The beach was fire, the skies were steel
A thousand men with no way to heal
The sea before, the storm behind
No prayer left, no fate to find

But then from haze a whisper came
Of sails and smoke and English names
Not warships proud, but boats grown old
With hearts far bigger than their hold

Across the tide, the channel line
They came for sons they’d never find
With ropes and hands, not sword or gun
They pulled them home, one by one

Trawlers, yachts, and village crafts
Crews in jumpers, flasks and laughs
No medals hung, no flags unfurled
Just small men rowing back the world

The soldiers stared through reddened eyes
At fisher folk and London ties
And found in planks and diesel air
A kind of love beyond despair

Across the tide, the channel line
They crossed with fear, returned with spine
Through smoke and fire, they held the course
Each boat a lifeline, not a force

And when the shore grew close once more
And boots met home on broken floor
The war rolled on, but something stayed
A debt unpaid, yet never weighed

Across the tide, when darkness won
They showed the world what could be done
No heroes claimed, no trumpet sound
Just hearts that sailed, and turned it round

Remember this when hope feels thin—
Sometimes the smallest ships win