by John Winton
The Commander paused. The Ship’s Company braced themselves.
‘Our aim is not to take an active part in this affair,’ said the Commander. ‘Our job is to act as an aid to the civil power. Remember that, we are here as an aid to the Consul if he wants us. The ship is not in any way responsible for the administration of this place, we’re just here to give help if we’re needed. We hope, and the authorities ashore hope, that our mere presence here will help to stabilise the situation a bit. So when you go ashore don’t look for trouble or I can assure you you’ll find it. We want to keep everything as quiet as we can. These Latin countries can be very hot-tempered. That’s all I want to say. Special sea dutymen will be piped at thirteen-thirty, hands will fall in by landing parties when we anchor at fourteen hundred. I recommend you all to eat a hearty dinner. You don’t know when you’ll be eating a hot meal again.’
‘If ever’ said a funereal voice from the stokers’ division, amongst hollow laughter.
‘Keep silence!’ roared the R.P.O.s standing around.
The ship anchored off Cajalcocamara in the afternoon. Some of the more excitable of the Ship’s Company expected an immediate answering rattle of machine-gun fire and a fusillade of bombs from the shore but they were disappointed. It was the afternoon siesta and SanGuana slept. Revolutions were for the evenings when the blood quickened and the mind was clearest. Not even the thundering of Barsetshire’s anchor cable roused the town. The shoreline lay still and peaceful, shimmering in the midday heat.
On board, the quietness was regarded as ominous. The Captain had expected the Consul to come on board as soon as he was able, to inform the ship of the latest situation and to state his requirements for assistance in the way of arms, hospital facilities and food. If the Consul did not appear, then it might mean that for some sinister reason he was prevented from coming.
After an hour’s wait there was still no sign of activity on shore. The Ship’s Company mustered in the waists grew restless.
‘Eerie, ain’t it?’
‘Wonder if they’ve all been murdered?’
‘I always thought wogs was a noisy lot. I reckon this revolution must be about the quietest in history.’
‘Keep silence!’
On the quarterdeck, the Captain was also concerned by the lack of contact with the shore.
‘This is bloody stupid,’ he said to the Commander. ‘I don’t know what’s going on in there but we’ll look a lot of Charlies if they’re up to no good while we stick here doing nothing.’
‘I agree, sir. Shall we send the first landing party in, sir?’
‘Damned if I know what to do. This is the queerest set up I’ve ever come across. All right, Commander, send the Marines and the Gunnery Officer’s party in shore to find out what’s going on.’
‘Aye aye, sir!’
A ripple of movement spread along the upper deck as the Royal Marines and the Gunnery Officer’s riot squad prepared to embark in the boats. The Chief G.I. was on deck and ready, as always, with the mot juste.
‘Now remember,’ he said, ‘keep your thumbs over your bayonets when the boat touches. You don’t want to stick it up the man in front’s arse before the battle even starts, do you?’
The Royal Marine Detachment headed for one end of the harbour and the Gunnery Officer and his party headed for the other. It had long been one of the Gunnery Officer’s ambitions to lead a landing party ashore. He looked with pride at his force, sitting in the pinnace with their thumbs over their bayonets. The Gunnery Officer’s heart filled with the remembrance of other landing forces: Gallipoli, Salerno, Anzio, Guadalcanal, Normandy. The Gunnery Officer was proud that he and his motley band of stokers, cooks, stewards, writers and stores assistants were the latest in a great and illustrious tradition.
They were not opposed on the beach head and the Gunnery Officer formed his party up in three ranks, dressed them, and marched them into the town.
At the other end of the harbour, the Royal Marines were exciting as little attention. When the Captain of Royal Marines landed on the jetty there was no one in sight at all. The Captain of Royal Marines looked bewilderedly about him. There was a sense of anticlimax, of abandoned desolation in the appearance of the deserted roadway, the motionless railway trucks, the silent cranes and the shuttered windows.
‘Hoy!’ shouted the Captain of Royal Marines. His cry echoed down the waterfront and lost itself in whispers in the dust and the tattered scraps of paper.
A head belonging to a man who looked like a waterfront policeman or customs official appeared at a window.
‘Where’s the revolution, mate?’ asked the Sergeant-Major.
‘What revolution?’
‘The revolution! El Revolutionario!’
‘Oh that! See that road up there? Up there a bit, first on the left.’
‘Thanks, mate.’
The head disappeared.
The Captain of Royal Marines, remembering his lecture notes on street fighting, formed his men into two single files and led them along the street, keeping one file on each side of the road. The Royal Marines kept in the shadows as far as possible and carefully negotiated each corner before they crossed into the sunlight. They were watched with interest by several sleepy San-Guanos from their first floor windows.
The first turning on the left led into a square. The Marines silently infiltrated into it and stood waiting for the Captain of Royal Marines to give them a lead. The Captain of Royal Marines surveyed the square.
