it real? He didn’t even know as his form was propelled upward faster than the ship could take him. Thirty, twenty, ten, and he burst into the air with terrific force breaking the hold. He was alive! It was real! He was right next to the canvas lifeboat and he immediately shouted orders to get it upright. “Heave! One, two; heave!” The few hands left managed to flip it over, and he scrambled inside.

Among the fortunate ones in the boats watching far off, a voice said, “there goes another one.” The boilers of the Titanic had been exploding for the last few hours, and each time the thump was audible with a leaping heart in every warm chest. The last of the ship disappeared, and it was not long before the cries died down, and if it were not for the bodies; no one could tell that the horrible scene had even occurred.

That was twenty-eight years ago.

“Twenty-eight years ago; and yesterday.” Commander Lightoller sat on his yacht “Sundowner” staring at the warm, rising sun east of England, and remembered. He remembered the cold, and appreciated the warmth. “What is it about the sea that makes you want to walk into it and drown?” He spoke to the orb and no one else. It is a wonder he even bought the yacht after he retired. Maybe it was to spite the ocean that tried to kill him. Maybe it made him feel alive. Maybe it made him feel insane. Maybe all of it. Maybe not. Nearly thirty years is a blink, and his eye stared a thousand memories. A thousand mile stare to the man right in front of him.

That man was his son Roger who looked pale. It was May 26th, 1940 and Hitler was on the move. Everyone knew that. The air raids would certainly come, and being in a nice yacht in the harbor was not to be relished. To keep in one place too long was asking for trouble, and spies were everywhere. All it would take to sink the thirty foot yacht was a single, well-placed shot from a dive bomber, or “Stuka;” and it would be over. Roger almost had to shake his father to get his attention.

“The admiralty just wired us.” That got the commander’s attention. The last time he received messages under the admiralty was in the First World War, and the Titanic before that. All the barking orders, all the headache; what could they possibly want with him? He retired after the bloody war and wanted to be left alone. After surviving another sinking ship, he had had enough of orders. Yes. No more orders.

“What do they want?”

“They said that all available ships will be requisitioned for use in evacuating soldiers from Dunkirk.” The war was not going well then. The British were on the retreat in France just as he feared.

“Those idiots, those bloody generals left no escape for us!” The Commander and his son exchanged a glance that was immediately understood. Herbert was already killed by Hitler, and Trevor, his other son was with General Montgomery on that very front. The same idiots would come down to the dock take the Sundowner. They would put some other idiot in charge and probably sink it. Barely a second passed before the old man was on his feet. “Well! We are not going to make it easy for them!”

Roger, and Gerald the Sea Scout made ready. It only took a few minutes to leave the harbor. Time was of the essence, and the crew of three knew exactly how to handle the waves. It was never a great idea to travel the channel. U-Boats were everywhere, and Lightoller hated U-boats. He considered submarine warfare outside honor since what happened in the last war. Gerald and he were constantly scanning for any sign of them. It was over ninety miles to Dunkirk, and he was not coming home empty-handed. There was talk about how many men could be crammed in a ship meant for twenty one, but by the time the beach was in sight, it didn’t matter.

Making way to Dunkirk, the crew beheld utter chaos. The growl of the Luftwaffe above the trapped army was only part of it. The sporadic German artillery made it worse. Man and machine were everywhere in motion protected by few anti air guns. Every manner of equipment and provision could be seen strewn about as the soldiers huddled for cover under anything they could find. The minute the sky seemed to be clear, the motion ramped up, and thousands of men were herded onto the few ships available. The ships were the only lifeline. Any order to be had was due to the discipline and goodness of each man, and all were doing the best they could. Four Hundred thousand men made the land chaos, the beach an anthill; and the crew gaped at the greatest amount of suffering they had ever seen.

