MacQueen sat opposite an old Scot engineer officer. “Hello, Scotty,” he said affably. “Enjoy the party?”
“I don’t remember,” answered the Scot truthfully. “I woke up on a couch in yon wardroom—not sober yet!”
MacQueen’s neighbour of the dinner, the WRNS officer, also arrived. She took a vitamin pill and sat next to Scotty. She looked tremulous and gave a subdued greeting.
The breakfast that morning was unfortunate. It consisted of two grilled sausages covered by a tomato concoction known as “red lead”. When this was placed in front of Scotty he fixed it with a baleful eye.
“My God,” he remarked. “It looks just like Hitler and Eva Braun!”
The Wren looked at it for a moment in confusion. Suddenly her face went ashen, and she hurried from the room, holding her napkin to her mouth and knocking over her chair.
“What’s the matter with her?” asked Scotty, pushing away his plate and signalling for more coffee.
MacQueen laughed. “You are a disgusting old bastard, I must say.” He also pushed his plate away.
“It’s only the truth! How can they feed us such muck and expect compliments? Anyway, women shouldn’t be seen until noon.”
“If then, eh?”
“Aye, even if then.”
“You’d better change your collar; you have everything on it but lipstick.”
“Where I get lipstick you’ll never see, m’boy, and to hell with my collar. If the admiral doesn’t like it, he can fart off.”
Still chuckling, MacQueen rose to leave. The chief steward stopped him in the hall. “It wasn’t easy getting Lieutenant Cossit to bed, sir, but we finally managed at four o’clock.”
“Thanks, Chief. He’s your boss, I know, but we all worry about him.”
“You might, sir. But I don’t think the others are very—er—understanding.”
“We’ll keep our fingers crossed. Thanks again.”
He gathered his cap and gloves and headed for the parade square. Early morning “colours” always gave him a lift and started the day on the right note.
The gunnery officer, “Guns”, was already standing a lonely vigil, resplendent in shiny leather gaiters and sword. He marched smartly over to MacQueen, exuding vigour and dedication.
“Morning, Pat,” he called en route. “A dull bloody day.”
MacQueen liked Guns. He was a terror for discipline, but he had a whimsical quality. Everyone took him very seriously. Under the bluster, MacQueen suspected that he didn’t take himself as seriously as he pretended.
“Morning, Guns. Yes, real Newfie weather. Enjoy the party?”
“Not much really. I can’t take Ellen, y’know. She’s not an officer, damnit.”
Guns was engaged to a young Wren. MacQueen smiled, recalling that Guns had once insisted his fiancée take one step backwards and salute him after they kissed goodnight.
At that moment, the doors opened and the band appeared. It was headed by a tall drum major wearing white gauntlets and a huge mace-like baton. The mace was held aloft, and they stepped smartly forward to the Royal Marine March, “Land and Sea”. They countermarched at the end of the parade ground, headed back towards the drill hall, then veered left, and the Colour Guard marched out of the hall and followed the band. They formed up before the flagstaff. Guns doubled over to stand behind the guard, leaving MacQueen alone in the middle of the parade square. The gunner’s mate marched smartly over to him and saluted.
“Morning, sir—you look well.”
“Morning, Gunner’s Mate.” MacQueen returned the salute and smiled. He also liked this petty officer. “I left early.”
The sub-lieutenant’s commands cracked out; the guard presented arms; two swords flashed dully; everyone saluted; the band broke into “Hail Anthea”. Finally, the White Ensign was hoisted to flutter in the slight breeze, officially starting another day.
The marching manoeuvres then reversed as they returned to the drill hall; business in the barracks recommenced after a few moments’ freeze.
MacQueen mounted the stairway and entered the quarterdeck with another salute, bidding a good morning to the master-at-arms. He went down the corridor to the captain’s secretary’s office. The secretary wore white between his two-and-one-half stripes.
“Morning, Reggie,” said MacQueen. “How’s his nibs?”
“Hello, Pat. The captain won’t be here today. He’s leaving by bomber for Ottawa. Believe it or not, the prime minister himself called him and wants him in the upcoming election. He was an MP once, as you know. Might be our next naval minister. Who knows?”
