Their docks of Liverpool were soon shored up by the Irish, who poured into the city looking for work. The requisitions were only part of the mandate to prepare for war; the Welsh had been building ships as well. The production lines operated twenty-four hours a day as shipbuilders, technicians, and laborers finished a new fleet of submarines and military cruisers for battle. The slips along the harbor were occupied, packed with a clutter of boats of all sizes enlisted or built by the Crown.
Britain had declared war in September 1939. Germany had attacked the Low Countries and France by May 1940. The men working the shipyards experienced an escalation in their workload and an urgency to finish the jobs quickly. All seaworthy boats from skiffs to ocean liners were requisitioned to defend the island. The Brits had already suffered losses in France and been humiliated at Dunkirk and were prepared to do whatever they must to win. They were determined to show the world the best ships were built in Liverpool.
The pubs overflowed with men between shifts. Dockworkers showed up for a pint covered in gray and white paint, proof that the final coat applied to the Arandora meant war was imminent. The Second World War would soon erupt over their island like a volcano, burning them with firebombs and heat from the Luftwaffe.
Liverpool was an important military hub on the northwestern coast of England. If you weren’t feeding sailors, sewing their uniforms, or housing them, you were not considered a loyal subject. Liverpool was no longer a city of working people going about their business; instead, it had become a hub for the business of war.
There were efforts made to preserve the grandeur of the Arandora Star and her ilk, while using her size and power to serve the Allied cause. Hand-carved mahogany trim and William Morris wallpaper had been covered with thick cotton batting. The extravagant crystal chandeliers, which once graced the staterooms like jewels, hung from the ceilings carefully preserved in muslin beehives. Removal would have meant a rewiring of the ship’s electrical grid, and there was not time for it. The remainder of architectural and decorative splendor was removed, with the exception of the captain’s private dining room, which remained intact.
Three boys from Liverpool, around the age of twelve, slipped along the pier in the darkness carrying their BB guns. They moved swiftly, crouching behind the piles, motioning to one another to lie low until they agreed to leapfrog forward to the next hiding spot, with the goal of reaching the Arandora Star.
The boys spied as several men hammered the spiked border of the final sheet of barbed-wire fencing on the lower deck. The boys peered up and saw the upper decks swathed in similar barbed-wire fencing. The wide decks, once open and filled with chaise longues, where passengers had played cards and taken the sun, were now empty cages. Soon the posh ocean liner would be completely encased in mesh as though she, too, were a prisoner.
The boys heard the murmurs of the workers as they left the ship and departed for the pub. The ruffians waited until the only sound they heard was the Arandora Star herself as she heaved and creaked, trapped in the tight slip like a gray whale.
One boy whispered to his pals, “The grandest one of all.”
“Gonna fill it with dirty Tallies ’n’ send them all back to It-lee where they belong.”
“How do you know?”
“My ole dad told us that they’re gonna round them up and ship them out. They stole our jobs. Thieves.”
“Is your dad working?”
The boy shook his head that he was not.
“There’s your trouble.”
The boys hid behind the gate on the dock and took in the changes on the exterior of the Arandora.
“They wrapped ’er in wire so the Tallies can’t jump.”
One of the boys took aim at the first row of lifeboats pressed against the side of the ship with his BB gun. “This is for my uncle, who ain’t had a job in a year. Tallies took his place on the assembly line at Evermeade.” He aimed and pulled the trigger. A ping could be heard as the BB bounced off the fence of the deck.
“Blighter,” the red-haired boy teased his friend. “You’re a bad shot.”
“Take yours, then,” the boy said defensively.
The red-haired boy took his time. He squinted over the barrel of the gun and followed the red line along the ballast of the lifeboat suspended off the stern. The boy steadied his shot and took aim. He fired. The BB hit the inflated rubber ballast dead center. The rubber lifeboat began to deflate. “That’s for your uncle.”
The boys popped off several lifeboats, taking aim at one all at once. The BBs hit the rubber simultaneously as the boys coordinated their shots.