The Sundowner hit the beach like it was an amphibious assault. The soldiers who saw it coming did not hesitate. The bloody wounded were brought aboard in haste, and their suffering burned hot in every slip on the deck. Roger and Gerald with strong backs grabbed the stretchers and any precious gear that could not be spared. The Commander insisted on packing the ship, and he did. Fifty men crammed yacht, and anything useless was left behind in the serf. It happened so fast. In a matter of ten minutes the ship was packed. Men were everywhere. Blood was everywhere, and few could move with little more than rifles to protect them.

It was just at this moment that Lightoller saw an officer on the beach. He leapt off the ship. The Captain was directing the chaos and had no idea that the Stuka were about to make another run. He shouted. Nothing. “Heads up!” Too much noise. The man looked to have an ear blown out by the blood that ran down his face. The Commander began to sprint. The planes were right behind the deaf officer. Waving his arms frantically he finally got his attention, and gave the alarm. “Heads up! Hit the deck!!” A whistle blew, and just as the officer turned to see the Luftwaffe, old Charlie dove on the man straight into the sand. The beach exploded from everywhere and shrapnel blotted out the sun. Machine guns peppered in suit, and a few shouts and screams ended the tremendous volley; off the planes flew back to Germany.

Both men were miraculously unhurt. Upon the serf they stood and the Captain was amazed to see the old man chuckle. He was crazy. He must have been crazy. In that moment of coughing, where all around was misery, the officer caught the eye of the Commander; and they both instantly knew. Time slowed, and where all around was in motion; they were not. Not heedful of the enlisted men, not of the lieutenants barking orders, not even of the carnage right by. Here was a man they knew, and on that beach of Dunkirk they were right back at the Titanic twenty eight years ago. The huddled boy in the belly of the beast, the furnace, the rope, the deadly ocean; all of it. Nothing was said; nothing needed to be said. A hand was outstretched and a hand was received. Nothing save a nod for a great while, and the Commander glistened at the sight. They both did. Here was hope. Here was a man he could trust. Back down to earth they came, and one said with a smirk, “You’re insane.” And that was it. Onto the Sundowner the Commander climbed and gave a wave. It was as if saying, “I will be back. I will be back right here, and very soon.” And the Captain believed him.

Now the real work was to be done. The enemy would be back, and now they knew that the beach was crowded with escape craft. Time was running out. Back across the channel, old Charlie stood at the very front of the ship. Not just to look for U-Boats, but enemy Stuka. Before his son died earlier in the war, he told his father of an evasion technique when on ship, and the Commander was ready. The first crossing however, was easy. The Captain’s men helped each other off, and the crew refueled and refitted as best they could. English docks everywhere were doing the same. Ships of all manner and shape were departing just as they saw the Sundowner unload. Eyes bulged, and after they got past the sight of blood, they mustered their crews and took off.

The second crossing was harder. Already exhausted, the Sundowner crew hit the beach again, and the Captain did not hesitate. Ten minutes. On the way back the Commander sighted an enemy plane. Down it came in line with the Sundowner and the soldiers began firing. At the last possible second before the bomb dropped, Charlie split his lungs: “HARD TO PORT!” Roger at the rear cranked the wheel, and the nimble ship cut the channel just to the left where it hit. A huge splash watered the men and that was all. A shout rose up from the yacht and there was no small celebration. On and on, Lightoller and his crew made the harrowing trip saving a hundred and fifty lives, and he was utterly finished when he heard his other son was saved in the evacuation.

On the last trip, the Captain allowed himself to board. At the front of the yacht with the old Commander, the soldier watched Charlie split his lungs, and the splash afterward. Out of the mist a shout rose to heaven and the Captain caught that face. He could never forget that face. He was insane. He must be insane. But it was insanity purchased with bravery, covered in fearlessness that made the honor worthy of the man.

Post Script:

Commander Charles Lightoller is one of the most famous British War Heroes that ever lived. He survived the sinking of the Titanic just as described, served in WWI as Captain surviving another sinking ship; and commanded many others. He also took part in the evacuation of Dunkirk; the miracle at Dunkirk in 1940. His yacht is still in dock at the Ramsgate Maritime Museum in southern England.