“Really?” MacQueen had known of the captain’s pre-war career, but this was news indeed. “I’ll drop over and wish him luck.”
“He’s in bad shape after last night.”
“May I use your phone?”
“Go ahead.”
MacQueen called Ordinary Seaman Hemming at his office and ordered his car to the quarterdeck. The first lieutenant, or “Number One”, was already presiding over the Defaulters’ Parade, and MacQueen looked over the defaulters but didn’t see any of his guards. He stepped onto the boardwalk as his car pulled up. His escort jumped out and opened the door, saluting. “Morning, sir,” he said.
“Morning, Timmons. Morning, Rodney. You still on duty?”
“Just came, sir. Double shift every week.”
Timmons climbed quickly in beside the driver and the car took off. “I want to drop into the captain’s quarters first,” ordered MacQueen.
They arrived shortly after, and MacQueen mounted the steps to the apartment reserved for the commanding officer. He knocked.
The captain’s steward, clad in a white jacket, answered the door. “Is the captain available?” inquired MacQueen.
“Who is it?” came a booming voice from inside.
“The officer of the guard, sir.”
“MacQueen? Tell him to come in for Chrissakes!”
Captain Purcell was lying on a couch with a towel wrapped around his head, and the room stank of alcohol and old cigarettes. He looked at MacQueen with one bloodshot eye and groaned. “Christ, I haven’t felt like this for years! Where were you last night?”
“I left early, sir—wasn’t feeling too good.”
“You deserted your post, you bastard! You should have looked after me. I talked to the PM last night and was hardly sober enough to hear what the old bastard was saying. How do you like that? God, what a mess. Steward, give me another beer—and one for the boss of the Brooklyn Boys here.”
“Thanks, but I just had breakfast…”
“MacQueen, have a beer and that’s an order! When I’m naval minister up in fucking Ottawa I want you there, understand? We’ll show this tinpot outfit what we can do. You’re the only one I trust out of the whole lot of arse-lickers—where the hell’s that beer?”
MacQueen’s thoughts moved quickly. If this could be leaked, it would keep the commander off his neck until after the election. “Do you mean that, sir?” he asked.
The captain turned his head painfully and looked at MacQueen with both eyes. “You’re danged tootin’ I do,” he said. “I don’t think you’ve got a price, and that is invaluable, to coin some sort of goddamn phrase. Where’s your car?”
“Just outside, sir,” said MacQueen, taking the two beers and passing one to the captain.
“You get me to the airport by 1300 with no slip up, understand? No matter what shape I’m in. There’s a bomber ticking over there now, waiting for me. Then off to Emerald City and watch the fur fly!”
The phone rang and was answered by the captain’s steward. “It’s the commander, sir.”
“Tell him to come here! Off you go, MacQueen, and be back by noon at the latest. Jesus, what a head!”
“Aye, sir.” MacQueen couldn’t resist clicking his heels in good Prussian style, then he turned and left his ailing superior.
The guard building had a veranda along the front, built up with a bank of earth that was green in the su
mmer. MacQueen stepped out of his car, into the turmoil of the changing of the Civilian Guard. Each watch assembled here once a day for transport to their various areas. They wore red armbands and were armed with truncheons. They were sometimes called the “Volkstürm”, after Goebbels’ last-ditch fighters in the defence of Berlin. The Civilian Guard commander, a young ex-sergeant major, stood shouting orders from a Jeep as the men helped one another into the naval trucks canopied in dark canvas.
In the guard orderly room, everyone sprang to attention as MacQueen entered. He could tell at a glance that it was a busy day. Hemming opened the door to his office. The duty watch officer was seated inside with Petty Officer Low. They rose as MacQueen sidled behind his desk and took a list of phone calls from Hemming.
“Sorry about last night, sir-r,” said the petty officer, trying to smile. “It was on my mind, and Dr. Wolff would like to talk with you.”
MacQueen smiled back at the old warrior. “We may have a solution to the problem you brought up, PO. And I’ll see the good doctor as soon as I’ve answered these calls. You might inspect the guard barracks with the new duty officer and show him the ropes.”
