The Broken Sword

  “You’d think they’d have something better to do at Dunkirk?” muttered the gunner’s mate.

  “Eh, what?” said the commander. The sailor’s wide collars stirred in the breeze as the crew stood in a long triangle on the fo’c’sle with their heads bowed and the white seagulls flapping above them. The distant whistle of a train tumbled out of the wooded hills and echoed across the harbour. It was enough to inspire anyone to heights of oratory.

  “Now you are prepared,” continued the commander, looking into the sunshine like MacArthur returning to the Philippines. “And when you meet the enemy, and by God, you shall…” Those last four words became the ship’s unofficial motto, which might have pleased the commander, but the application referred to everything from washing soup pots to prescribing laxatives.

  The commander was finally piped ashore by the bosun’s mate; the paint pots were stowed in the paint locker as they got ready for sea. The tampion was placed in the muzzle of the four-inch gun, everything movable was secured, and the anchor was winched up from the bottom of the bay.

  Signal flags were hoisted to the halyards, the Aldis signal lamps of the two ships blinked brightly, a line of ratings assembled on the fo’c’sle to clear harbour, and the first lieutenant rang down to the engine room, “Half speed ahead.” The lookouts closed-up to their stations, and one scurried up to the crow’s nest. The captain paced behind the bridge in a black battle dress jacket with binoculars slung around his neck. He chewed his red moustache and stuttered and muttered to himself in joy. The ship trembled, headed past a dangerous rock, and out to the bay.

  “Ten degrees to starboard, then steady as she goes,” said the first lieutenant down a brass voice pipe to the helmsman.

  “Aye, sir. Ten degrees to starboard, sir,” echoed up the pipe. “Steady as she goes on course north-east by north thirty-five degrees, sir.”

  “Right,” said the first lieutenant.

  Past Caribou Island, their companion ship of the Royal Navy, in its pale camouflage of the Western Approaches, swung into line astern, heading for George Bay and the Strait of Canso.

  “Pull that thing to full speed ahead, please,” said the first lieutenant.

  Patrick MacQueen grasped the brass handles and pulled to full speed ahead. Through the wooden grating of the bridge, he could feel the power surge forth as the bells clanged below. They stood on the open bridge, looking forward over the gun platform and the fo’c’sle, and to starboard rose the wooded cliffs of Antigonish. Everything was back where it should be, and the natural order of things was restored. The ocean beckoned them and they responded by forgetting their small miseries and heeding the call of the sirens. There were vast troubles ahead—but, at that moment, no one cared. They faced the salt wind, and for a moment they all lived through a note of rising harmony like the swell of a great choir. This was where the Lords of the Universe belonged, and even the humblest of them knew it.

  The captain laid his hands on the rails beside the Oerlikon gun. He looked like a Viking. They sailed through the Strait of Canso, which seemed like a lonely Nordic fjord, and then into the following billows of the Cabot Strait that stretched their white caps to the horizon. The sun glinted off the wing of a patrolling aircraft high in the air and Canadian waters were left astern of the red cross of St. George on their proud ensigns.

  67

  “Speaking of Italy, the last king of the Ostrogoths was named Teia,” said the captain, expounding on one of his favourite themes. “He was slain at the foot of Mount Vesuvius. It was the last act of their doom-laden history.”

  They were sitting around a low table, in front of the brick fireplace of the seagoing officer’s club, named the Crow’s Nest. It was located on the top floor of an old warehouse on Water Street in St. John’s, Newfoundland. It had a long bar with a brass foot rail; crests of warships adorned the walls. The allies had commenced the invasion of Sicily after clearing the Afrika Corps out of Tunisia. Patrick had seen a terminal building in Halifax full of those prisoners. White-helmeted American military police, holding tommy guns, had forced them all to squat on the concrete floor, holding up their unbuttoned pants so they couldn’t run away. The military police had seemed to outnumber the prisoners, which offended his sense of noblesse oblige.

  “The Vandals were kings of Tunisia,” ventured Patrick. He tasted his rum and Coke, then placed the glass on the table. The captain flashed one of his crystal glances, then shrouded his eyes again. “I see that we have a scholar with us,” he commented.

