The davits were swung outboard, and six seamen were mustered to man the sea boat. Sub-Lieutenant MacQueen took the tiller, pointed it towards the ship…and they were dropped into the ocean. The sea boat veered into the trough of a wave and disappeared from view. It came back into sight on the crest of the following wave, and the seamen slipped their long oars into the rowlocks. The sea was running heavy for such a small craft and the going was tough. The captain loosed one of his more memorable bursts of jackhammer amusement while some sailors on the Lord Kelvin assembled a fishing pole and attached a large canvas sack to the hook. This contained twelve loaves of fresh bread and one stone bottle of Bols gin. The sea boat wallowed dangerously close to the towering iron side of the cable ship, whose bulwarks on the well deck were lined with laughing sailors.
Dexterously, the gunner’s mate grabbed the canvas bag, hanging between heaven and the ocean’s depths, and they fought their way back to be hoisted back up the davits and onto their ship again. The officer’s bar was closed at sea, so the captain confiscated the gin. No one ever saw it again. The bread made great sandwiches, and the captain sent an inspired signal about loaves and fishes. MacQueen wondered if the gunner’s mate knew how indispensable he had become, and he thought of recommending him for a BEM, or British Empire Medal.
The captain gave MacQueen a lecture on seamanship and the first lieutenant quietly smirked. No one had wanted to see the boat capsize, but it would have relieved the monotony.
The next day, the HMS Narcissus returned and all of the signal lights started blinking again. HMCS Fleur-de-Lis was running dangerously short of fuel, so they set course immediately for Londonderry. The asdic operator reported a contact just outside the territorial waters of the Irish Free State, which was neutral, and they crossed the line firing a pattern of depth charges. These exploded astern in great geysers of water and dead fish, and they barely slipped into Moville, Ireland, on empty fuel tanks. In the bay, an anchored tanker gave them emergency service. Two American destroyers surged past them, outward bound, like two lean greyhounds. They sailed up the narrow Lough Foyle, with its verdant banks and overhanging Irish mist, and berthed at the naval base. They were scheduled to join Escort Group D-6, but that was not yet assembled, so they were a week ahead of themselves. The Lord Kelvin had found the cable, and on the following morning, half of the crew would be granted leave. Sub-Lieutenant Wordward wanted to take his leave in Newfoundland, so that he could fly home to Ontario. This meant that Patrick MacQueen could go on leave, and he decided to go to London.
“Only the dead are neutral,” the captain growled when a senior officer questioned him about the wisdom of attacking U-boats in neutral waters.
70
Patrick MacQueen spent a restless night in his bunk. The captain had returned to the ship after midnight, and he was still entertaining noisy guests in the wardroom above at two A.M. The fan seemed to have lost its centre of gravity—it rattled all night. Sub-Lieutenant Woodward hit a new high in snoring, and he was roused every watch to make rounds of the ship.
Early in the morning, Patrick staggered into the wardroom for a cup of coffee. Lying prone on the leather benches were two officers of the Royal Canadian Air Force. One of them opened his eyes and painfully raised a hand to his forehead. “Christ, what a night!” he moaned. “Where in the hell am I?”
“You are aboard HMCS Fleur-de-Lis, sir,” answered Patrick. The officer was a flight lieutenant, one corresponding rank above Patrick. The air force officer, wearing a crumpled, light blue, unbuttoned uniform, swung his legs and put his stockinged feet onto the cool linoleum deck. “Don’t give me that ‘sir’ shit,” he said with a groan. He pushed a hand towards Patrick. “My name is Dave Norton.”
This was Patrick’s first encounter with the casual ways of the Royal Canadian Air Force. He was not prudish, but that attitude, he thought, might undermine the system.
“Patrick MacQueen,” he replied, shaking the proffered hand. “Would you like a cup of coffee?”
The other officer opened one eye and saw Patrick’s uniform. “Holy Christ, we’re in jail!” he exclaimed. This one looked about sixteen years old, and he was a pilot officer.
“We deserve to be,” muttered his companion, now putting both hands to his head. “We’re with the bloody navy.”
“Hi,” said the pilot officer. “I’m Jim Kent from Orillia.” He sat up behind the table and looked much fresher than his friend.