A clump of palm trees in the centre of the square shaded a small brick building which had the words ‘Urinario Revolutionario’ white-washed in large straggling letters on one wall. In smaller letters were the subsidiary words ‘Hombres’ and ‘Senoras.’ By the small brick building were the Gunnery Officer and his landing party.
The Gunnery Officer and the Captain of Royal Marines met in the road. ‘Now what?’
‘Now we consolidate our position, of course,’ said the Gunnery Officer. ‘This looks like the main square of the town, so we might as well take charge of it. I’ll do that with my party, while you press on and see if you can find the British Consulate. There must be someone alive in this town.’
‘It’s all a bit too quiet for me. Don’t you think we’d better hang on a bit before we start consolidating and all that?’
‘This is just the siesta, when they wake up there’ll be all hell let loose again. We want to be well trenched in and ready for them before that happens.’
‘I suppose you’re right.’ The Marines formed up in single file once more and infiltrated out of the square as silently as they had come in.
The Gunnery Officer called his party together.
‘Chief’ he said to the Regulating Chief Stoker, ‘take your stokers over to that side of the square and occupy a house. Be tactful about it and try and not disturb people too much. Set up a position on the first floor where you can command the square. Chief Steward, you do the same with your party on this side.’
‘Aye aye, sir’ said the Regulating Chief Stoker and the Chief Steward.
The platoon of stokers doubled across the square and vanished into a house. The platoon of cooks and stewards did the same on the other side of the square.
There was silence for a few moments and then, as though a fuse had been lit and run its course, the square exploded into life. Both platoons erupted back into the roadway, each pursued by a huge old woman, who waved her fists threateningly. The Gunnery Officer could hear the shouts from where he stood.
‘Seex o’clog! Go way! My girls mus’ have sleep somptimes! Gom bag at seex o’clog! My girls waits for you!’
The sailors stood uncertainly in the sunshine, perplexed by the uproar.
‘Try the next one!’ bellowed the Gunnery Officer. ‘That’s a bloody flop-house you’ve got there!’
‘Aye aye, sir.’
The sailors rallied and charged into the next house.
Again the house was filled with clamorous squealings and shriek
ings and again the stokers, and the cooks and stewards, were driven back out into the square by further angry old women who pursued the sailors and chased them with a torrent of language which made them blink and gasp as though under a cold shower.
‘Bordello!’ shouted the Gunnery Officer.
‘But, sir . . .’ wailed the Chief Steward.
‘Don’t answer me back, man! Try the next one! They can’t all be bag-shanties!’
‘But, sir . . .’
‘Go on, man!’
‘Aye aye, sir.’
A third time a wave of sailors swept into a house and a third time they were swept out again by infuriated women. By now the square was wide awake. Women hung out of every window, three-quarters of them having neglected to dress. A few made their way purposefully towards the Gunnery Officer; any man who had the temerity to disturb them during the afternoon siesta must be particularly in need of their services. The shouting increased as one house passed the news of the outrage on to the next and all joined in pouring maledictions upon the Gunnery Officer’s head.
The Captain of Royal Marines hurried back to the square, having heard the tumult. He was afraid that he had unknowingly left the Gunnery Officer in a hornets nest of rebels and he hastened back to help before it was too late. When he reached the square the Captain of Royal Marines stopped, scarcely believing his eyes.
The peaceful square which he had left only a few minutes before deserted except for the Gunnery Officer and his landing party was now seething with women in dressing gowns. More women leaned out of the windows displaying their charms. The Gunnery Officer himself was surrounded by upraised fists and buffeted by furious voices.
The Captain of Royal Marines forced his way through to the Gunnery Officer.
‘Guns, have you gone stark staring mad? If there wasn’t a revolution before there will be now! You know how sensitive these people are about their brothels!’
‘But every house seems to be a brothel!’
‘Well look at the name of the square, man!’
The Gunnery Officer looked up through the fists and saw a sign on the side of a house. It read ‘Plaza del Concubinas.’
The noise in the Plaza del Concubinas had awoken more than the women who lived in it. A group of young men carrying banners pushed through the crowd. They were led by a young man in a blue poplin suit. He was olive-skinned, with dark wavy hair brushed back over his head, and he was flashing a smile. He advanced to meet the Gunnery Officer, hand outstretched.
‘My dear chap!’ cried the young man. ‘I don’t think we’ve met. I am Aquila Monterruez, of whom you’ve heard perhaps? I must say I’m delighted to see you. But how hot and bothered you look! And no wonder, when I see what company you’re in. Let me first get rid of the lacrosse team.’
Aquila waved the women away. They fell back respectfully, but reluctantly.
‘And now, where was I? I must say it astonishes me how you naval types always seem to gravitate to this part of the town. Is it some extra sixth sense they teach at Dartmouth? Give a naval type half an hour in a strange town and he’ll find the red light quarter as sure as . . .’
‘Allow me to introduce myself,’ the Gunnery Officer said stiffly. ‘My name is Lieutenant Commander Blake and this is Captain Gumshott, Royal Marines.’
‘My dear chap how do you do?’
‘How do you do?’ said the Captain of Royal Marines.
