The Man who Missed the War

by Dennis Wheatley

  ‘It’s the twenty-first of October, isn’t it?’ Philip looked slightly surprised.

  ‘Yes—Trafalgar Day. I’ve always believed that as long as we remember the dead they remember and help us. As you know, I’m not a rich man, but I have a certain amount of private money; and on this day, in memory of our greatest sailor—Nelson—I’m willing to give you a thousand pounds, Philip, to pay the expenses of forming a Company, the ultimate aim of which will be to defeat once more the enemies of Britain at sea.’

  For a moment Philip was speechless, then he stammered: ‘It’s—it’s too good of you …’

  The Canon held up his hand. ‘Nonsense! At the worst I stand to lose my money; at best, I shall come in for some of those handsome dividends on my founder’s shares. That’s a gamble that any man should be willing to take for the sake of his country. You’ll be risking much more, if you accept my proposition, because you realise, of course, that if you succeed in forming this company you’ll have to give up your present job to become its managing director?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so—’ Philip laughed suddenly. ‘But what an opening for a young man you’re offering me instead. I can hardly wait to get down to making those calculations.’

  Night after night, for the next two months, he worked like a demon at it, and typed scores of letters to engineering and shipping firms in both Britain and America. He had long ago decided that the cheapest and most practical way of securing the large quantities of wood required to make the rafts would be to purchase a number of the big log rafts that are floated down the Saint Lawrence each summer from the great Canadian lumber camps. They would have to be towed south to the States, as they could not otherwise be launched into the Gulf Stream, but this kind of timber had the advantage that, however waterlogged it might be on reaching Britain, it could still be pulped for papermaking—an additional asset in a war which might well bring about an acute paper shortage. Wood, however, was but one of his problems: he had to get estimates for making of the cargo containers, cables, sails, launches, and the charter of the seagoing tugs. Then there would be the questions of anchorage for assembling the convoy, of labour, of crews and of offices or agents for the company in both London and New York.

  It was Christmas before he had his data completed, and he had reached the conclusion that such a company could not safely begin to operate with a capital of less than £150,000. The hundred rafts would cost over £1,000 each to build and equip; and there were besides the launches, charter of tugs and innumerable other expenses.

  By working over the Christmas holiday, he managed to take three days off early in January, and, armed with a draft prospectus and his original drawings, went up to London to visit several financial houses whose names had been given to him by the Managing Director at the aircraft works.

  They all proved keenly interested, but at the same time refused to commit themselves. In almost identical words, they pointed out that, while abundant finance would be forthcoming once a single Raft Convoy had made the crossing safely, it might be no easy matter to find investors who were prepared to gamble on so revolutionary a form of sea transport proving successful; and they must consult their partners … etc.

  Philip was not unduly depressed, as he had realised from the first that he must rely for his capital on born gamblers; but it did not seem to him that it should be very difficult to find such people to put up the relatively small sum of £150,000 in a great money market like London where many millions were hazarded each day.

  Yet, as January passed into February, he became more and more anxious and impatient. Time was slipping by and nothing could be done until the company was floated and the capital subscribed. Now and then, he received temporising letters from the firms he had consulted. The investment, they said, seemed to strike people as a particularly risky one, but there were still certain big backers whom they hoped to interest. Finally, as February drew to a close, one by one they intimated politely that they could hold out no further hope and must drop the project. Philip had kept the Canon informed, and when the last of these letters arrived they spent a gloomy evening together. It seemed that there was nothing more that they could do.

  A few weeks later Hitler repudiated the Munich agreement, and the German legions marched on Prague. The following day the Canon rang Philip up at the works and asked him to come in to see him that evening.

  Philip could not get away until after dinner, and when he arrived he found the Canon impatiently awaiting him. He had hardly sat down when the little man burst out:

  ‘You know what’s happening? As we sit here those brutish Huns are seizing and murdering every honest, independent, free-speaking Czech they can lay their hands on! I could scarcely sleep for thinking of it last night. It’s horrible—horrible! Britain can’t remain indifferent to this sort of thing indefinitely!’