  The first lieutenant took the captain’s empty glass to the bar. “A double rum and Coke,” he ordered.

  “Who were the Vikings?” asked Sub-lieutenant Rockwood. That question pleased the captain, and he fired a short round of appreciative chuckles.

  “The Vikings weren’t a tribe,” he answered, accepting a new tinkling glass from the first lieutenant. “They were adventurers who took to the sea. They founded kingdoms of their own—they even conquered Sicily before Georgie Patton was ever thought of.”

  “I think that the West Nova Scotia Regiment is there now,” said Patrick MacQueen. “That is my brother’s regiment.”

  The captain kept his eyes hooded, but he looked at Sub-lieutenant MacQueen for a long, silent moment. Some officers at the bar were laughing, but there was no jukebox here. Coals of a fire glowed in the stone grate and the air was heavy with cigarette smoke. Patrick concentrated on the fire and swore to keep his mouth shut. He felt the appraising look, and he flushed. The first lieutenant looked at his wristwatch.

  “You’ll be late for Captain D’s dinner, sir,” said the first lieutenant. The captain stretched his legs, rose to his feet, and drained his glass.

  “Stay sober, MacQueen,” admonished the captain. He wiped his beard and grinned, looking like a version of Mephistopheles. The two sub-lieutenants rose to their feet. The first lieutenant accompanied the captain to a row of coat hangers, topped by a shelf of salty naval caps. They folded their blue Burberrys over their arms, jammed their caps onto their heads, and pulled one glove onto the left hand. The first lieutenant opened the door and they proceeded down the long stairway outside, into blacked-out St. John’s. It was still early in the evening; the light of the sun lingered for a long time in the summer.

  The HMCS Fleur-de-Lis was berthed across the harbour, at the jetties on the south side. The harbour itself was not large, and it was completely surrounded by hills that tapered sharply up to cliffs at the entrance. On the top of one cliff stood a stone tower, and at the bottom of the other were gun emplacements and the Port War Signals Station. A boon defence anti-submarine net closed the mouth of the harbour. The Royal Canadian Navy had appropriated this waterfront, whereas the Royal Navy and the Americans used a base across the Avalon Peninsula, at Argentia. Captain D. M. Pope, or “Captain D” as he was known, was an Englishman. His office was responsible for the ships, whereas the shore establishment came under the chief of staff. Both of these gentlemen reported to the flag officer Newfoundland Command, who was a commodore first class. His boss was the admiral in Halifax, which was a different country; but they all had the same sovereign, except for the Americans, of course—but they were busy in the Pacific.

  “What do we do now?” asked Sub-lieutenant Rockwood.

  “I’m going for a walk,” answered Patrick MacQueen. “My grandmother was born here and I’d like to look around. Want to come?”

  Sub-lieutenant Rockwood hesitated. The national trait of feeling insecure near any non-conformist was strong in him, and he didn’t want to get too friendly until the captain showed his hand. He felt edgy in Patrick’s presence and he decided to play it safe.

  “Nah,” said Sub-lieutenant Rockwood. “I think I’ll just hang around here for a while, then mebbe catch the duty boat back to the ship.”

  “Suit yourself,” said Patrick. “I’ll see you later.” He was quite aware of his companion’s misgivings, but he did not know the answer himself. He walked up the hill past the war memorial, then in
front of the naval police, or shore patrol, headquarters to the Newfoundland Hotel. He then angled along Military Road and past the Doric-columned Colonial Building, to the cathedral. This had a great stone arch in front; it sat on the highest hill. From here he could look down at the harbour sitting like a mountain lake in the long shadow cast from the hills against the setting sun. It was an old city and not in very good repair. Seagulls swarmed over the harbour like the pigeons of Venice, and small craft plied back and forth across its surface. The smells were all those of the sea, mingled with the smoke of coal fires and a nearby lilac bush.

  I should be working on my gunnery logs, thought Patrick. Two sailors crossed the street to avoid saluting him, and they averted their eyes. It was getting chilly, and Patrick pulled on his Burberry. That way the sailors couldn’t detect his lowly rank. He looked at the great cathedral, a towering tribute to faith. Men fear and believe because the alternative is incomprehensible, thought Patrick MacQueen.