“Put a shot of rum in their coffee,” said the captain from the doorway. He looked like bearded Death, with his wide mouth full of teeth and his sunken cheeks. His breath smelled like a sewer. His burst of merriment sounded like the rattle of doom. “Are you ready to leave, MacQueen?” asked the captain. The sleepy steward brought four mugs of coffee on a tray into the wardroom. His white jacket was buttoned wrong and his hair was standing on-end. The steam from the coffee smelled of the Barbados and was strong.
“Lord!” exclaimed the pilot officer. “Is this all you guys do? We’ll be drunk all over again.”
“Where are you going?” asked the flight lieutenant.
“MacQueen is off to London like Dick Whittington,” said the captain. He lit a cork-tipped Craven A cigarette and inhaled deeply. The ashtrays were full of cigar butts, and the air was rank.
“Why don’t you come with us?” asked the flight lieutenant. He sipped the coffee then closed his eyes in appreciation. “God!” he said reverently. “I might survive.”
Patrick glanced quickly at the captain, who was looking at him.
“Why not, MacQueen?” said the captain. “You might get shot out of the air, but then maybe I can get a decent gunnery officer.”
“Where is your airplane?” asked Patrick to the flight lieutenant. He felt the rum burning in his empty stomach, and he had already forgotten his restless night.
“When we last saw it, it was sitting on a grass aerodrome somewhere out of town,” said Flight Lieutenant Norton. “Where can I have a piss?”
“It’s a Wellington,” added Pilot Officer Kent. “We’re going to take a couple of photos over the Channel, then head into Torquay. We might get shot at, but we’ll stay out of range.”
“It’s a good experience for a gunnery officer to get shot at,” muttered the captain. “The heads are at the top of the ladder.”
“We’ll have to leave soon,” said the flight lieutenant, rising and looking at the watch on the inside of his wrist. The two of them left to use the heads.
“The bosun’s mate will get you a car,” said the captain to Patrick. “You’re pretty lucky and hardly deserve it. Just get back on time.”
To the astonishment of the two air force men, the bosun’s mate carried Patrick’s two suitcases to a black staff car, and he saluted as the three officers settled into it.
“I can’t believe it!” said the pilot officer. “Our fellows would laugh at us if we told them to carry our bags.”
“You’re in the navy now,” said the flight lieutenant. “Does anybody know where the hell we’re going?”
The driver was a local woman in the uniform of the “Wrens”, or the Women’s Royal Naval Service. “I know where to go, sir,” she said. She shifted gears and blew the horn and sped towards the main gate. Dockyard workers scattered and shook their fists. MacQueen looked back, out the rear window, and saw the captain standing rather forlornly on the wing of the bridge. He tried to wave, but they swept past an indignant sentry, and the ship was out of sight.
Derry had cobblestone streets and high stone buildings within ancient walls. Everything had been built for defence—narrow streets and overhanging houses and nowhere for intruders to muster. The walls were thick and the gates were arched caverns through which the small English car sped. They bumped and jostled and the driver blew her horn as though she wanted the walls to come tumbling down. Patrick welcomed the sight of the lonely bomber sitting on the green turf. The sky was full of billowy clouds, and it rained in long streaks far to the north, towards Kintyre. A la
dder ran from the Wellington to the turf, and men in flying gear were throwing a ball back and forth.
“Old Bessie,” said the flying officer.
It had some sort of a thunderbolt insignia painted near the red and blue roundels on the green and brown camouflage design. That’s better than Donald Duck, thought Patrick MacQueen ruefully. His grandmother’s name was Bessie.
They climbed out of the car and the Wren saluted them. The other aircrew hooted and gathered around the car as Patrick hefted his suitcases out of the boot.
“Didja get laid?” asked a sergeant with a vulgar leer. The Wren looked at them in contempt and climbed back into the car.
“Thank you,” said Patrick at the right window.
“Fuckin’ colonials,” said the Wren. She shifted gears and sped off in a shower of green turf.
“Ho ho,” shouted a leading aircraftsman. “If you screwed her you must have splinters!”
This familiarity with the other ranks would have caused an officer in the navy to be court-martialled, even in the North Atlantic Squadron. Even in the army, it would not have been tolerated. To Patrick, this was another world. They all looked like schoolboys.