  Philip nodded. ‘No, the people won’t stand for it. You should hear what the chaps at the works say about Chamberlain and appeasement now. Either he’ll have to stand up to Hitler or the Government will be thrown out before we’re very much older. In either case I wouldn’t mind betting that we’ll be at war within a year, but, of course, we’re still hopelessly unprepared.’

  ‘That’s just what I wanted to talk to you about. By hook or by crook, we’ve got to get your raft convoy tried out!’

  ‘Oh God!’ groaned Philip. ‘If only we could! Should it prove no good, well, that would be just too bad. But it may be that in it we’ve got a thing which will save Britain from starvation—save the world perhaps from becoming one vast slave camp ruled by the Prussian jackboot and the Nazi rubber-truncheon. Yet we’re powerless even to test it. I’d give everything I possess—or, since that’s not much, ten years of my life—if only I could persuade someone to take it up and give it a fair trial.’

  ‘I know you would. But listen! Do you consider it essential that the trial should be made with a hundred rafts? Wouldn’t twenty-five or even a dozen do? And couldn’t the size of the rafts be reduced as well?’

  ‘Certainly,’ Philip agreed at once. ‘The size of the rafts and their number don’t matter. It’s the principle of the thing that we want to prove. But what’s the idea?’

  ‘Simply to reduce the initial outlay to the absolute minimum. What do you feel would be the smallest set-up which, if it crossed the Atlantic successfully, would induce the Admiralty to accept your idea as a practical proposition?’

  Philip considered for a moment. ‘One raft wouldn’t be any good. It’s the strain on the cables connecting a number that has got to be tested. One string of ten would do, then we should only require one tug and one launch. Wait a minute, though! If we reduced the rafts from a hundred to fifty feet square they’d only be a quarter of the size originally planned, so a sea-going launch would be able to give the single string direction as well as service it, and we could cut out the tugs altogether.’

  ‘D’you think you’d be able to get a crew that was willing to cross the Atlantic in an open boat?’

  ‘It would be a powerful cabin launch with bunks and a galley, so I don’t see why not. Lots of people have crossed under sail for the fun of the thing in far less comfortable conditions. Besides, we’ve always agreed that the first trip ought to be made in the summer, so the odds would be all in favour of good weather.’

  ‘That’s true. Well, how much money do you think you’d want to build a convoy of ten fifty-feet-square rafts and to finance such a trip?’

  Producing a pencil and an old envelope from his pocket, Philip made a few rapid calculations before replying: ‘Ten to fifteen thousand pounds; fifteen ought to cover it easily.’

  ‘And you’d be prepared to supervise all arrangements and bring the convoy across?’

  ‘I’d jump at the chance; but the devil of it is that I doubt if it would be any easier to find fifteen thousand than one hundred and fifty thousand.’

  The Canon smiled. ‘Much easier, Philip. The greater sum is far beyond my means, but my mother left me the best
part of £25,000, so by selling out capital I can easily provide you with the sum you require, and a good bit more if necessary.’

  ‘But,’ expostulated Philip, ‘say the whole thing is a failure—your income would be reduced by more than half!’

  ‘That’s a risk I must take,’ answered the Canon imperturbably. ‘I’ve often felt like breaking into this money in order to further various interests I have at heart; but I’ve always resisted the temptation from the feeling that in the long run I should be able to do more good if I kept the capital intact and applied the income each year to charity. But this thing is bigger than any charity, and it may be that I was meant to save the money until now for this purpose.’

  ‘If you really feel like that about it I’ll work out exactly how much I shall need and begin putting matters in hand right away.’

  ‘That’s it! There’s not a moment to be lost if you’re to make your attempt as soon as the weather is suitable. The sooner you succeed the sooner the Admiralty will be convinced and give orders for the big rafts to be made in large numbers.’