  He turned and started down the steep hill towards his ship.

  68

  “Who named these fuckin’ ships anyway?” asked the signals officer while ruffling a hand through his curly brown hair. They were sitting in the small panelled wardroom of HMCS Fleur-de-Lis, and Patrick was trying to update his gunnery logs, entering the amounts of high explosive or armour-piercing shells, star shells, depth charges, and crates of Oerlikon tracers and pom-pom clips. They were all stored in the magazine, or ammunitions room, which was below the gun platform and beside the spirit room that rested on the keel itself. The magazine was flanked by oil tanks; a bulkhead separated it from the boiler room.

  “We’re going across with HMS Narcissus,” added the signal’s officer. “I wonder if the Royal Navy ever thought of calling one the ‘Pansy’?”

  “When do we leave?” asked Patrick. He experienced a little spasm of euphoria that spread from his heart and curled up his spine, before continuing to fold over his whole skull and settle behind his eyes. The only time that he had ever felt that before was in church.

  “Twelve-hundred hours tomorrow. We’re escorting something called the Lord Kelvin.” The signals officer looked at his watch. “I’d better tell the captain,” he said. “He had a hard night at the party and he won’t welcome this news. From now on no one goes ashore without written permission from the duty officer—except officers, of course. If we cast off at noon you’ll be on the first watch. I’ll try to get an update on the weather.”

  It was nearly midnight. The signals officer called for the bosun’s mate—and then he told the captain the news. The captain grunted and rolled over in his bunk. The signals officer completed rounds of the ship, checking the lines and the sleeping quarters. Then he initialled the log and turned in. The officer’s steward had left a bottle of rum in his pantry and some Cokes in the icebox. Patrick poured himself a rum and Coke and returned to the wardroom. This was square and panelled, with a leather bench around three sides and a table riveted to the deck at one end. There were three curved leather chairs secured to the deck with brass chains, and a closed square aperture into the steward’s pantry. There wasn’t room for anything else, and there were no pictures of Donald Duck here. A photograph of the king was framed on the bulkhead.

  The minuscule cabin that Patrick shared with Sub-lieutenant Rockwood was at the foot of the companion ladder from the wardroom. He occupied the upper bunk, and there was a mirror, plus two small closets. Under the bunks were some brass-handled drawers, and there was also a small shelf under the mirror that could be used as a desk. The standing room was slightly larger than that of a telephone booth, and in very rough weather the seas cascaded down the ladder as they sloshed around the deck. It was not luxury, but it was possibly better than being slung in a swaying hammock in the fo’c’sle with the seamen or the stokers.

  The wardroom flat also contained the other officers’ cabins, and the captain slept above them. The bathroom, or “heads”, was at the top of the ladder; the officers had a giant bathtub and the ratings had showers. The captain, of course, had a small heads to himself.

  Patrick finished his nightcap and went into the stuffy little cabin to take his clothes off for the last time for days. His companion was snoring fitfully and mumbling in his sleep. He brushed his teeth in a tiny basin wedged into the corner, threw the soiled, stiff shirt collar into a bottom drawer, and put his Half Wellingtons into the closet. He hung his uniform carefully on a hanger, patted his face with aftershave lotion, and climbed into his bunk. The steel bulkhead beside his head kept the waters of the harbour at bay, just a few centimetres on the other side. It was always cold. Unknown to them all as they gasped in their little bunks, the fan of the air vent had been put in backwards at Galveston. It functioned fine, but its task was reversed.

  Patrick wondered if he would ever get to London. He had bought some lipsticks and other cosmetics, which were unattainable there. Nothing was rationed in Newfoundland.

  69

  They joined HMS Narcissus in a rising gale off Cape Race. The bright Aldis lamp from the little British corvette blinked greetings in Morse code as her bow plunged into the waves then rose with a flying mane of water streaming astern. Patrick braced himself between the compass and the pinnacle and focused his binoculars. He could just recgonize the pale features of the officer he had met in Pictou. They altered course into line abreast and headed for the rendezvous with the cable ship Lord Kelvin.