“Aye, sir-r.”
MacQueen’s eye ran down the list of names and phone numbers. Mary? Oh, Lord—Mary! He hadn’t thought of her for weeks. She was a top-drawer local girl working at headquarters. What does she want? Probably an invitation to somewhere. Commander Kyley was also on the list—better call him first.
He lifted the telephone. “Hemming, get me Commander Kyley at Shore Patrol.”
While waiting, he checked the other names. They weren’t urgent and could be deferred for a few hours. The bell rang.
“MacQueen here. Ah, Commander Kyley, sir, congrats on your OBE. I just heard about it. Grateful for small mercies? Yes, sir. A meeting with Captain D? Yes, sir, I’ll meet you there.”
He hung up frowning. What did that mean? He dialed Mary Patouf’s office. “Hello Mary, it’s Pat. How are you? It’s been ages, I’ve been so cussed busy. Mrs. O’Brien’s tomorrow evening? I suppose so—what’s up? Well, if it’s important, of course I’ll come. Pick you up at seven? Okay. Lovely idea…”
What could be important about a dinner at the old dowager O’Brien’s, he wondered? She gave an elegant party and a good dinner in Edwardian style, but it was hardly anything to get excited about. But it had been a long time since he had enjoyed a spot of luxury and elegance.
He noted that Manie had also called. He dismissed that one, knowing that she would call again.
He buzzed for Hemming, dictated the daily orders for distribution to all guardhouses, signed some varied requisitions and minor reports, and then remembered Brunt’s call to his house. He dialed this one directly.
“Mr. Brunt? MacQueen here. You called last evening? Mr. Duncan-Fisher? Yes, I recall him. His wife was a friend of my mother’s in Nova Scotia. At Mrs. O’Brien’s tomorrow evening? Yes, I have been invited. Of course, and I’ll call you back. Certainly, I will talk with him.”
So, Mary was involved in some way! Duncan-Fisher, he recalled, worked for the Commission of Government. He had a rich wife and had previously been with the Palestine Police.
Timmons knocked on the door. “Time to pick up the captain, sir!”
“Right.” MacQueen jammed on his cap, picked up his gloves, and strode through the guard orderly room. Timmons held the front door then ran ahead to open the car door. Quick salutes were exchanged with various ratings, the door slammed, and they sped the short distance to the captain’s quarters.
“How is he?” MacQueen asked the steward.
“Rather poorly, sir. I’m going over to the wardroom to get him a bottle of Pusser’s rum for the journey.”
“That you, MacQueen?” the captain roared. “Come in here and give me a hand!”
He was unsteadily trying to close a large leather suitcase. “That steward isn’t worth a pinch of powdered coonshit!” he shouted, wrestling with a strap. “Sit on this bloody thing and we’ll close it.”
MacQueen sat on the lid and fastened the straps. The captain was dressed in uniform, with a dirty collar and cuffs. “That fuckin’ laundry! I’d fire the whole Christly lot of ’em if I was staying here. God, do I feel terrible!”
“Too much beer,” said MacQueen simply. “Your boy has gone for some rum, then we’d better take off, sir.”
“Fuck the air force,” exclaimed the captain. “Let ’em wait. I just might get to be minister of national defence and over ’em all, so they’d better fuckin’ well wait.”
“The prime minister shocks easily I’ve heard, sir.”
“You just leave the ol’ PM to me, pal. I know old Mac from a long way back. I can handle him. I just hope you can handle me. Get me a shot of that Pusser’s. If I can hold it down, I’ll feel better.”
MacQueen took the bottle from the steward and poured some into a glass. “Nelson’s blood,” he said. “Anything with it?”
“Hell no.” Captain Purcell bolted it down, squeezed his eyes, and shuddered all over. “Gad!” he exclaimed, shaking his head violently. “Kill or cure!”
He jammed a battered old gold-braided cap onto his head; it sported a badge turned green from salt exposure. He then wrestled himself into a crumpled and faded Burberry, found one glove to carry, and faced the door. The steward brushed past him carrying his suitcase, and left the door ajar. The captain leaned against the wall and breathed the cool damp air. The bluster left him dramatically. He stood for a moment with his eyes closed.