‘Well now. What shall we flee at next? A drink, I think. You must come to my house or no, better still, we’ll go to the British Consulate and you can meet my old man.’
Bemused, the Gunnery Officer and the Captain of Royal Marines fell in behind Aquila, who led the way chatting gaily. The landing parties tore themselves away from the attentions of the ladies of the square (who were beginning to regret having repulsed the advances of these lovely sailors so vigorously) and marched behind Aquila’s young men.
On board, The Bodger had heard the roaring from the Plaza del Concubinas and he had listened during the silence which followed it. His first thought was for his brother officers, the Gunnery Officer and the Captain of Royal Marines.
‘Name of a name!’ cried The Bodger as the shouting died away on the wind, ‘they’re massacring Guns and Boots! Quartermaster, call away cadets landing parties!’
He caught the Commander’s eye.
‘Carry on, please, sir?’
The Commander nodded and shook The Bodger’s hand as though it was likely that they would not meet again.
‘When you get ashore, set up a shore signal station to let us know what’s going on,’ the Commander said. ‘We’ve heard nothing from shore yet. Good luck, Bodger.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
In ten minutes the cadets were on their way. The Bodger sat in the leading boat, smelling the battle from far off, and snorting.
The cadets were not met with the same indifference as their predecessors. On the contrary, the SanGuanos were now used to landing parties and The Bodger was met by a large and enthusiastic crowd who pointed out the way the other landing parties had gone.
SanGuanos lined the route to the Plaza del Concubinas, cheering and waving flags. Although it went past their understanding why the Englishmen should choose to come ashore with guns and steel helmets, it seemed to them entirely natural that the English should want to visit the Plaza del Concubinas first. They were anxious that no Englishman should mistake the way.
The Bodger and his cadets entered the square at a smart trot and ran straight into the arms of the waiting women. It was now past six o’clock and the Plaza was open for business. The girls were delighted and not a little flattered that their square should hold such importance in the eyes of the English. ‘Nombre de Dios,’ they whispered excitedly amongst themselves, ‘but these Englishmen ran here all the way from the boat!’
The Bodger hesitated, looking wildly about him, and was engulfed in a happy, struggling mass of women. The cadets could see his head now and then, tossed hither and thither, now submerging, now appearing, as The Bodger was carried towards the largest of the houses in the square. The name of the house was ‘The Sign of Maria of the Seven Breasts’ and in the doorway stood an enormous old woman in a dressing gown, Maria herself by the look of her, beaming a welcome. Simultaneously, the cadets were themselves hustled towards ‘The Sign of the Donkey’s Buttocks’ and ‘The Sign of the Satisfied Monkey’ where in the doorways stood other huge women, also beaming welcomes.
The cadets often speculated afterwards on their fate had there not been an interruption. A thunderous shout cut through the clamouring of the women. The Bodger was released on the threshold of the house.
‘Let go of that man!’
A tall man wearing a sun-helmet, a white linen suit and a flower in his button-hole was standing on the edge of the square. He was accompanied by another, smaller man who appeared to The Bodger to be wearing only a blanket and by a squad of men in uniform whom The Bodger assumed were the SanGuana equivalent of the Carabinieri. The square cleared. The women vanished into their houses and it seemed to The Bodger that they vanished, not because of the man in the linen suit but because of the small man in the blanket, who had swarthy Indian features and a look of cynical disillusionment.
The Bodger replaced his cap, brushed down his uniform and stepped forward.
‘I am the British Consul for SanGuana Annuncion,’ said the tall man. ‘This is Dominquin Monterruez, the rightful ruler of SanGuana.’
The Bodger bowed and the man in the blanket nodded.
‘How do you do, sir,’ The Bodger said. ‘My name is Lieutenant Commander Badger, Royal Navy, of H.M.S. Barsetshire’
‘Just what were your intentions in this square, Mr Badger?’
‘To support our two advance landing parties, sir. They landed three hours ago and as we hadn’t heard from them we thought on board that they might have run into trouble, sir.’
The Consul frowned. ‘There’s been no trouble that I’ve heard of. In any case, this is not
the place to discuss the matter. I’ll show you to the British Consulate.’
The British Consulate was a large white building facing the town hall. It had been built of the local stone brought by mule from the hills inland under the orders of the Consul’s predecessor. The building was in the shape of a hollow oblong with a small garden in the centre. A wide verandah ran round the garden, its roof supported by high stone pillars. There was a fountain in the garden, some grass, and a few tiny orange trees. It was a pleasant place in which to sit with a drink and there Aquila had taken the Gunnery Officer and the Captain of Royal Marines.
The landing parties had stacked their rifles, carbines, steel helmets, tear-gas bombs and haversacks in the hall and were drinking beer brewed locally, under the supervision of an expert from Milwaukee, which was renowned through South and Central America for its strength and flavour. The bottles carried labels representing a panther urinating into a remarkably accurate facsimile of a grecian urn and the beer was marketed, and enjoyed a wide sale, under the name of ‘Panther’s Water.’