The aircraft was a Wellington converted bomber GR VIII, fitted with two .303 Browning guns, each in Plexiglas turrets at the nose and tail, and one gun on each side in beam turrets. It had Pratt and Whitney Twin Wasp engines with long, tapering wings. The pilot and co-pilot sat between these, overlooking the front turret; behind them was some electronic equipment and a folding navigator’s desk. The bomb bays had been adapted to hold a large camera. These sturdy machines were affectionately known as “Wimpys”, after Popeye’s pal.
“We’ll be flying low, so you won’t be too cold,” said Flight Lieutenant Norton. “Just find yourself somewhere behind me—I’m the pilot—and you can look out of the window. We’re heading straight over Armagh, south across the Irish Sea and St. George’s Channel, then over Cornwall to skirt Guernsey for a shot of one beach. Depending on the flak, if any, we’ll head for home at sea level or head into cloud cover. Okay?”
“Sounds great,” said Patrick.
They hoisted his bags through the hatch and climbed up the ladder into the aircraft. The airmen laughed and joked as they pulled on flying helmets and plugged into the intercom. They swivelled the guns, the motors turned over and then roared, and the plane trembled. The pilot raised one gauntleted fist with his thumb sticking up, and a man on the ground waved both hands over his head. He motioned them forward and they taxied onto an asphalt runway. A light blinked green from a little hut and they soared into the sky. Patrick’s heart was bursting with excitement. His ears plugged, and then everything vanished in mist. The pilot passed him a stick of Spearmint chewing gum with a smile and they burst into bright sunlight. It was like the giant anteroom to Valhalla, and Patrick felt an urge to jump out and soar all alone….
They tilted towards the Irish Sea and sped over the rocky, froth-lined coast. Each toy ship carved a little V of white in the blue sea as their convoys grew progressively smaller. The island of Anglesey and the coast of Wales slipped past on the left, and they then headed over Land’s End in Cornwall, the home of pirates and Admiral Benbow’s Inn. They swung across Lizard Head towards Guernsey in a direct line. Patrick was now completely confused in geography, but the pilot pointed a couple of times and shouted to him. “That’s our island,” he roared. “Watch for flak.”
They tilted to one side, and as the cameraman shot pictures, little purple balls got bigger and bigger as a burst of tracer arched towards them. They were suddenly in the mist again, and Patrick was horrified to see two small biplanes arch away in different directions and disappear. He heard a yammering, like the sound of the captain’s laugh.
“What were those?” he shouted.
The pilot pulled back on the controls and they burst into the sunlight again. The coast of England was under them, and Patrick wondered if he had been seeing things.
“A couple of Henschels—they’re not much of a threat,” said the pilot. They curved through the air and approached a landing strip. “You’d better get back and hang on.”
This flight had been a revelation to Patrick, but he knew that no one on the ship would believe it. He cherished the memory, however, and he felt a new respect for his brothers-in-arms of the Royal Canadian Air Force. This was their element, of course, and things happened so quickly that he felt left far behind. It was like trying to understand someone speaking rapid French; by the time one has mentally translated one word, a whole paragraph has gone past unheard.
They touched ground and bounced then taxied until finally the engines were silent. The hatch opened and they piled down the ladder, laughing and punching one another playfully.
“Where did you learn to shoot?” asked one air gunner of the other.
“No hits on anybody, I think,” said the flight lieutenant. “We have to go for debriefing and get those shots developed. We’ll drop you at the officer’s mess—anyone in there can direct you to London.”
“That was great,” said Patrick. A truck arrived, and they all scrambled into it, hoisting Patrick’s two suitcases. “Will I see you again?”
“Not today,” said the flight lieutenant. “Have a good time in London—and I hope we didn’t scare you. We scare ourselves!”
“I’ll never be the same,” replied Patrick.
He jumped onto the asphalt road and stood between his suitcases, waving at the vanishing truck. The air was filled with the sounds of powerful engines, and shadows raced across the ground. Hangars humped repeatedly into the distance, like rows of enormous Huron longhouses, and a broken propeller was embedded in a stone plinth with a brass plate that reflected the sunshine. Patrick picked up his suitcases and walked into the officer’s mess.
