Moonstone

1. The call went out

It was the 1st June 1940. As I ceased peddling my bicycle, the chain was a clock that ticked hastily; the time beating away never to be retrieved. George proceeded ahead of me. I descended from the 'royal chariot', as George had jokingly dubbed it in receipt of my surname, 'King'. I came to a stop and upon propping my bike against the black jangling railings, I shadowed my friend down the sloped path to the dockyard; one of many in the coastal town of Ramsgate. Me and George had overheard in the town that the Navy were requisitioning civilian boats and had come to see for ourselves. I hoped that our arrival wouldn't come across badly, as though we'd come to nosily bear witness to another's misfortune. After all, if what we heard was correct, the Navy was absconding people's prized possessions into war (possibly never to be seen again). On the other hand, I believed we all had to do what we could to help, even if it meant losing more of what we cherished.
As we got closer to the 'Moonstone', George sedated his pace to moderate walk. Two Naval officers marched away from the boat in changeless pace, their arms sharply moving to and fro. The first of the two had a clipboard neatly tucked under one arm and I speculated this to be a list of all the boats in the area that had been chosen; figures of each boat's capacity, top speed and gallons fuel required to navigate the channel.
Mr Dawson, a life long friend of mine, exited the cabin of the Moonstone with a stack of dinnerware and a folded Union Jack. Close behind carrying a tower of books is his son, Peter Dawson, a young lad with lemon hair and a burgundy knitted jumper. George takes the plates from Mr Dawson, his sleeves rolled up and eager to assist.
"Navy's requisitioned her," Peter states in his Norfolk accent as he climbs over the edge of the boat, holding the railing loosely with one hand.
"They'll be back in an hour. My dad wants to be ready before then..." adds Peter, his voice fresh and clear.
"They told us to strip her and load those life jackets. There's some men across the Channel, at Dunkirk, need taking off." Peter continues and gestures to the block of orange life preservers that rest against the wall. Me and Peter glance at each other for a moment and as I removed my plaid coat, I studied his brown eyes shamelessly in an endeavour to show my willingness to help haul to orange vests onboard.
"Some men," says George in jocularity, peering at the horde of life jackets.
Peter, George and I began rushing things off the boat, and then started loading the orange life preservers.
Mr Dawson had stopped looking at his charts, but into the distance. Upon following his gaze I spotted Naval officers and mariners being assigned to boats as they advanced up the harbour.
Peter and I continued sweeping through the cabin, life preservers hooped over our arms. We stacked them up in corners and shelves, which were now found free of adornments and homely trivia. Nothing left but tea, a whistling kettle and a few mugs. Once the job was done I stood beside the Moonstone clutching my coat as the Naval Officers are stepping on to the dock of Mr Dawson's yacht.
"Ready on the stern line," commanded Dawson.
George untied the stern line. Halt. Unsure, we both look at Mr Dawson and then the Naval envoys.
"Aren't you waiting on the Navy?" George questions. My thoughts exactly, but Mr Dawson proceeded to start the engine and the boat began to thrum like a bees nest.
"They've asked for the Moonstone, they'll have her. And her captain." Mr Dawson declared unshakeably as he surveyed the Navy crews. They surveyed us, completely stumped.
"And his son," added Peter as he leaped onto the wooden deck. It dawned on me then what Mr Dawson was going to do. He would go to Dunkirk with Peter. The Moonstone began to inch away from the dock. The water, disturbed by the propellers, churned and danced in miniature whirlpools.
I stood wholly motionless, staring at Peter, unable to take my eyes off him. Peter looked expectantly at George waiting to catch the line from him.
"Thanks for the help, George. Marie." Peter says gratefully, but it doesn't strike home for either of us.
George, instead, jumps onto the stern. I instinctively held the side of boat as I hurdled my legs over the edge. I perched myself next to George and my heart throbbed in time with the pulsing engine; I almost couldn't believe my actions and neither could Peter.
"What are you doing? You know where we're going?" Peter exclaimed, dumbfounded.
"France." I stated simply. 
"Into war, you two." Mr Dawson vocalised his concern, trying to make sure the both of us comprehended the gravity of what we were doing. Mr. Dawson studied George and then me, reluctant yet grateful for the extra help.
"We'll be useful, sir." George voiced with assurance. We shared a knowing glance that we had both impulsively carried out the same action, all without plotting or communicating it to each other. As Dawson pushed the throttle on the motor we entered out from the harbour and into the squally silver waters of the English Channel.

Forty-five minutes had melted away and we had just over three hours to go before we reached the coastline of Dunkirk. Ahead of us was the wide blue yonder and there it was on the horizon... a smear of inky smoke, towering into the vault of heaven.

[Sorry if this chapter seems short, but it seemed like a good place to stop.]