  The bridge lookouts scanned the horizon, the asdic operator swept beneath the waves, and the radar circled above its little tower. The depth charges were primed, and shells were in the racks surrounding the gun platform. The Oerlikon guns pointed skywards under their canvas covers, and another lookout huddled beside the pom-pom astern of the funnel. Even Donald Duck took a good bath as the green seas crashed over the fo’c’sle, swept over the bridge, and cascaded around the depth-charge throwers, draining back to the ocean again. Long, ragged clouds stretched across the sky, and the wind whipped the White Ensign, tattering its outer edge. Everything on board was battened down and secured as the ship shuddered and plummeted and reared, and the shoreline of Newfoundland hove down over the horizon and disappeared.

  Within the ship, everyone settled into the unique routines of seamen everywhere. They divided into watches on four-hour shifts and did everything else—including eating and sleeping—between certain times. They each had a locker, and their meals were cooked in the galley behind the bridge. The cook clamped great lids over his pots, and the crew ate in their mess decks. Deep within the ship, the stokers watched their gauges, and the signalmen manned the wireless behind the bridge. The navigating officer pored over his charts in the chart room, and the helmsman firmly held the steering wheel. The sick-berth attendant, or “tiffy”, dispensed seasickness pills that didn’t do much good. It took a while to get one’s sea legs.

  The task of the Lord Kelvin was to repair the trans-Atlantic cable. The temporary withdrawal of the wolf packs had given them an opportunity, although they knew there were maverick U-boats still haunting the sea lanes on the Triangle Run. While repairs were in progress, one of the corvettes would hasten to Londonderry, or “Derry”, as the navy called it, for fuel; then she would return to relieve the other.

  They found the Lord Kelvin in the late afternoon, plunging through the waves on an easterly course. She was escorted by a Bangor minesweeper out of Halifax that was being tossed around like a cork. The bright little Aldis lamps twinkled through the stormy dusk as the hooded signalmen on the bridge aimed them at one another like a gunsight. The minesweeper veered away, disappearing into the waves then reappearing amid great sprays of ocean seas. The cable ship looked like an enormous yacht with its curved bow, over which was winched the grappling hooks for the undersea cables. Her funnel was swept back and she had two long masts. She was a government ship, but she was not the navy.

  The two corvettes took position on either side of the Lord Kelvin and swept the seas and the skies with their asdic and radar as they plun
ged their way south of Greenland, towards the west of Ireland. It was a tiny armada on important business, virtually unknown to anyone except those icy eyes that gazed at charts all day and moved little pieces on them like a chess game. The three ships might total one pawn, but even that could be exaggerating their importance. The battleships of the Royal Navy sat in grim splendour in Iceland, protecting them from the German High Seas Fleet in Norway, and destroyers prowled the waters off Brest and the Bay of Biscay. But the U-boat commanders were wily and brave, and they all wanted to be Knights of the Iron Cross.

  In the meantime, Patrick MacQueen was not feeling in the best of health; he regretted that final nightcap. He managed to get to the rails, however—on the leeward side—and let his sick go into the sea. Some of the crew were not so lucky, and their messmates swore at them. The captain hung onto the compass in a state of mild delirium: he let the salt spray beat against his face. He even liked the taste of it, and he snorted into the wet wind like a conqueror. He rattled off his staccato chuckles and sang excerpts from Chu Chin Chow that he had learned somewhere as a boy. His gold threaded cap badge was turning green—he was a singing monster of the deep. His voice was off-key…but nobody could hear him anyway.

  After a few days the wind died down, the cook was busy again, and the HMS Narcissus left them to head for Derry. The Lord Kelvin placed some buoys and she started to grapple for the cable. The HMCS Fleur-de-Lis circled her like a sheepdog; they exchanged funny signals, quoting passages in the Bible.

  The potatoes had rotted, and the bread mildewed, and the crew threatened to throw the cook overboard.

  “Take the sea boat, MacQueen,” said the captain. “They are baking bread on the Kelvin, and they’ve got some for us. Gather a crew and bring it over.”