The scene was noisy and casual, and he hardly got a glance. It was lunchtime, and the young officers stood holding drinks and talking with animation, dressed in various combinations of sky blue, with coloured scarves and wings on their chests. Some had diagonally striped ribbons under the wings, and they were all smoking cigarettes. The older officers sat in comfortable chairs and read The Times and smoked pipes. The waiters were busy and the decibel count high as more motors roared overhead.
Patrick set the suitcases inside the door, laid his Burberry on them, and took off his cap and gloves. He adjusted his tie and approached one of the older officers sitting behind a newspaper. He had a moustache that curved back to his ears. He was a wing commander.
“Pardon me, sir,” said Patrick. “I’m trying to get to London.”
For an instant the wing commander didn’t seem to hear him. Then he slowly raised his eyes from the editorial page of The Times and looked at Patrick with the expression of a dead fish. “Aren’t we all?” said the wing commander slowly, in an Oxford accent.
“What I mean is, sir, ah…” stammered Patrick. “I just got here, and I don’t quite know where I am. I just flew in.”
“We all fly in occasionally,” replied the wing commander. “What do you want from me?”
“Well, for one thing, sir, I’d like to go to the bathroom.”
The wing commander slowly folded the newspaper. “You want me to show you the bathroom?” he asked rather sarcastically. He had three ribbons under the wings. Patrick was speechless now, and the wing commander rose to his feet. “Come with me,” he said.
They pushed through the crowd of laughing young airmen and the wing commander pointed to a door with a vulgar sign on it. “It’s in there,” he said. “Meet me at the bar and I’ll buy you a drink.”
Patrick found great relief and wondered why it hadn’t all flown out of him in the bomber, which would have disgraced the ship. He turned his cuffs to show the clean side and checked his gold identity bracelet, ring, and watch. He then wetted his palms and brushed the black shoulders of his jacket, patted his hair, and returned to the bar.
“Two whiskies,” ordered the wing commander. “Are you a New Zealander o
r Canadian—or what?”
“I was born in Canada, sir,” replied Patrick. “Lived in Bermuda. My name is Patrick MacQueen.”
“Bermuda, eh?” said the wing commander. They shook hands. “James Fyfe. Is Slim Coker still stuck down there with his Catalina flying boats?”
It’s a small world. “Yes, sir,” replied Patrick. “He is the squadron leader, I think. They are friends of my mother.”
“Have another, then we’ll grab a bite,” said Wing Commander Fyfe. “I flew with old jumbo Coker in Egypt before the war. Fat as ever?”
A low-flying bomber made the building shake as the wing commander slowly filled his pipe with tobacco. They carried the drinks into a dining room and sat at a quadrangle of long tables. There was no rank or precedence here, but the food was well cooked and they had a cup of real coffee.
“Where are you staying in London?” asked the wing commander. Patrick admitted that he didn’t have a clue where to stay.
“Great God!” exclaimed Wing Commander Fyfe. “You can’t pitch a tent in Hyde Park, even if you are a Canadian. I’ll get you in somewhere but it mightn’t be much.” He ordered two brandies and left the room. He was back in a few minutes, as Patrick finished a bowl of vanilla ice cream.
“Our transport officer will look after it,” said the wing commander. “He’s touchy about this sort of thing, but his boy is in the navy. Here’s my card. They’ll pick you up shortly out in front and deliver you to the railway station. That’s all I can do. I must buzz off.”
“You’ve been incredibly kind, sir,” said Patrick.
“I owe Slim a favour. He got me out of a whorehouse in Cairo once, and saved my neck.” His great moustache bristled, and then the wing commander laughed. His face lit up and his pale blue eyes suddenly twinkled. “Great sport, this life,” said the wing commander. “Cheerio, and say hello to the barman at Claridge’s for me.”
The transport officer collected Patrick MacQueen and delivered him to the railway station, as promised. He apologized, but the best hotel that he could manage was the Great Northern in London, but the room had a bath. Patrick bought a first class ticket and got onto a second class carriage by mistake. He sat on the wooden bench and looked at the card. It read:
The Broken Sword Page 30