“I’m not blind, my friend,” Purcell said in a hoarse whisper. “I don’t know what you’re up to, but don’t screw yourself. I spoke to the commander this morning. He is neutralized until after the prime minister’s election. If he wins, I’ll be granted a seat in his cabinet and you’re okay. If we lose, you’re on your own.”
He looked at MacQueen with a faint smile. “I’m a rotten drunk right now but I’ll lick it. Give me your hand, m’boy. You always look right pretty all duded up. We might see some times together yet. Now I’ve got to face ol’ Mac, and then my long-suffering missus. Let’s go.”
Unsteadily, they descended the outside stairs and climbed into the back seat of the car. Timmons opened the door, tucked the captain’s coattail in, and then shut the door again. They passed through the gate, with the captain’s head bobbing on his chest.
He slept most of the way to the airport, lurching in his seat with the rum bottle stuck in his Burberry pocket. Near the airport, he suddenly leaned forward and retched beer, rum, and foam. His trousers became an instant mess and his shoes were soaked. With eyes watering he spluttered apologies. Rodney pulled to the side of the road, but the captain refused to get out.
“Fuck ’em,” he muttered. “They’re only pigeons. Let ’em take me the way I am.”
The RCAF guard at the gate had been notified, and the car swept through to follow an air force motorcycle policeman. This retinue pulled up at an idling Wellington bomber. The crew were assembled on the ground outside, and a narrow aluminum ladder led up to an open hatch. Smartly, an air force man jumped to open the door, and the captain almost fell onto the tarmac. MacQueen pulled him back into the car. They managed to get his feet out first; he rose unsteadily to his significant height.
An RCAF flying officer presented himself and saluted.
“Don’t take me by surprise again, sonny,” said the captain, leaning heavily on MacQueen’s arm. “Just get me into that crate and let me lie down. And tell them not to call me ’til we hit Ottawa.”
Hoisting the captain up the ladder and into the bomber was a feat requiring combined efforts. He was heavy and obnoxious, and he stank. The rum bottle kept slipping from his pocket, but he wouldn’t let go of it, and threatened to abort the entire trip if it broke.
Finally, they laid him flat on his back among some bomb fixtures. They fitted coats around him and covered him with a tarpaulin. Everyone then straightened up to look at one another.
“He’ll be okay the
re,” said the flying officer. “It must have been quite a party.”
“Yes,” answered MacQueen. He looked down at the captain, saluted the inert form, and gingerly stepped down the ladder. Everyone waved, the hatch was closed, and they were caught in the wind stream as the bomber taxied away from them with a roar and headed for Ottawa.
80
The office of Captain D. M. Pope, RCN(R), OBE, was located in the naval headquarters building behind the Newfoundland Hotel. The admiral (Flag Officer Newfoundland) had his offices in the centre of the building, flanked in one wing by Captain D, responsible for the seagoing elements, and in the other wing by the chief of staff, who was responsible for the land or shore establishment. All three offices overlooked the Narrows, and each officer regularly screwed out his telescope to survey the distant horizon, where the purpose of their threefold existence lay.
Entering the building, MacQueen returned the guard’s salute, initialled the log book proffered by the corporal of the guard, and proceeded down the corridor to the captain’s outer office. Commander Kyley was already there. He was sitting upright on a chair, and his ascetic face held in a meaningless smile. He was an ex-police officer, supremely pleased with his new naval rank and his recently awarded Officer of the British Empire.
“Good afternoon, sir,” greeted MacQueen.
“Hello, young man,” responded Kyley with a nod. He gave no indication that the conversation was to continue. His expression did not change, and his light blue eyes betrayed nothing in the midst of their tangle of creases and lines. He smelled of cologne and managed a veneer of suavity. In truth, he was a hard man, ever the professional cop.
“How do you like your location in the barracks?” he asked.
“It’s closer to the men,” MacQueen answered, “but closer to barracks politics also.”
“You’ll find that wherever you’re located.” Kyley continued to smile. “Just keep ahead of ’em. That’s the game.”
The Broken Sword Page 37