  Philip laughed. ‘You’re taking it for granted that I shall succeed!’

  ‘Of course you will! I’ve felt from the beginning that we were receiving Divine guidance in this just as Noah was inspired to build his Ark. Because a number of parties of Atlanteans escaped the Deluge that is no reason to discount the story of Noah, you know. All accounts agree that the Atlanteans were warned of the impending catastrophe, and Noah set himself to preserve not only his family but as much of the culture of his nation as he could. He would naturally have taken on board a selection of domestic animals for breeding purposes, but the “Zoo” was no doubt symbolical of the many other things he saved for future generations. He could not save his people, because they would not hearken to him; but you and I may perhaps save ours if we follow with unflinching resolution the counsel which the gods have put into our hearts for their own high purposes.’

  Elated as he was on his way home that night, Philip could not but feel some slight misgivings when he thought of certain practical steps which he must take before he could actually launch his enterprise. He would have to give notice at the works, and also inform his father of his intentions.

  In the course of the next week he wrote a number of letters, making further inquiries about the cost of rafts of a reduced size, smaller quantities of tackle and the prices of sea-going motor launches which might be for sale in the largest American ports. He then got down to lists of the stores that would be required for himself and a crew of five on a three months’ voyage. When the replies came in he made a final cast and decided that the job could be done for £13,000. Putting all particulars into a large envelope, he delivered it at the Rectory the next morning on his way to work. That night he found a note from the Canon waiting for him at home. It read:

  DEAR PHILIP,

  Many thanks for your budget. I’ve had no time to do more than glance at it yet, but you seem to have thought of everything. This is only a line to let you know that I instructed my brokers last week to sell £10,000 worth of my securities, and the additional £3,000 can be made available at any time. So go right ahead. Don’t waste a minute. I see from the paper that Sir John Anderson is to issue us all with Air Raid Shelters and gas masks, so at last the Government must be taking matters really seriously. I intend forming an Air Raid Defence Squad, as those of us who are wise will consider ourselves as already at war.

  It is a terrible prospect; but I count our venture as starting from this moment, and from today I shall fly the flag of Saint George from the spire of the church, with the prayer that he may give you his special protection.

  Blessings upon you—

  JOHN BEAL-BROOKMAN.

  Philip knew there was now no turning back, and that day he gave in his notice. The Works Manager was surprised and distressed but they finally parted with mutual expressions of good will, and Philip was told he might go at the end of the week.

  The last few days at the works passed very swiftly. Philip called twice on the Canon, but on each occasion he was out at meetings of the new committee he was forming to undertake first aid and other war activities.

  On the Sunday night Philip decided that he must face his father. All his boyhood fears of his reserved and practical-minded parent had returned with redoubled force, and he knew there would be a most unholy row about his having chucked up his job to go off on what his father would call a wild-goose chase. By the time dinner was over he had worked himself up into such a state of inward panic that he felt convinced that his father would turn him out of the house.

  He went through a positively ghastly hour after dinner in the sitting-room, waiting for his sister Ellen and Pin Marlow to go to bed. Between surreptitious glances at the clock which seemed to crawl, he pretended to read a book, but Ellen was more than usually irritating with her affected chatter, and even old Pin unconsciously added to his torture by declaring she meant to finish the jersey which she was knitting before going upstairs. The clock eventually struck ten, their usual hour for saying good night, but tonight they sat on, and it was his father who at last brought the boy’s agony to an end by remarking, a few minutes later:

  ‘Well, I think I’ll begin to lock up.’

  Without even knowing that he was about to speak, Philip heard himself say in what seemed to him a strained and remote voice: ‘If you don’t mind, I’d like to have a word with you before you go to bed.’

  There was another interval while the women collected their belongings and said good night. But Philip did not mind now; the die was cast. The moment the door had closed behind them he stood up and blurted out the gist of what he had to say.

  His father did not interrupt him, but simply stared at him, his mouth hardening into a thin straight line; then as Philip’s spate of words petered out, Captain Vaudell began to speak; quietly at first, but with gradually rising anger.

  He declared that his son was an impracticable visionary, and the Canon a fool for encouraging him. Neither of them knew the first thing about the sea and its titanic power which would fling these crazy rafts about as though they were matchsticks. He demanded that this absurd project should be given up immediately and that Philip should make his apologies at the works and ask to be reinstated.

  Philip stuck to his guns, and there followed an hour of bitter wrangling, until both of them found themselves repeating the same arguments over and over again. At last, Captain Vaudell saw that it was useless to persist further, and said:

  ‘All right, Philip. It’s clear to me that you have allowed Beal-Brookman to hypnotise you into visualising yourself as a kind of Crusader. But let me tell you that if you had any real sense of patriotism you’d stick to your job in the aircraft works, which is now one of the highest national importance. However, if he is determined to throw away his money I can’t stop him, and, as you are now of age, I can’t stop your doing what you like. But I will not conceal that I am bitterly disappointed in you, and you must not expect any support or sympathy from me in this connection.’

  They left it at that, and all next day Philip could settle to nothing from distress over this quarrel with his father. In recent months they had been getting on so much better, and he hated the thought of leaving home in a few weeks’ time with this ugly breach between them. Yet he felt there was nothing he could do which would be likely to bridge it before his departure, and he was now more than ever determined to see his enterprise through.

  In the afternoon he went for a long walk with the idea of trying to quiet his turbulent thoughts. Coming back he passed the church and saw the flag of Saint George flying from its steeple. He squared his shoulders and threw up his head. His course was set, and nothing should stop him. Nothing.

  As he entered the house he found his father standing in the hall. There was no hardness in Captain Vaudell’s face today. His eyes were full of kindness, if a little sad, as he stepped forward and said:

  ‘Philip, I’ve been waiting for you.’<
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  For a second Philip was filled with a new apprehension. He feared that his father was going to plead with him, and he knew that whatever it cost him he could not go back on his decision; but Captain Vaudell went on:

  ‘I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news for you. I know how bitterly disappointed you’ll be, but the fates seem to be against your making your attempt to cross the Atlantic. The money to finance your project won’t be forthcoming after all.’

  ‘Why! What on earth d’you mean?’ Philip’s voice hardened suddenly. ‘You haven’t seen the Canon and persuaded him to call it off, have you?’

  ‘No, Philip,’ his father answered gently. ‘I wouldn’t do a thing like that. The Canon had a heart attack this afternoon. He’s dead.’

  4

  Eavesdroppers Never Hear Good of Themselves

  For the moment Philip was quite stunned by this totally unexpected and tragic news. Somehow, he could not think of the dynamic little Canon as dead, or realise that he would never talk and laugh with him again. Among the chaotic jumble of his thoughts he was conscious of his father’s statement that the money for the raft convoy would riot be forthcoming after all, and that he had thrown up his job to no purpose; but now, in the first shock of his personal loss, these seemed but minor matters.

  ‘I know what close friends you had become,’ Captain Vaudell went on, ‘so quite apart from your raft idea this must be a great blow to you. I’m most terribly sorry, and I only wish there was something I could do.’

  ‘Thanks,’ murmured Philip, ‘thanks; but I’m afraid there’s nothing you can do.’ He turned towards the stairs, adding: ‘I think I’ll go upstairs to my room for a bit, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘That’s right, old chap. Have a lie-down. In fact, I’d slip into bed if I were you, and Pin will send you up something on a tray for dinner. By the bye, I wouldn’t worry yourself about having given notice at the works. The way things are moving these days I’m sure they’ll be only too glad to have you back. Still, I think you could do with a bit of leave, so I should take things quietly these next few days.’